Page 71 of Faith and Fury

Smell that? he purrs. Omega smells sweet. She likes you. Wants you.

I swallow him back, trying to suppress a blush of my own.

***

I fall asleep quickly that night—quicker than I have in days—knowing Faith is asleep in the next room.

But it doesn’t last long.

I spring up between my packmates, chest heaving, not even sure what dream I’m escaping. I’ve always been fortunate that way—for all my nightmares, I’ve never been able to remember them.

The only part I remember is screaming.

I clasp a hand over my mouth, just in case. Thankfully neither Caleb or Jaxon have stirred.

The room is dark, but I know the drill by now—shimmying to the very end of the bed until my feet find the floor. Tip-toeing into the living room, closing the door gently behind me.

I’m surprised to find the TV has been left on in the living room. And then I see her.

“Faith?” I whisper.

She’s sitting with her legs tucked against her chest, watching the flashing screen. Her gaze flicks up.

If not for those eyes—weary, but sharp—I might have forgotten how formidable she truly is. She looks so soft, so small, wearing nothing but Caleb’s shirt.

I swallow.

“Couldn’t sleep?” I ask.

She turns back to the TV. It’s playing some infomercial—primped-up actors showing off their vacuum extensions. She has it on mute, which makes sense, but even so, it can’t be very entertaining.

I sit beside her. “Want me to show you how to turn on the subtitles?”

Her hand moves sluggishly. No. Then, after a moment, she adds, Thank you.

We watch the screen together. I wonder if she’s trying to bore herself to sleep, so I do the same. But it’s no use. Her shoulders don’t release their tension, and my breathing remains uneven.

I’m about to suggest we change channels when Faith moves. She makes sure my eyes are on her before signing, slowly, You … okay?

I smile. “Yeah, angel. I’m okay.”

You … rest.

“I will,” I tell her. “As soon as I’m relaxed.”

She signs something else—touching her chin, then her temple, with a short gesture between. It’s not a word she’s taught me before, or one I’ve taught myself.

“Where’s your notepad?” I ask. “I’ll get it for you.”

She sighs, shaking her head like the very idea of that is exhausting. It must be a lot of work trying to communicate with all of us—almost always on our terms. Instead, I scan the coffee table. Faith points, indicating a regular ballpoint pen. I hand it to her.

“Do you have some pap—?” I start to ask before she uncaps the pen and crawls directly toward me.

I blush as she grabs my wrist. My inner alpha gets excited, wondering if she’s about to let me scent her again, when instead she presses the pen to my skin.

“Oh.” I blink, then flinch—she sure is digging it in hard. “Hello.”

She keeps writing, finally pulling back to reveal a single word written across my pulse:

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