Page 87 of Awry
The thought of sleeping down here is horrifying.I would so much prefer to be working out of the loft over my garage at the far edge of the main pack property, but this site is more secure.My other tech lair, sectioned off from my apartment, is smaller and has only three satellite feeds.But it’s not underground.My skin crawls every second I spend surrounded by this much concrete.
Also, my place is closer to the outskirts of Newport.And so is closer to the estate that Zaya has inherited.
Another thing I haven’t completely wrapped my head around.
Another of the things currently enraging Reck.I don’t have to be in his head to know that much about my older brother.
Zaya is back, but Reck can’t touch her.No matter what badge or rank he’s achieved by devoting the last decade of his life to it — or, to my mind, by throwing away his life, his beliefs, and his family— Zaya Gage is literally and figuratively untouchable.Her inheriting her aunt’s property and position makes that doubly so.Not that any of us have a great sense of what that ‘position’ is, exactly.Just that it comes with a monsoon of power.
To make all of it worse for him, Reck’s latent lie-detecting ability doesn’t work on any of the awry.Not that he’d ever admit it.
My baby sister still carries Zaya’s scent.It’s faded, but she transferred a brush of it to me when she laid her head on my shoulder.My beast, quelled by my current surroundings — sulking at being underground, really — shifts under my skin, stretching toward that scent, inhaling it through my currently wholly human lungs.
I try to settle the beast by looking at the picture of Zaya again.I don’t tap it so that it fills the screen, because Presh will notice, but my eyesight is sharp enough to take in every detail.
The creature who tore free from my skin to stop me from killing myself eleven years ago doesn’t speak directly to me — though I understand that some shifters do communicate with their other selves.No, since saving my life, my beast has been silent, docile even, for years.Even when I call it fully forth.Until it set eyes on Zaya yesterday …
I glance at the clock.Again.Thirty-six hours ago now.
Thirty-six hours since I finally understoodwhy— why my beast saved me when most shifters willingly follow their mates into death.
I hoped, of course.When the bite mark on the meat of my thumb healed over but never faded completely, I clung to that hope.But I didn’t know for certain until thirty-six hours ago.
The beast has just been biding its time.
The keypad on the door to the tunnel and elevator lights up again, drawing my and Presh’s attention.I catch the sound of the elevator doors, but unlike our baby sister, the person beyond moves silently.He also hates being underground as much as I do.
The door opens with a sharp movement, and Rath crosses out of the darkness beyond.My half-brother is huge enough to fill the doorway.He’s also sopping wet.
“Keep your dripping the fuck away from my tech,” I snarl.
Rath huffs and runs a hand through his brown hair, which goes darker when wet, as if he might be able to press it dry.Now that Rath is here, he’ll want to dig into the report I’m trying to finish up.But I catch his distraction the moment he smells Presh.
He goes utterly still, pupils dilating and tension edging his jaw.It’s a complete overreaction.
Because Precious still smells like Zaya.
Rath swivels his head with such intent and malice that our baby sister actually squeaks and drops her gaze.
That rare display of anger, of any intense emotion really, falls instantly away as Rath growls, almost playfully.“What are you doing in here, precious girl?”
Before Presh can respond, the elevator beyond the still-ajar door slides open, and Doc marches into the room, looking seriously pissed.She’s got her med kit and isn’t sopping wet.Apparently, she’s not an idiot and either pulled on rain gear for the trip in, or she left her bike and got a ride.
“This isn’t the medical suite,” she snaps at Rath.
He ignores her, zeroing in on and squinting at my monitors as if he can actually understand any of what’s on screen.
“I’m treating that bullet wound now,” Doc continues, trying for a cooler, more professional tone.
Rath’s gaze fixes to the picture of Zaya sleeping, but he simply grumbles under his breath and starts peeling off layers.First his jacket, then cut, then T-shirt.Each item is soaked through and summarily tossed into a pile next to the couch.He must have actually stood out in the rain for a significant amount of time without the jacket at some point.
Doc blinks at my brother, first at his casual disregard for his patched jacket and cut — items normally sacred to club members — and second at the blood-soaked healing patch on his left shoulder.
I wait for Rath to chew me out about the picture of Zaya.
He doesn’t.
Doc lays a hand on his shoulder, gently coaxing him to sit on the empty stool next to me.
