Page 92 of Defiant Beta

I approach her and reach for her hand. “Can I?” I wait, aware that she’s been hesitant to get too close to any of us since herabduction. That she even wants to stay in a house with alphas after what she endured is a testament to her strength.

She nods.

I take her hand. It’s softer than I expected and cooler. I lift her fingers to the right side of my neck. “Feel that?”

She smells faintly of sweet mint, likely from her shower this morning. I don’t miss her old fake scent. I like the softer, subtler fragrance of her skin.

Her breathing changes. I’m not sure if it’s fear or something else. I hope it’s something else. “Yeah.”

“That’s what I wanted the beetle to cover.”

“How’d you get it?”

“A boot.” I straighten, releasing her wrist.

Her brows knit together. “Aboot?”

“I was sleeping on the floor. My uncle tripped over me. Instead of waking me up and asking me to move, he kicked me. Left a cut that needed stitches.”

I keep secret the fact he liked to lock me in the basement, which is why I was sleeping on the floor in the first place. He must have forgotten I was down there when he went looking for something.

She stares at me as if she can’t believe what she’s hearing. “What kind of psychopath does that?”

“I have asked myself that same question more times than there are days in a year.”

Her eyes flick down. “And the campfire? What does that hide?”

I shrug. “Just needed something to fill in a space.”

My cell phone vibrates as she’s asking about my leg sleeve.

I fish it out of my pocket, glance at the caller ID, and answer it. “What?—”

“Get the fuck on the road, he’s moving!” Xavier yells down the phone.

I don’t ask who. It's the sickly science teacher, or Thomas Benson just showed his face. Whoever it is, both need following.

I bolt for the front door. Out of the corner of my eye, Della is sliding off the stool.

“Wait here!” I yell after her.

“Sure,” she says, following right along.

I’d argue, but Xavier is demanding, “Have you left the house yet?”

“You just?—”

“Movefaster. We get one chance at this.”

Within seconds of sliding into the driver’s seat of my Ford Mustang, Della is in the passenger seat, slamming the door and reaching for her seatbelt before I can send her back to the house.

I glare at her.

She meets my gaze calmly.

Shaking my head, I stab the button for the loudspeaker and slip the phone in my hands free before starting the engine.

“Who are we tailing?” Della is obscenely excited. She’s sat up in her seat, eyes bright as she peers one way, then the next.

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