Page 116 of Sawyer

“I’m going to have to lift you, and you look like you might puke, so please let me know if you plan to vomit on me,” he whispers. Gently sliding his hands under me, he picks me up. He struggles a bit, confirming he’s a beta. “Your alpha is in containment.”

“Who?” I croak out, expending the only energy I have to link my hands over his head and hang on as much as my muscles will allow.

“The monarch’s asset.” He really doesn’t sound happy about that. “I’m Simon.”

“Sawyer.” My head falls to his shoulder, and my eyes close. All I feel is the gentle rocking of his movements. “Who?” I mean him, but my voice dies, preventing me from speaking. I can’t even get the words out.

“Me or the asset?” he asks before continuing on. “I’m Simon, a beta from the Northern Province. I ended up out here because I thought it was a security job. I haven’t been able to do much more than help some of these women escape.” His voice turns sad. “But they died, didn’t they?”

“Yeah,” I answer.

“I tried. Please know I tried.” There’s pain in his voice. “Iris here led them to the bridge.”

The wolf at his side whines.

“She’s trained to find gammas,” he whispers. “All right, here comes a car. Say nothing, keep your head down, and hope the others have a plan, because this place is hard to escape.”

“Entrance?”

“One in and one out,” he answers.

Simon says nothing more as a car approaches. A moment later, a door squeaks.

“What the hell is wrong with her?” another male questions, this one darker and unforgiving. It’s incredible how much you can learn from a person just from how they talk.

“Looks like a nightcrawler,” Simon says, gently laying me on the seat.

“Should have left her for dead,” the driver replies in a gruff voice. He’s cruel, and I can tell that just from how he snarls.

“Just get her to the doc, will you?” Simon slams the door shut, and the car rumbles away.

“I don’t know what he thinks the doc is going to do for you besides document your death,” he mutters, already irritated. “I was in the middle of watching my show, and I had to come out here for your ass.”

I close my eyes against his harsh voice, shutting him out and focusing only on the rocking of the car. The seat beneath me smells faintly of sex and burnt cinnamon, and I try not to think about what I’m lying in, even if it’s obvious.

“Found two of four,” the driver says, laughing at my expense.

“Well, there are still two more out there,” another man replies. We must be at the guardhouse. “Go on in.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“Hey, they killed Dafne,” the other guy says.

“Damn it! I missed it! Fuck you, man, for giving it away.” The car jerks forward, the driver snarling, “Piece of shit just can’t help but give away the ending of the damn show.”

If I could, I would laugh.

As it is, I’m not good for much of anything.

I can’t feel fear, worry, or sorrow, nothing aside from my breath. Even the pulsing in my hand slowly falls away.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, I know this is really fucking bad.

As the car slows to a stop, the door opens, and someone grabs my ankles, jerking me out of the vehicle. Inside, I’m screaming at how they are mistreating me, but outwardly, I can’t feel a fucking thing. My body slams down on cold concrete, my cheek bruising from the impact.

Again, I feel nothing.

“What is this?” Shoes clack along the floor. “She’s dying,” he observes. It isn’t with sadness, but intrigue, as though my imminent death is a challenge to this man. “Put her on the gurney.”

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