Page 48 of Broken Pregnant Mate
For the briefest moment, I think about what it would have been like to grow up like this, running with friends, not concerned about only survival. Emin told me once that he and Dorian like to come hunting out here for fun, to stretch their wolves. After all this time, it’s still difficult for me to wrap my head around that.
We run for hours, and soon, the late afternoon sun casts long shadows across our path, painting the landscape in deepening gold and crimson. The slick rock beneath our paws is still warm from the day’s heat. The scent of juniper and sage fills my nostrils, mingling with the mineral tang of sandstone.
Break, Dorian sends, and we circle around, heaving for air, stopping to shift and guzzle water. It’s a hot day, and though our coats have evolved for desert living, it’s still not ideal to be traveling like this.
When we emerge from the canyon, it’s only a road in disrepair. Ahead stretches the desert proper—a rolling sea of sand and scrub that marks the transition between territories. We run for another hour before hitting the thicket of cacti, the shapes that stretch into the sky.
Holy shit, Emin sends, and I watch as he cranes his neck to look.Those are massive.
Oren and I share a look—we’ve both seen these cacti enough not to be impressed by them anymore. We take a turn in the road, running through a thick tunnel created by the bodies and arms of the cacti, and when we emerge from it, the air is significantly cooler, sweeter. But instead of turning left, toward the center of the Grayhide pack and to the city, we turn right to circle through Llewelyn's land and dive into the underground.
When we stop to rest again, it’s in the rapidly cooling air just inside the Llewelyn lands. According to Dorian, they responded quickly that any act against Jerrod Blacklock was something they could support and that they would grant us safe passage through their territory.
Oren shifts, drinks water, checks his watch and says, “The party is starting any minute, but we still have at least an hour inthe underground. We’ll need to keep a good pace to make it in time.”
He’s an effortless leader, and I have to look away, suck in a breath, knowing that tomorrow morning, if I’m not dead, I’m going to have the entire weight of the Grayhide pack on my back.
“So let’s keep pace,” Dorian says, nodding and pushing aside the shrubbery that marks the entrance to the underground. “Come on, in we go.”
***
Wet earth and dripping water surround us as Dorian takes the lead through the underground. Muddy puddles on the ground splash underfoot, and the space is too small for us to travel as wolves, so we’re squeezing through in our human bodies, instead. When I look at the ground, I can just make out the faint shape of drag marks, and I try hard not to think about years of bodies moving through these tunnels, carving marks into the stone and dirt.
“How much further?” Emin asks, his voice barely above a whisper.
“Quarter mile, at least,” Oren answers immediately, his voice sharp, flat. “This tunnel connects to the wine cellar under the east wing.”
I feel, rather than see, Oren’s growing agitation.
“Are these tunnels still being used?” Emin asks, his voice once again floating up from behind me. I get the sense that he’s not very comfortable with silence.
“Not officially,” Oren says. “My father doesn’t know I knew about them. For a time, he was using them to sneak women in, but when he started openly cheating on my mother,that wasn’t an issue anymore. I found out about the tunnel, used it to escape, and come to Ambersky.”
Ahead of us, Dorian raises his hand, bringing our group to a halt. Ahead, I can make out the sound of footsteps—heavier than ours, and moving with purpose.
“Guards,” Oren whispers.
We press ourselves against the damp wall as two figures approach, their flashlight beams cutting through the darkness. They’re speaking in low voices, complaining about patrol duty.
Dorian gestures, and we start to move backward slowly. I widen my stance, try to avoid the puddles on the ground. Luckily, there’s enough water dripping around us to dull our noises.
“—waste of time checking these old tunnels,” one of the guards ahead says. With our scents blocked, the tunnel quickly grows thick with just the scent of them—Grayhide. I realize, with a start, that it’s starting to smell different to me. I’ve been in the Ambersky pack long enough that I’m adopting their scent. It’s not a great time to have the realization, to think about the fact that I’ll be returning to the Grayhides, whether I want to or not.
“Nobody’s used them in years,” another guard says. “Likely to collapse around us any second.”
“Orders are orders. You heard the boss—one of those brains thinks someone’s coming, we have to look. Even if I think that shit is just a bunch of fake garbage.”
Brains—psychics? Panic strikes through me. If they have psychics, maybe they already know we’re here.
They’re nearly upon us now, the very edge of their flashlight beams nearly touching the tip of Dorian’s boots. We have to make a decision quick—either catch them off guard andrisk them sounding some sort of alarm, or hope they don’t see us.
Oren exchanges a glance with Dorian, and I shift to my left foot, looking at Emin. Without speaking, we’re on the same page, spreading out along the walls, pressing ourselves as flat as we can.
None of us is small enough to pull it off, but it gives us a flash of time between when the guards step into our reach and when they notice we’re there.
“What the—”
We move in perfect synchronization—Dorian and Oren taking the one on the left, Emin and I handling the one on the right.
