Page 43 of Alpha Chained

I waste no time circling around and hoisting myself into the driver’s seat. Gripping the steering wheel, I pause to gather my wits before turning the key. I’ve driven a few times while back at Steel Lakes, but I’m no expert. In my world, there’s so little need to travel by car.

“Come on, come on!” I mutter, more to myself than to the old rust-bucket. The engine sputters and wheezes in protest but finally rumbles to life with a coughing roar.

Without a second thought, I throw it into drive and stomp on the accelerator. The truck lurches forward, tires spitting up dirt as we peel out of the parking area and merge onto the deserted road leading away from that hellhole.

Only once we’ve put a few miles between us and the Enclave do I finally allow myself to exhale. My fingers ache from gripping the wheel in a white-knuckled grasp, but the tension in my shoulders loosens just a little.

A sound from behind me snaps me back to the situation at hand. Riot writhes in agony, his muzzle twisted in anguish as the silver ravages his body.

“Hang on, I’m going to find a place to stop,” I say urgently, scanning the shadowed tree line flanking the road for a safe place to pull over.

Finally spotting a break in the foliage up ahead, I guide the sputtering truck onto the packed dirt of the shoulder. Throwing it into park, I leap out and hurry around to where Riot is lying.

“Okay, big guy,” I whisper, running a trembling hand along his heaving flank. “Let’s get that bullet out of you,” I say the words with a lot more conviction than I’m actually feeling.

How the hell do I remove a freaking bullet??

But he’s watching me with such blind faith that I know I have to do something. Anything.

Rubbing my face with both hands, I turn around as if the answer will appear out of thin air.

Think, Raura!

The truck. There might be something inside it. It’s a vague hope, but it’s all I have right now. I rummage frantically through the cluttered interior, desperate to find anything that could help me remove that toxic slug of silver from Riot’s leg. My hands tremble as I rip open the battered glove compartment, spilling its contents across the floorboards with a clatter.

“There has to be something!” I mutter through gritted teeth. Finally, my fingers close around the handle of a rusty old pen knife.

It’ll have to do.

I grab it along with the musty duffel bag of clothes I find stuffed behind the passenger seat, silently thanking the universe for small favors. At least we’ll have something to cover ourselves with after this. If we get pulled over, there are going to be a lot of questions if we’re both naked after our shift.

Hauling the bag over my shoulder, I move quickly to the truck’s cargo bed, where Riot lies motionless, his dark fur glistening with a combination of melting snow and blood. As I approach, he shifts with a bone-cracking groan, his massive wolf body contorting and shrinking until he’s in his human form once more.

“What are you doing?” I blurt.

“It’ll be easier for you to find the bullet this way,” he rasps. His face is gray, gleaming beneath a sheen of perspiration.

I hesitate, chewing my lip as I look him over. He’s trembling, every sinewy muscle taut with strain. And even with the unnatural resilience gifted to our kind, I know the process of removing that slug is going to be agonizing without his wolf’s strength.

“Riot, I really think you should stay shifted,” I argue, kneeling beside him. “You’ll be stronger, it’ll hurt less…”

He shakes his head, stubbornly clenching his jaw. “Just do it, Raura.”

With a frustrated huff, I carefully set the knife and duffel aside before leaning over to inspect the angry, swollen wound. It’s a mess of blackened flesh and poisoned blood, the dark pulse of it bringing with it the stench of burning skin.

Swallowing hard, I pick up the knife and position its rusty tip at the ragged opening. My stomach churns, bile rising in my throat as I steel myself for what I’m about to do.

“Ready?” I ask, glancing up to find his eyes already locked on mine.

Riot gives a terse nod, his jaw muscle twitching.

Here goes nothing.

Grinding my teeth, I brace myself and begin working the blade into the inflamed bullet hole. A guttural sound rumbles from Riot’s chest as the metal penetrates his seared flesh, but he remains rigidly still, his body coiled like a tightly wound spring.

I twist and pry, stomach roiling as I feel the blade scraping against the piece of silver buried deep in his thigh. Riot shudders violently, sweat breaking out on his skin, but he doesn’t utter a sound.

And then, with a final sickening slurping sound, the slug dislodges.

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