Alpha

by Natasha Knight

  I hadn’t realized I’d been played until it was too late. I’d been betrayed, but that was cold comfort. I hadn’t known what the pack would do, but, in the end, I’d gotten them killed just the same.

  And I’d neither forgive nor forget that betrayal.

  I glanced at Aria passed out drunk next to me.

  Maybe it was time to make amends.

  Or maybe it was time for vengeance. The latter certainly held more appeal than the former.

  The truck bounced over a pothole on my way out of the lot. Aria’s eyes were closed, and darkness shadowed them. Her hair was longer than it had been, and she’d dyed it jet-black. It was a light shade of brown naturally. She’d changed, a lot, and I couldn’t help that my gaze settled on her chest for a moment longer than necessary as her breasts bounced along with the truck. I reached one hand to pull back the collar of her jacket and glimpsed the tattoo there again. The black rose. She must have remembered that detail from the night of the murders, and that worried me.

  I searched her face again, trying to see the hints of the girl I’d known, remembering how she used to follow me around like a lost puppy. The memory made me smile. I’d liked her. I’d liked her family. They’d treated me like I belonged with them, like I was one of them. They’d trusted me and cared about me.

  I’d taken advantage of that trust though, taken advantage of them. Of her. My friendship with Bryan had become more than I ever imagined it could be when I’d been sent to find him. To bring him home, as I’d been told. Lies. All lies. I’d been a fool, and the Hales had paid the ultimate price for my foolishness.

  Bitterness gnawed along the edges of the guilt that was my life. That and the unforgivable betrayal by blood.

  Was I weak for not having avenged their murders? For not having gone after the one who had put the hit out? I’d killed the two who had carried out the killing, but they were following orders. I didn’t regret what I’d done to them, not for a second. Hell, they’d enjoyed what they’d done to Bryan, tearing him apart. At least his mother’s death had been quick — a blow to the head killing her instantly. Maybe she hadn’t even seen it coming, seen them coming. But it was naïve to think that last part. Of course she would have seen. They would have relished the scent of her terror.

  Again, I questioned their intention. Had she just come home at the wrong time or had she been a target all along?

  Not that it mattered anymore. They were dead all the same.

  What if Aria had been there? What would have happened to her? The thought made me sick. The image of her lying there like them, covered in her own blood — no, I couldn’t do that. I couldn’t think about that.

  What if I’d been at the house instead of in that hotel room with her? Could I have prevented it? Could I have saved them all?

  A snore drew my attention to the present. Aria’s face relaxed as she slept, her mouth open, her breathing soft. She hadn’t been there. She hadn’t died. That was what I needed to focus on now because, if she’d found me, there was a chance they’d find her, and I was no longer sure what my pack was capable of. She wasn’t a danger to them, but she was daughter to a traitor. And powerful blood ran through her veins.

  Pulling into the driveway of my house, I stopped the car, listening to the sounds in the wild. They were always there, always keeping vigil. They stayed away, though, after I’d proven what I was capable of. What I was more than willing to do. The rage of those first months after the betrayal hadn’t died, it only slumbered. It would always lie beneath the surface, and that was a good thing. In this life, you had to be ready to kill. You had to be unafraid to slay your enemies, no matter who they were, no matter if the same blood ran through their veins that did yours. Family didn’t matter anymore. Loyalty did. I didn’t give a fuck about family.

  I went over to Aria’s side of the truck and slid her seat belt off, lifting her slight weight into my arms, the feel of her head resting against my chest distracting as I carried her into the house and up to the spare bedroom. I laid her on the bed, and she didn’t stir, just remained sleeping, which only proved my point she had no idea what the fuck she was getting herself into.

  “Aria.” I shook her. “Wake up, Aria.”

  Nothing.

  “You need a shower. You stink of vomit.” She did, but her response was a quiet sigh.

  Well, I couldn’t let her sleep in those clothes. Didn’t want to get the smell of it on my sheets.

  Sure, that’s it. You want to keep your sheets clean, not leer at her naked, jackass.

  I cleared my throat, very aware of that little voice. I told it to fuck off anyway as I pulled off her boots, noticing where she’d sewn the seam to keep her switchblade. Finding it in my pocket, I pushed it back into her boot and set them aside, sliding her socks off before moving to her jacket. These were the things that were innocuous: her jacket, her boots, and her socks. But then she was lying there in a tight-fitting T-shirt and tighter black jeans, and I had a hard time remembering her as she was before everything changed, as Bryan’s kid sister.

  “Aria,” I tried again, although I had to admit it was a whisper.

  Nothing. Not the slightest stirring. I lifted her slightly and pulled her T-shirt over her head, although the vomit was mostly on her jacket and jeans and not her shirt. The tattoo I’d glimpsed was fully bared then. I stared at it, at the black rose, the petals falling, crumbling as they hit ground by the gravestone. A dark skull, its eyes hollowed out, hung like the moon above the scene. She’d decorated herself with death, and the thought of it made me ill. It was wrong, even if it was beautiful. The black rose: a symbol of death. A death to come; a death delivered. It was macabre symbolism I’d grown up with.

  And it turned my fucking stomach.

  I didn’t need to read the date along the rose’s stem; it was one I would never forget.

  I didn’t allow myself to linger on the lace of her bra. Not yet. That would come. Instead, I brought my attention to her jeans, noticing the physical change inside myself, the stiffening of my cock, the tightening of my muscles as I dragged the denim down over her hips and thighs, tugging them off each foot, taking the time to turn them right side out again and setting the jeans with her T-shirt and jacket before returning my attention to her.

  Still sleeping. Although I didn’t have a light touch, I took in the length of her now. Allowed myself to feast on the soft, pale, perfect flesh, the mounds of her breasts hidden behind the thinnest barrier of lace. Pelvic bones jutted from her flat belly, the navel small, indented. She was skinny, too skinny. My gaze moved down toward the mound of her sex, and I swallowed, remembering how sweet she’d tasted. And even though after that night I’d vowed never to touch her again, the draw was undeniable, the pull to her just as powerful now as it had been then.

  She made a noise, mumbling something just then, and, for a moment, my heart pounded, the idea of being caught studying her nearly naked form, shaming me. But she didn’t wake. Instead, she rolled over onto her side as if to offer me a different perspective. One I appreciated very much. In fact, that glimpse of her ass had me reaching to adjust my cock.

  I needed to get out of here.

  Pulling off my T-shirt, I slipped it over her head, tucked her into bed, and walked out, tossing her things into the washing machine downstairs on my way out the back door. I locked it behind me, only because of my houseguest, and stripped off my clothes on the back porch. I lived alone, the location of my house more remote than that of the bar. The mountains were my backyard, and although the pack kept an eye on me, they’d keep their distance. Cain had ordered it. I may have been ruthless, but he was worse. Cold blood ran through our veins. It was the only way to explain how he’d done what he’d done. Not once but twice. I was too young when his first victim, Derek, had been killed, but even that knowledge taunted me. The girl in my house, she and I had histories that wound around one another. Our families were more bound than she knew, than she’d ever find out, if I could help it.

  I
needed to think. I needed to figure out the story I would tell her. I needed to give her something, needed to give her just enough to get her gone. Scaring her wouldn’t work. Her showing up at the bar proved that. I had to think. Best place to do that was beating a trail as I ran beneath the light of the moon.

  Naked, I walked off the porch steps and blended into the dark night, shifting to the calls of other wolves in the wild, waiting, watching, ready to strike. I ran fast, disappearing into the dense thicket of woods, needing the exercise to clear my mind, wanting the hunt, needing the metallic taste of blood on my lips, the dark stain of it on my body.

  I was a shifter. A killer. I needed to remember who I was and what I was capable of whenever the pull to the girl passed out in my house came.

  I had to remember she needed protection from me as much as she did them.

  Chapter Three

  Aria

  It felt like someone was drilling a hole into the side of my head. Rolling over, away from the too-bright sunlight, I pulled the blankets over my head, wanting to sleep. That was when I realized I wasn’t in my bed. It was the smell of the sheets. No, not the sheets. The smell was distinctly masculine. Not cologne, not a fabricated scent apart from the trace of deodorant. No, it was just flesh. Male flesh, and sweat and — I curled up my nose — a hint of vomit.

  Vomit.

  I rolled onto my back, remembering. That part was me. I’d found Zane Von. I’d gone into his bar and had a couple of drinks on top of the vodka, which had seemed like a good idea at the time. I’d been fighting with some asshole in the parking lot when Zane had come and kicked the guy’s ass. Zane had recognized me.

  And then I’d puked.

  I sat up, closing my eyes against the sharp pain. Tugging the pillow up behind me, I leaned against the headboard and took in my surroundings. I was at Zane’s house and I was wearing his T-shirt from the smell of it. I pulled the blankets aside and found I still had on my panties and bra, but apart from my boots and jacket, the rest of my clothes were nowhere to be found.

  Lifting his shirt to my nose, I inhaled; he must have been the one to undress me, not sure how I felt about that. But then the memory of what I’d seen in the parking lot when Jake had cornered me returned, and I pushed the fact that Zane had stripped and re-dressed me in his T-shirt from my mind. I’d deal with that later.

  For some reason, something about those guys at the end of the parking lot bugged me. Something was wrong or off about them, and it bothered me that I couldn’t put my finger on it. Not only that, it bothered me that the reason it was a fuzzy memory probably had to do with the fact that I’d had too much to drink. But two beers and a couple shots of vodka wouldn’t have had me puking normally. All the cigarette smoke had made me nauseous. Maybe it had been that.

  My deliberating came to an abrupt end when, without a knock, the bedroom door opened and there stood Zane wearing jeans and another black T-shirt, his close-cut dark hair still wet from his shower, the unshaved stubble of a beard shadowing his hard jaw. He didn’t say a word, just stood holding a mug of coffee and, bless him, a bottle of Advil.

  “Headache?” he finally spoke, coming into the room.

  I tucked the blanket up a little even if it was stupid. If he’d undressed me — and who else would have done it — he’d have gotten an eyeful already. My face heated at the thought, and I nodded, focusing on the poster of a band I didn’t recognize on the wall next to him, unable to hold his gaze.

  “Fly tells me you had two beers at the bar. How much did you drink before getting there?” He handed me the Advil and set the coffee down on the nightstand before folding his arms across his chest and looking down at me.

  “Are you going to give me the third degree?” I opened the bottle and stuck two pills into my mouth, washing them down with too-hot coffee that scalded my tongue and throat. I didn’t want to have this conversation with him. To be honest, I was embarrassed at what had happened.

  “When you show up on my doorstep and then puke on it, yes I am. Oh, not to mention nearly getting yourself raped.”

  “Raped!” I put the coffee down and made to stand but remembered I was almost naked and tossed the blankets back over myself. “I wasn’t close to being raped, and for your information, I’d handled him before you got there.”

  He raised his eyebrows, and, if he’d been even briefly amused a moment ago, he wasn’t anymore. “You’d handled a guy almost twice your size? I don’t think so, Aria. Do you even have any idea how to use that blade you pulled? That’s serious shit. You’re lucky I showed up when I did.”

  “Convenient for me. What, were you spying on me from behind the cameras while I was in the bar?”

  Why was I so angry?

  “As a matter of fact, I was. I’m not sure what you think you were doing or how you found me, but there’s a reason I left. A reason I didn’t leave a fucking forwarding address. You should have respected that.”

  “You have some fucking nerve after everything that happened. My mother treated you like you were her own son, and the night she and your supposed best friend were brutally murdered, you disappeared. If you thought I wouldn’t want answers, to understand what the hell happened, why you left, well, then you’re just plain stupid.”

  He flexed his hands then fisted them, sealing his lips into a tight line.

  “There’s no power in understanding, Aria. Remember that.” He paused, his eyes boring into mine, keeping me mute as I processed his words. “Shower’s in there. Your clothes are downstairs. Get cleaned up and I’ll take you back to your car so you can go home.” He turned to walk out the door.

  I jumped out of the bed. “I’m not going anywhere until you talk to me. Until you tell me what you know,” I said to his back, but when he hadn’t stopped by the time he reached the door, I blurted out the other piece. “I’m hunting him down, Zane. I have the name of the man who killed my mom and my brother.”

  Zane stopped.

  “He goes by Obsidian.”

  All of his muscles tensed. Time hung like a pendulum, swinging back and forth between us, threatening to slice through us both. Aggression rolled off him, the energy of it almost crackling as if a physical thing.

  Truth was, I needed Zane’s help. I needed him if I ever had a hope of finding this Obsidian.

  Finally, he faced me, his black eyes darker, if that were possible. He stood stock-still, forcing in a long, deep inhale as his eyes slowly roamed over me, taking in every inch of exposed skin, making me feel naked.

  He took a step closer then another, and, without conscious thought, I took two back. He seemed to like that because one side of his mouth curled up into a wicked grin.

  “So little Aria Hale has grown up, huh?” he began, his voice low and deep, a snarl. He took another step, and I matched it, my back now pressed into the wall. “Become some tough vigilante, taking the law into her own hands?” He was close enough his chest touched mine, making every hair on my body stand on end. The look in his eyes had changed. It was different, darker. Dirtier. It was deliberate, the way he did it, with one arm coming up to trap me while the other softly brushed the hair that had fallen across my face behind my ear. That hand then wrapped behind my skull, cradling my head, his fingers seeming to singe my flesh where they touched it.

  It was all calculated, what he did. It was meant to scare. And it was working.

  My belly felt tight, and my heart pounded, but when he pressed his hips against me, pushing me farther against the wall, that other sensation, the one that held hands with the fear he elicited, the one that made my sex come alive, it became undeniable.

  “Zane.”

  He brought his face to the top of my head, inhaling deeply, moving his mouth to my ear. “Little vigilante-girl got herself a big bad tattoo,” he said, hooking one finger into the collar of my T-shirt and pushing it aside to uncover the memorial inked upon my body. “She got herself a knife, and she got herself a name.” His cheek touched mine, his mouth at my ear. The tip of his tong
ue traced the outer ridge of it. “Obsidian,” he whispered.

  A shiver ran down my spine, and I stopped breathing altogether.

  He’d been wanting to mock me, had been doing so, but then, as soon as he’d spoken the name aloud, it had morphed into something else, something I couldn’t quite put my finger on, but any ridicule was gone.

  “Tell me, Aria.” He pulled back a little. “Tell me, when you find Obsidian, what do you plan to do?” He tilted his head to the side, and the hand that had been cradling my head a moment ago now gripped a handful of hair, forcing my face upward, tears stinging my eyes at the pain. His eyes hooded as they fixated on my mouth. “All grown up.” He brushed his nose against my cheek, inhaling along my jaw, my neck, his tongue suddenly wet on my pulse as his mouth closed over it and kissed, making me suck in a breath at the hard and the soft, the coarse scratching of his beard and the soft wetness of his mouth, the contradiction between this one action and the cruelty of his words.

  But it was over too soon, and dark Zane, the one I didn’t know, the one who repelled and drew me in equal measure, stood watching me again, studying my response to him, as he spoke. “Pretty. So pretty.” A pause, that grin playing along his lips sending thrills through me even as warning bells sounded for me to run, run as far from this man as possible. “Maybe the question I should ask is what do you think Obsidian will do to you when he finds you?”

  His words made me shudder, and the reality of what he said, as brutally as he said it, made my heart bleed.

  He was right. Who did I think I was?

  Sadness settled like a brick in my belly. I felt empty and more abandoned than I’d felt in years. I’d lost everything the night my family was killed. Why had I even come here now? Why had finding Zane become my obsession over the last six years? What in hell had I expected to find? Had I expected him to still be thinking of me? To still be replaying that one night, those few hours in a hotel room, like I had every night for six fucking years? Why, when, now that I had found him, his welcome left me feeling more empty, more alone than ever before?