Page 101 of Faith and Fury

No-one said anything about joining their pack.

It would kill you.

Caleb was talking to his packmates … but the words might as well have been directed at me.

“We’re here.”

I blink, realizing the car has come to a stop. We’re parked at the end of a poorly lit cul-de-sac, the scattered bungalows telling me we’ve made it all the way out to the suburbs.

“Wait there.” Caleb kills the engine. “I’ll help you out.”

Fuck that, I growl to myself, but then my inner omega’s voice pops up—whining pathetically. She wants his hands on me.

Even if it’s for the last time.

He grabs my crutches from the trunk and comes around to the passenger side, lifting me down. His scent is harsh. Burnt.

“Let’s get you inside,” he mutters, scanning the street for prying eyes. “I’ve got your bag.”

I realize only as we trudge to the front door of a small, run-down house that I’m still barely clothed. Micah’s shirt hangs over me, skimming my knees. I didn’t bother to find pants. Or socks. Even my boots are unlaced, grating against my ankles.

Caleb must realize this at the same time, as he hesitates, his fist hovering above the door.

He swallows back a growl before knocking firmly.

A light flicks on. I don’t hear anything inside, but a familiar scent comes floating out from under the wood.

Is that … cinnamon?

The front door groans open, revealing a shirtless, disheveled Maverick. I can’t help myself from ogling the tattoos swirling across his chest, his shoulders … following the hard, thick muscles all the way down the baseball bat clutched in his hands.

“Christ,” he huffs. Then he sees me, and his gaze turns hot. “Am I dreaming?”

“She needs somewhere to stay,” Caleb bites out. “I tried to call.”

Maverick lets us inside. He leads me down the hall by the small of my back while Caleb closes the door behind us.

The inside of the house is not what I expect, with dated, peeling wallpaper and creaky floorboards. Even the air smells off, like no-one has lived here in a very long time.

Maverick offers to take my crutches as I sit on the couch. It’s scratchy and worn-down—nothing like the furniture at Wilder Den—but so what? I’ll sleep anywhere if it means sparing Caleb, Jaxon, and Micah the inconvenience.

“You guys alright?” Maverick asks. “The den compromised or something?”

“We’re fine,” Caleb assures him. “Faith just …” he eyes me, warily, “needed a change of pace.”

Maverick stares. “At one in the morning?”

Neither of us say anything. I can’t say anything, I realize suddenly, thinking of the big notepad I left at Wilder Den. It shouldn’t matter—the pages had almost run out, anyway—but I feel oddly naked without it.

Caleb says, “Can you watch her for a couple days? Keep her off that ankle?”

I go to growl, but my chest only aches.

“Yeah,” Maverick says, “’course I can.”

“Obviously you’re exempt from fieldwork, but I’ll call you if anything comes up.”

“So,” Maverick drawls, “tomorrow morning …?”

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