Gabe's Bride

by Penny Alley

  “Get him on the bus,” Deacon snapped, and Elda’s too thin mouth pressed thinner. It was the only sign of disapproval she showed, and it made no difference. She wrapped her arms that much tighter around Scotty’s squirming body and pulled.

  “No! Please, no!” Neoma begged, but the soldiers still clung to her, preventing her from climbing over them in her desperation, and Elda still clawed at her fingers, prying at them. Neoma clung on, but her grip was tenuous, and while no one else cared what part of Scotty was dislocated in this cruel game of tug-o-war, she very much did. Already he was feeling the strain. She could see it, radiating up his fragile arm into his chest, the pain showing in the scared blue depths of his eyes and in the winces he couldn’t quite hide. He didn’t cry though. He knew better. They both did. He was so much better at hiding his tears than she was.

  Pacing near the doors of the nearest of the two buses, Deacon watched the struggle. The stony indifference he wore like a mask refused to stay on. His eyes betrayed his fury. So did his pacing.

  So did his ranting, and perhaps that was the most frightening part of all. Never, not in all the years that she had known him—all the way back into her childhood when he would come to their house to visit them, bringing Neoma sweets and small presents before taking her mother away with him—had he ever looked at her with such fury and disappointment. Resentment.

  Pain. As if she had physically rent him open. Flayed him from his skin. Neoma shuddered, tightening her hold on Scotty despite his mewling cry at last.

  “The price of disobedience,” Deacon told her, announcing it as if to the crowd at large. “Did you think I wouldn’t notice?” His outrage rose, becoming a bellow. “Did you think I wouldn’t care? Take him!”

  Elda’s disapproval became minutely more obvious, but she offered no censure. Desperate as she was, Neoma understood it. Defiance had consequences, and this was one of them. So was starvation. A widow without children, Elda had no one. She couldn’t afford to risk Deacon’s anger, not if she wanted to survive. Neither could the soldiers positioned between Neoma and the rest of the Scullamy camp, prying at her fingers to loosen her grip on Scotty. Neither could any of the women, hurriedly packing up the tents and trying to pretend none of this were happening where they could see or hear it. They were taking everything, including what few precious possessions Neoma and Scotty had brought, back to Scullamy. They were leaving her with nothing, not even a change of clothes.

  She could survive that. She could survive losing every thing she had, but not Scotty. Not her son.

  “Remove her!” Deacon snapped.

  Never had the sun across her shoulders felt as cold as when Scullamy’s first lieutenant pushed through the wall of soldiers to answer that summons. His dark eyes were heavy lidded and a crooked smile twisted his mouth. “How do you want it, little mouse?” he asked, rolling up his sleeves. “Easy way, or hard?”

  It wasn’t the first time he’d said that to her; Neoma shuddered. She twisted, kicking when he hooked his arm around her waist. She’d been aiming for his knee, but he came in so close so fast, lifting until her feet left the ground, that she hit nothing more vital than empty air. When he pulled, Scotty’s whole body contorted to the pain of his arm being wrenched. When he started to cry, so did Neoma. She had to let go. Only feet separated Elda from the open lever doors of the first bus. If they got him onboard, if they left with him, she’d never see him again. Not alive. But if she didn’t let go…

  “Let’s break his arm together,” Alaric said, soft as a lover against her ear.

  Wrapping as much of Scotty’s shirt as she could twist around her hand, Neoma released his arm and grabbed again—flailing to catch his waist, shoulders, the belt loops of his pants, anything—but that half second of slack was all Alaric needed. He yanked her from the barricade, and between his pull and Elda’s, they stripped Scotty out of his shirt before she could secure a second grip. Just that fast, he was gone.

  “Mom!” Scotty tried to grab the bus door as he was whisked onboard, but he wasn’t strong enough to hold on. Carrying him halfway down the aisle, Elda dropped him on a seat and then kept him there, physically blocking his panicked attempts to get past her.

  “You lose.” Alaric hefted her in his arms and, as if she were little more than a worn out doll, threw her to the ground.

  Jagged gravel tore at her hands and shins as Neoma clawed back up again. She rushed the wall of soldiers. She ducked Alaric’s arm, the baying desperation of her inner wolf fighting to break free, but she wasn’t a warrior. He grabbed her by the shirt and hair, using her clumsy momentum to spin and fling her back again.

  Standing well apart, Wayman watched with open disgust. Twice he tried to walk away, only to return and finally, he cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted to be heard above Scotty’s piercing wails and the rising murmurs of the growing volka crowd, “It was a legitimate Claim!”

  “It should have been your Claim,” Deacon snapped. Pacing near the head of the bus, he gestured for those loading to hurry. It was impossible not to notice how much attention they were garnering from the other packs on the Ridge. Scotty was screaming now, running from seat to seat in a full panic to get off the bus. The longer he cried and beat at the bus windows, the more frantic Neoma was to get to him, and the louder the public discontent grew until, his face darkly flushed, Deacon announced, “Forget the rest. We’re leaving!”

  “Wait! Please, wait!” Neoma tried again and again to get around Alaric, but each time he moved to block her.

  Grabbing onto the rail, Deacon paused after ascending only the first bus step. He didn’t look like anybody’s grandfather when he glared back at her, nothing but ill-concealed contempt flashing through the gold that crowned his ice-blue eyes. When he spat, Neoma felt that globule expression of hatred as if it were a physical blow.

  “Don’t!” If she could have reached him, she’d have fallen to her knees all over again. She’d have grabbed his legs, kissed his feet, or anything else he might want of her. “Don’t do this! Please!”

  The soldiers remained an impenetrable wall, and Alaric didn’t let her through. It was now or never; either get Scotty off the bus or give up. She was out of time. Out of options.

  And probably out of her mind in a way that would be whispered about for years.

  Neoma slugged the nearest soldier. She threw every ounce of weight she had behind that swing, knowing she’d never get another. Every one of her knuckles popped, and his head barely rocked back on his shoulders. He recovered almost as fast as he’d been hit, the furious gold of his lupine stare fastening on her in a single blink. She tried to go over him anyway, but Alaric caught her. This time, he didn’t throw her to the ground; he slammed her.

  She hit the gravel flat on her back and pain shot the length of her. She never saw whose feet she landed at, or the legs she clawed as she rolled onto her belly. When a hand passed into her peripheral vision, she latched onto it and dragged herself as far as her knees before it ripped back out of her grip. She’d have fallen again, but something caught her elbow, steadying her enough for Neoma to gain her feet. Dazed as she was, it wasn’t until she heard his strong authoritative voice that she realized who had caught her arm,

  “Enough.”

  Neoma blinked without comprehension at the sun-bronzed fingers locked around her elbow. When she looked up, she almost collapsed all over again. Colton Lauren, the Alpha of Hollow Hills, had her by the arm. She shrank from him, but his grip on her arm only let her flee so far.

  Her gaze snapped to the two volka who flanked him. She didn’t know the blond man, but the other was Gabe Michaelson, the owner of the hand she’d latched onto first until he’d yanked it away. Dressed once more in jeans and the tan uniform shirt of a Fish and Game warden, he glared at her, not blinking, not looking away, the stormy green of his eyes so filled with anger that they bordered on hatred.

  Neoma shrank from him too. She didn’t realize she had backed into Alaric until the Scullamy lieutena
nt seized her wrist and jerked her away from Colton. Seeming to forget she was no longer one of them, he shoved her behind him.

  “This is a private matter, Lauren,” Deacon said. The barricade of soldiers parted when he pushed through them to confront Colton and his lieutenants. “You have no right to interfere.”

  Forcing her back with him, Alaric eased into position beside Deacon. When the wall of soldiers closed in behind them, Neoma became trapped. What should have felt like a ring of protection was now more like a prison…one about to go to war, and she was on good terms with neither gang nor guards.

  The entire Scullamy camp had stopped. Nobody challenged Deacon, and walked away unscathed. In all her life, Neoma had only heard whispers of those who tried. Now and then, she noticed the disappearances, but she’d never before seen anyone dare challenge him the way the Alpha Lauren was—toe-to-to, eye-to-eye, his stare fierce and unwavering. By a minimum of eight-to-one, Colton and his lieutenants were outnumbered, and yet they didn’t seem to care.

  “Go home,” Deacon growled. “While I’m still in a mood to let you leave.”

  “I am home,” Colton replied, as steady as stone; Neoma couldn’t stop trembling. “My home, my Hunt, and my town. You’re the one without rights here. I suggest you modify your behavior while I’m still in a mood to let you stay.”

  Arms straight at Deacon’s sides, the fingers of his left hand flexed. It was the smallest twitch, easily overlooked, and a sure sign of the volatile temper roiling just under the icy surface, but he wasn’t looking at her. No one, Neoma realized with a start, was looking at her. Not even old Elda, who had moved closer to a window to better see what was going on and now no longer stood blocking the aisle. Every window on that bus framed one or even two onlookers, and none of them were staring at her. Only Scotty, with his small hands pressed to the window and fogging the glass with every hiccupy breath he took, couldn’t take his eyes off her. He wasn’t crying anymore, but she could see how frightened he was. His face was almost as white as the shirt of the man staring through the window just behind him.

  The bus door was standing wide open. Three people stood in line with no one waiting ahead of them, the act of boarding forgotten in the wake of the confrontation taking place. If she moved slowly…quietly…

  Except the soldiers were too closely packed in behind her. At her first step, she bumped into one. Geared for a fight and in no mood to have his movements hampered, he shoved her off again. She stumbled, colliding into Deacon before she could catch herself. He grabbed a handful of her hair, dragging her onto tiptoes before she could do more than gasp. She caught his wrist, but he wasn’t about to let her lessen the pain.

  “I claim the Right of Grievance,” Deacon announced, pulling her to him like a shield.

  Although he barely looked at her, the Alpha of Hollow Hills stiffened and his frown deepened. “Name your grievance?”

  “The woman your man took was already mated.”

  Standing beside his alpha, Gabe shifted the full fury of his gaze from Deacon back to her. The gold of his inner wolf leapt and burned, crackling with all the things he locked his jaw to keep from saying.

  “Why was she in the Hunt?” Colton demanded.

  Gradually being swallowed by the assembling crowd, Wayman raised his hand. “She has a kid too. Bet you didn’t know you were catching a family.”

  Gabe tipped his head. His frown darkened until nothing but angry accusation could be found in his glare. Pure fear lanced straight through the core of her, ice cold and sharp as knives. He was going to refuse her. Of all potential outcomes for what she had done, that was the most terrifying and the only one she hadn’t considered.

  “Her obedience is not what it once was.” Deacon tightened his grip, dragging her higher onto her toes. Wincing, Neoma gripped his arm with both hands. She tried to plead with Gabe, telling him with her eyes that she would do anything if only he would not send her back to Scullamy. The stony hatred of his face never softened. Neither did Deacon’s grip. “Regardless, her mate would have her back and so would I.”

  Lupine gold flashing in his eyes, Gabe opened his mouth. No, no, no—she couldn’t go back to Scullamy! But before he could speak—before she could cry out—Colton answered for everyone. “Grievance denied. Her mate was decided by the Hunt, not by you. She will remain here in Hollow Hills.”

  “Be careful,” Deacon seethed, rage trembling through his chest and in his hands. “I need say only one word—”

  “Say it,” Colton dared. “See what happens.”

  The crowd had grown around them. Silent as shadows, they seemed to close in behind him, but they weren’t Scullamy and they weren’t in attack formation. Most Neoma didn’t know, but she recognized the paints still worn by those who had participated in the Hunt—the Soho, the Nabesny, and the Tillamook—all of them standing ready to fight and wearing the same mask of grim intent. Four males—brothers, judging by the family resemblance—moved into position directly behind Colton. They had to be Hollow Hills volka. No one bristled like that over threats to someone else’s pack.

  But it wasn’t just residents, soldiers and lieutenants coming to investigate the commotion taking place on the Scullamy side of the Ridge. Balding on top, the amber of his inner wolf shining bright with deadly intent, the Alpha of the Enumclaw pushed through the gathering crowd with three lieutenants and all eight of his soldiers following at his back. They stopped just abreast of the Onoway, not quite close enough to be mistaken as rendering aid to Colton, but plenty close enough not to be ignored. Even the Kennewick, all five males of which—ranging from the ten-year-old grandson to the stoop-backed patriarch leaning heavily on his cane—were present, their expressions schooled with a neutrality their positions behind Colton belied. Everywhere Neoma looked, all she saw was that same carefully crafted neutral stare. But oh, how their eyes betrayed them.

  The Scullamy were hated. Years of midnight raids and failed attempts at overtaking neighboring territories had left them without allies. And while the Scullamy were strong enough to stand against any of them, they could not fight all of them. They had no friends here, and Deacon knew it. She could feel the tension in his body as he held her, a living shield between himself and now the whole of every pack on the Ridge.

  “Gabe?” Colton asked, his tone much lighter than the situation warranted. “Have you a counter grievance for Deacon?”

  His hands clenched tight. The broad set of his shoulders as tense as any man’s could be. If anything, the green fury of his eyes grew colder still before the amber of the wolf in him flashed bright. Gabe turned his back. He almost walked away; in every hard line of his body, she could see him fighting the impulse. Scrubbing a hand across his mouth, his palm rasping over the morning’s unshaven stubble, he took breath after heavy breath. If he was searching for calm, it didn’t work. He was just as angry when he snapped back around again. This time, however, the fury of his stare was locked solely on Deacon.

  “Get your hands off my bitch,” he seethed.

  Neoma flinched, both at the rawness of Gabe’s insult and the tightening of Deacon’s fist in her hair. His arm uncoiled from around her waist, the warning heat of his hand settling on her hip instead. She could feel his breath burning the back of her neck as his fingers drummed once upon her side. He stared at Gabe, then Colton, than each of the other pack alphas in turn. The ticking of the passing seconds marked his calculations as he tallied their strengths, their weaknesses, and no doubt whether or not the quality of the soldiers at his back was comparable. Most, like Wayman, were untried recruits freshly pulled from the Scruff. More than half of the forces he’d brought were women and children, with a handful of new-Claimed Brides that were far more likely to side with their previous alphas than him. Neoma pitied those girls. They had no idea the hell they were bound for.

  Deacon lowered his head, growling deep in the back of his throat. Releasing his hold on her hair, he grabbed her shoulders and then her throat instead. It happened so rough a
nd fast. She tried to duck his arm, but his hand locked on her windpipe and suddenly she couldn’t breathe. She caught his wrist, but his eyes were pitiless. In their icy depths she saw his promise: When his buses left this place, Scotty would be on one, but only until they crossed the borders of Hollow Hills. That would be as far as he’d contain his rage, and there wasn’t a single volka in Scullamy who would stop him.

  “Release her!” Colton ordered, marching a single step forward. But he didn’t come alone. His lieutenants, even Gabe, came with him, as did nearly every alpha and soldier in that crowd at Colton’s back. They moved like one, a surging wave that Neoma saw only in the periphery of her tear-blurring vision and in the narrowing of Deacon’s calculating eyes.

  Her feet scraped furrows in the gravel and dirt as his fingers crushed in tighter. The raging pulse in her temples deafened her to everything but the seething of his exhaling breath as, with a heave, Deacon picked her up off the ground and threw her.

  Neoma landed on a jagged bed of gravel at Colton’s feet. Pain lanced up her spine into the back of her head, sending the sky and treetops and the scowling lines of Gabe all spinning together.

  “The price of disobedience!” Deacon roared at the gathered crowd.

  Neoma sucked, but the air refused to come. Her tears, however, refused to stop. They blurred everything until a flash of movement and a glimpse of Gabe’s rising foot made her throw up both hands. The kick she expected never happened. Gabe stepped over her instead, stalking up to Deacon to grab the shoulder of his shirt and yank him around. The Hollow Hills lieutenant came nose-to-nose with the Scullamy Alpha.

  “Do that to me,” he challenged. “I fucking dare you.”

  Neoma could feel every rock she’d landed on like prodding spear tips in her back and buttocks. Her ears rang. Her uncooperative lungs struggling to inflate as she gasped and wheezed and clawed her way onto her belly. Hot trickles dripped around the side of her neck. When she touched the tender spot on the back of her head, her fingertips came away sticky with blood. Rocks digging into her knees and palms, she struggled to get her rubbery legs under her, but the ground—like the trees above—kept swaying.