Page 111 of Faith and Fury

I almost flash him my teeth, but I don’t want him to see me blush.

Maverick models a couple shots, showing me how to distribute my weight, and I do my best to copy him. I keep waiting for myself to snap, or scratch, when he puts his hands on me—but his deep, controlled breaths let me know he’s taking this seriously.

The half hour runs out surprisingly quickly. Maverick helps me out of the gear and back onto my crutches. I catch him sneaking the alpha on duty a fifty-dollar note as we head into the parking lot.

“Just like I thought,” he announces as we reach the car, “you’re a natural.”

A natural what? Shooter? Fighter? Killer?

“You have a good eye,” he explains, like he senses the question. “Though maybe you have to.”

I point sharply at my ears. For the last time, I’m not deaf.

“What next?” he asks, ignoring me. “You hungry? Actually, don’t answer that.”

As we drive, I realize my fingers are still tingling from where I pulled the trigger—the sheer force of each shot ringing in my blood.

“I always grab a burger from Franklin’s after I’ve been shooting,” Maverick tells me. “A humble—but noble—tradition.”

I roll my eyes. I’M HONOURED.

He glances down at the phone. “Damn straight.”

A few minutes later, he pulls into the parking lot of a greasy diner. He’s too busy recommending his favorite burger—the ‘wunderbeef’—to notice.

We grab a booth. Maverick is more than happy to order on my behalf, throwing in a milkshake and side of curly fries. While we wait, I can’t help but look around, taking note of the other diners. A beta woman wipes ice-cream off her pup’s face and I get stuck, watching them, wondering what their lives must be like.

“You want one?”

My head snaps up.

Maverick nods where I was looking. “Pups. Pack. Whole nine yards.”

Fingers stiff, I type, SHE’S A BETA. BETAS DON’T HAVE PACKS.

“You know what I mean.”

So what if I know what he means? Doesn’t mean I have to answer.

And yet … the question hangs heavy, like I can’t just leave it there, or it’ll crush me. I stare down at the phone for a moment before answering, I DON’T THINK SO.

Maverick hums, seeming to accept this. He keeps eyeing the beta and her pup until, for some reason, I start typing again.

JAXON WANTS PUPS. I blush. APPARENTLY.

“I believe it,” Maverick says. His gaze darkens ever-so-slightly. “Doesn’t mean you have to give him any.”

I recoil. I KNOW THAT.

He hesitates before prodding, “Is that what you guys are fighting about? Your, uh … future? With Pack Wilder.”

I pick at the old scabs on my knuckles. How did I get these again? Was it from K-4? Axe? Or maybe … that night with Micah. When he turned white as a sheet, scared for my life, and I repaid him with my fists.

“I know they want you,” Maverick notes. “They’re just too scared to say it.”

I shake my head. He doesn’t understand—they’re not the ones who are scared.

“I’ve known Caleb, Jaxon, and Micah for four years,” he tells me. “They’re good guys. Good alphas. They make a nice pack.”

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