"Let me get this straight. You're asking for more chores?"
Phoebe didn't blame him for his skepticism. He was right—every other member of her family took the easy way out.
But she wasn't them.
"It's either that or watch the clock," she said. Although she hadn't seen a clock anywhere in the house. Or a television or laptop or even a radio, for that matter. "If I don't keep my hands busy, I'll be left with my thoughts, and…well, I'd rather work."
Roman studied her face for a long moment before nodding. "I understand."
He checked the mugs, then removed the filters, and handed her one of them. The rich aroma was intoxicating.
"Today, after you finish your coffee, you can sweep the porch, knock the cobwebs out from under the steps, and—have you ever collected eggs from a chicken coop before?"
Phoebe shook her head. She bought her eggs from the grocery store, just like every other beta she knew.
"Think you can figure it out?"
"Of course."
After all, if she could figure out how to survive in an alpha's house, she could figure out anything.
Chapter Six
Roman had taken his tools and trekked out to the furthest section of fencing on his property. It didn't need repairing—he'd already braced it after last winter—but he needed distance. But even miles of space between him and the Whitfield girl still wasn't enough.
The smells and sounds of the redwood forest, the things that sustained him most days, couldn't blot out his incessant thoughts of her. All the way out here, he could still sense her moving around the grounds of the cabin, efficiently making her way through the list of chores he'd given her.
Part of the problem was that Roman knew he couldn't afford to ignore her completely. Fundamentally honest or not, she was still a hostage, and he'd have only himself to blame if she took off. She might be damn distracting, but she was necessary collateral if he was going to collect that gas from Ed Whitfield.
And Roman needed that damn gas. Not just for himself, but for everyone in the Boundarylands. And right now, Roman was the only one in the financial position to make it happen. If the Boundarylands had to suffer through a dry winter, the local economy, meager as it was, would collapse, and that meant trouble for everyone.
Of course, Roman didn't believe Phoebe was going to run. Nothing in her scent suggested deception, only a pragmatic sense of self-preservation. Luckily she was smart enough to know that her best chance of survival lay in staying put and following his rules.
Roman set to work, making minor repairs to his sturdy fence. But trying to create work for himself while keeping an ear tuned to Phoebe's movements only led to frustration. The breeze brought every sound she made to him. After one particularly heavy sigh, Roman squeezed his heavy-duty pliers too hard, and one of the handles snapped clean off.
Shit.
Roman threw the broken tool to the ground and figured now was as good a time as any for a break.
He found a fallen log with a nice spongy section of moss to serve as a seat and pulled open his pack. Inside was a thermos of coffee and a sandwich of thick bread and venison. Usually, his first sip of coffee outside was one of his favorite moments of the day, but today he barely tasted it.
He couldn't stop wondering if he'd made a mistake allowing Phoebe to work outside the safety of the cabin walls. Unlike most betas, she seemed comfortable enough with the idea of the wilderness. He shouldn't have been surprised. The beta towns that dotted the midsection between the north-south borders were little more than clusters of modest homes with the occasional gas station or roadhouse, surrounded by the same dense forest that was all around him.
But it wasn't the same.
Even a dusty crossroads town beyond the boundary was still civilization. There were paved roads, electric lights, and enough human clamor to keep wild animals away.
The farther one traveled from the border into the Boundarylands, the wilder the terrain became. The road that led from the beta highway to the Central Road quickly petered out to rough gravel that only a truck like his could navigate. There was a reason it had taken Ed so long to drive the damn tanker up his drive—a typical automobile suspension would never make it.
But it wasn't the road that worried Roman. All kinds of animals made their way onto his property, and some were downright dangerous. Bears, wolves, and mountain lions all had shared his land at one point or another. Coyotes too, though they never menaced anything bigger than a rabbit.
And those were just the major predators. There were also spiders, snakes, and bats that liked to hide in the quiet, dark spots. The spots Roman knew better than to poke at. But Phoebe? She might not know. Even if she managed not to get bit, they could still spook the hell out of her. And panic was one of the greatest dangers of all.
On the other hand…maybe Phoebe was completely fine. After all, Roman had already made the mistake of underestimating her once. It was impossible to know for sure, and that was what had him so distracted.
He'd never had to worry about anyone but himself before. He'd never had to keep tabs on anyone, especially not a sweet-smelling girl with auburn curls.
And it wasn't just his mind that was agitated by this new turn of events. His cock had strong opinions of its own, stirring and swelling practically every time he thought about her.
It wasn't a tenable situation, not for long. Living in the midlands meant living on your own. There were no local bars, no general stores, no community gathering places for at least a hundred miles in either direction, north or south…and that's how the alphas who settled here liked it.
Roman didn't really care that he only saw other faces once or twice a year. That was fine with him.
What the hell was missing out on anyway? The grunts of his taciturn neighbors? The far-too-chatty company of shifty betas like the Whitfields?
Yeah, Roman did just fine without all that shit. With, perhaps, one exception.
He could use a woman now and then.
Roman had heard that some of the bars in the up- and lowlands shipped in women—professional sex workers—to see to the physical needs of their residents. Roman couldn't lie—that did sound nice. The company of a hotblooded, willing woman was about the only thing he missed from the beta world.
Not that he'd had loads of experience. He'd been popular in high school right up to when his true nature had shown itself at seventeen. He was good-looking, rich, and easy-going, even if he wasn't much of a talker. Back then, he hadn't had any trouble picking up girls.
But he had just been a kid, and one from a big, tight-knit family, at that. There hadn't been much spare time between school, sports, and family obligations to screw around. Hell, he could count on his fingers how many time he'd gotten some back then:
Two hand jobs, four blow jobs, and three times sliding over home plate—all of which had taken place over twelve years ago.
Since then, Roman had lived contentedly alone in these woods—just him, his memories, and his hand.
No wonder he couldn't sleep with the girl in his house. It wasn't that he wanted her, specifically. He'd simply gone so long without a woman that his hormones were kicking into overdrive at the mere presence of the female scent.
But that didn't mean that Roman was going to act on his urges. Even if he hadn't already given his word, sex with Phoebe Whitfield would never be in his best interests. As he had told her, she wasn't company—she was a damn hostage. A commodity worth only what her family was willing to pay for her safe release. And the price they had agreed on was ten thousand gallons of gas.
It didn't matter how good she was in bed, how tight and wet her pussy might be under that dress—it wasn't worth risking the fuel that meant survival for him and his alpha brothers.
For the hundredth time, Roman cursed the oil companies who provided the gas for the regular shipments that regularly rolled into the uplands. When the shipments had stopped abruptly a few months back, the bastards had stopped responding to in
quiries, which was especially galling since Roman had to drive forty minutes to access a mailbox or a public telephone.
He'd probably talked to his neighbors—and in this context, he used the word loosely to describe the half dozen alphas in an area of around two hundred square miles—more in the last few months than the last twelve years combined.
All of them were getting desperate as the fuel ran out, and still, there were no answers.
As much as Roman loved the Boundarylands, it would be impossible to carve out an existence solely from the wild grasslands, rivers, and streams fed by pure mountain snowmelt, and the rugged, dense redwood forest. As much as every alpha hated to admit it, they needed the beta world to survive. They needed to trade for the staples they couldn't grow themselves, as well as metal ore to be smelted into tools, the parts to repair engines and equipment, not to mention seed and medicine and cookware and dozens of other things available from the outside. Even the clothes on Roman's back and the linens on his bed had been shipped in by betas.
When an alpha wanted what the betas had, he had to drive to buy it or trade for it. Without gas, he was shit out of luck. The Boundarylands were over four hundred miles long and nearly a hundred miles wide. For those living in the midlands, nothing was in walking distance. Even in the more densely settled north and south, the alphas used their trucks to get around. Without gas, the Boundarylands would be in bad shape well before the first winter frost.
And when the deep freeze settled into the earth and sent the wildlife into hibernation and rendered the edible crops into blackened stalks until spring…well, Roman didn't even want to think about it.
He'd rather do something instead.
Roman wasn't the great philanthropist his father had been and his grandfather before him. Before the fuel source dried up, he barely gave any thought to all the money that was technically his—a third of the Fontana fortune sitting in a bank in Sacramento with his name on it. It was as useless to him as a book of matches to a deep-sea diver.
Or at least it had been until now. Finally, some of that worthless paper could be turned into something useful. Five thousand gallons of gas would refill the upland storage tanks and get them through the worst.
Ten thousand gallons would give them a little extra insurance until they could figure out why the hell the oil companies were fucking with Boundaryland deliveries in the first place.
But none of this could happen unless the Whitfields delivered.
And to ensure that happened, Roman needed to make sure that his little hostage stayed safe, sound— and every bit as innocent and pure as the moment she stepped out of that stolen truck.
If only she'd been as ugly as her brother. Instead, fate was having a good laugh at Roman's expense, delivering him a beauty with big eyes, long legs, and a sultry challenge in her gaze.
A low, frustrated rumble vibrated through Roman's chest.
Maybe…yes, he probably ought to go back to the house and check on her. Just to make sure that everything was all right. It was the responsible thing to do, and besides, there was plenty of work that needed doing closer to the house.
Having made his decision, Roman collected his gear, shouldered his pack, and started down the hill, moving quickly. The sooner he got back, the sooner he could reassure himself that his investment was protected…while breathing in its irresistible honeysuckle scent.
Phoebe steeled herself, gripping the big wooden bowl she'd taken from the kitchen tightly before reaching out her hand to grab the egg nestled in the straw next to a chicken whose black and white feathers looked like an Escher print.
She'd expected the chickens to be friendly—bigger versions of the fuzzy yellow chick she'd once held in her hand at a county fair—but the ones in Roman's coop rushed her angrily the moment she let herself in the gate, squawking and flapping their wings in protest.
She was about to close her fingers on the egg when the chicken darted out its head and bit her, and she shrieked and jumped back.
Okay, maybe it hadn't really bitten her, only pecked her with its beak, but it had left an angry red mark on the back of her hand. Phoebe rubbed it and resisted the urge to wring the bird's neck.
There was a low chuckle behind her. "Picking a fight with a hen?"
Phoebe whipped around at the shock of the deep, rumbly voice coming out of nowhere. "What are you doing here?" she gasped, as her sudden movement sent the whole coop into a frenzy. Half a dozen hens beat their wings in a frantic but futile attempt to get away, sending white feathers and straw and wood chips flying. One of the bigger birds attacked her shoes, pecking at the pink canvas between angry squawks.
Phoebe did a little dance, getting chicken shit on her shoes in her effort to avoid the bird, while she used the wooden bowl to fend off flapping wings.
At least the chaos didn't last long. As quickly as they'd riled themselves up, the birds settled down, their screeching diminishing to a chorus of resentful clucking.
Phoebe turned on Roman, furious. "You could have warned me!"
He didn't even bother to cover his amused smirk. "Warned you about what? Those birds weigh eight, nine pounds tops. They might peck a little, but they can't hurt you."
Phoebe knew he was right, but she was still shaken. She'd never look at a chicken nugget the same way again. On the other hand, she wasn't about to admit that to Roman.
"I've got this under control," she said primly. "You can go."
He arched a brow skeptically. "Do you?"
"Everything was fine until you showed up," she lied. "In fact, I already got the egg. It just fell out of the bowl when you upset the birds."
"Is that right." He couldn't have sounded more unconvinced if he tried. "Then show me."
Shit.
Phoebe bit the inside of her cheek, cursing herself for being intimidated by something so silly.
Suddenly she didn't care if the damn bird plunged its sharp little beak all the way into her hand. There was no way in hell she would let Roman think she was incompetent—or, worse, scared.
She hadn't forgotten that her life might depend on it.
This time, Phoebe allowed the hen to peck at her knuckles, keeping her hand just out of reach. With her other hand, she grabbed the egg and gently placed it in the bowl.
She smiled triumphantly at Roman. See? Nothing to it.
He gave a slight nod. "Good job."
"Thank you."
Roman continued to stand there, smirking and blocking the wire gate from the other side. Finally, Phoebe cleared her throat.
"I thought you said you were working along the edge of your land today."
"I did. Now I'm done. But there's plenty to do here."
Phoebe resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Whatever he was playing at—trying to intimidate her, probably—she didn't have to participate. Just because he was standing there wasting time didn't mean that she had to. She'd finish gathering the eggs, then sweep the patio and clear out the cobwebs under the steps.
First, though, she had to get past him. And unless he moved, there was no way to do so without coming much too close to him—close enough to touch. And she wasn't about to do that.
Besides, it was as though there were magnets in his eyes, drawing in her gaze. Phoebe felt like she was staring into the depths of a dark, shimmering wishing well.
All while he watched her as though he knew exactly what she wished for.
Phoebe's face grew hot. She should never have looked at him, never even acknowledged him—just done her job without speaking as he'd instructed her to do in the first place.
Roman finally broke the silence. "I take it you've never worked with animals before."
Phoebe considered bluffing and decided against it. "Why would I? I've got my hands full between work and taking care of my family."
The alpha pretended to consider her words. "Strange that you've decided to live so close to the wilderness, then."
Phoebe bit back a laugh. "I didn't decide anything of the sort. If
I had my way, I'd be living in Los Angeles or San Francisco right now. Anywhere, really, where they don't roll up the streets after dark and restaurants and bars are busy all night. Where something is happening twenty-four hours a day."
Roman grimaced. "That sounds like hell."
"To you, maybe. To me, it sounds like the beta dream."
"So why aren't you there now?"
Phoebe shrugged and dropped her gaze. "Can't. My family needs me."
"By family, you mean Ed and Holden, the shittiest smugglers this side of the Rockies?"
It didn't matter that it was true—Phoebe still felt a stab of annoyance. No one got to bad-mouth her family but her.
"They're also my father and brother," she said, drawing herself up to her full height, which meant that Roman only towered over her by two feet. "They're all I have left now that my mother's gone."
"They're also the reason that you're in this mess with me." Roman wasn't backing down, crossing his arms stubbornly. "If you had left to chase your own dreams, you wouldn't be a hostage right now."
"And my family would be dead in a ditch in the middle of the Boundarylands," she shot back. "Don't get me wrong. I know the only thing my family is good at is getting into trouble. But that doesn't change the fact that I'm the only one who's ever been able to get them out of it. That's why I've had to stick around."
Roman studied her for a long moment. "And you honestly care about them so much that you're willing to risk your own life to save their worthless asses?"
"What—you've never cared about anyone enough to try to help them? I mean, isn't that what love is?"
Roman didn't answer, but as he continued to stare at her, some of the tension seemed to evaporate. He shook his head slowly, whether because he disagreed or—more likely—because he found her hopelessly sentimental and equally useless, and finally took a step back.
"You ought to be able to find four or five more eggs at least. Gather 'em up, and I'll make us an omelet for lunch."
Roman: The Boundarylands Omegaverse: M/F Alpha Omega Romance Page 5