Page 107 of Faith and Fury

Still feeling Maverick’s eyes on me, I grumpily type, DON’T YOU OWN A SHIRT?

He looks down at his chest like he’s only just realized he’s half-naked. A devilish smile crosses his lips. “I do, in my bedroom—where I gallantly let you sleep last night.” His expression falters. “Ugh. Guess that means Wilder’s scents are all over my bedsheets now, too.”

I feel like he’s waiting for me to scoff, or maybe crack a smile—only to end up more disappointed.

“How about this? You tell me one thing about what went down last night, and I’ll tell you …” His eyes light up. “How all of us got our start at the RDF.”

NOT INTERESTED, I type.

“Sure you are.”

DROP IT.

“How can I, when you’re being all sexy and mysterious?” He waits for me to react, so clearly trying to get a rise, then huffs. “Alright. I’m all about good faith—see what I did there?—so I’ll go first. Me, I’m ex-military. Got plucked out of special ops. Jax worked private security. Rich packs, mostly. He must’ve been head-hunted, or maybe referred on for his stellar service. Micah, I dunno—he was normally the one doing the head-hunting.”

I guess that shouldn’t come as a surprise. Who’s more qualified to put together a solid team than a registered psychiatrist?

“He and Caleb were together long before the RDF. My guess, they both had a hand in getting the squad off the ground.”

Wait. I cock my head. TOGETHER?

“I mean, as far as I know, they weren’t technically packmates until Jaxon showed up—that’s when Caleb put in his pack registration—but they’ve known each other for ten, fifteen years. College sweethearts, I think.”

SWEETHEARTS??

He laughs. “Just speculating, kitten. Don’t get too excited.”

I want to smack myself. Romantic or not, Caleb and Micah have been each other’s primary support for over a decade. No wonder Caleb gets so protective. No wonder he forced Micah to take some time away from the RDF. No wonder he threatened me when I got my claws out.

To them I’m an outsider. A half-feral … intruder.

“Alright!” Maverick claps his hands. “Your turn, kitten.”

I recoil. My turn?

“I talked, you listened. Now you give me something. Like, for instance, why you showed up at my place in nothing but a t-shirt.”

He’s trying to throw me off-guard—make me angry, or flustered, so I’ll spill my secrets.

I ask, WHY DO YOU CARE?

“Uh, because I’m nosy?”

At my cool, pointed silence, he sighs.

“Because,” he grits out, “it’s not just Wilder I can smell on you. It’s pain. Lots of it.” He leans forward, his voice deepening. “And I’d really like to know who I need to beat up to fix it.”

My chest twists. Here I was, thinking I had masked the sting of Caleb’s rejection—telling myself I don’t care—but if Maverick can sense something is off … I must not be as strong as I thought I was.

I type a message and thrust the phone in Maverick’s face—SHOWER.

Maverick puts his hand on mine. “Not so fast, omega.”

Yes, so fast. I need to get Jaxon’s and Micah’s scents off of me. Need to stop smelling of anything at all.

This time I have the sense to grab my crutches, hobbling into the hallway. Maverick follows close behind.

“Calm down,” he says, “I’m not gonna stop you from showering. Just thought you might need a garbage bag for that cast.”

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