Page 55 of All Saints Day
Louise
The first attempt at getting Frank to break and spill his guts was a failure, as expected.
Now all that stands in the way of the second half of our bat shit crazy plan is for Dennis and I to solidify our bond and to prepare with the others for Quentin and I to be triggered into a heat cycle once we’ve catalyzed Frank’s rut with the suppressant melters—using the extreme pressure of the rut denial to force him to divulge his darkest secrets, or to succumb to rut sickness.
We don’t have the setup for it here at the dual yurts, so we’ll be packing and getting underway to a more appropriate location arranged by Quentin before the sun rises, even though all of us are bone tired.
Even though Quentin and I had both put on brave faces, the interrogation had taken a lot out of both of us.
I knew that the physical proximity to Frank was going to be difficult—my mind and body at war with one another, fight, flight, freeze, fuck—none of me quite knows what to do. The parts of me that function on pure sigma biology cry out for my fated mate—for Frank’s alpha nature. Pheromones, skin, lips, teeth—my body craves it, even if my heart races and my adrenaline skyrockets as fear and loathing surge in me.
How could he betray me like he did? How could he betray us?
To say nothing of the three months we shared at the CountryEstate—hours upon hours of grueling torture without quarter, without mercy.
Then I think of what Frank said about me being unbreakable. I think about Quentin’s reasoning for why Frank didn’t use the suppressant melter on me earlier—our justification for using them on Frank now.
A cold washes over me as I remember Frank’s entreaty to bite me—water from the horrible dunk tank still being coughed out of my lungs.
It had seemed insane then—even by a madman’s standards—but now I consider what Dennis and I are about to do; to allow unfettered access to one another mind, body, and soul, via the fated mating bond.
Anything and everything in Frank’s broken mind would be open to us…or would it? Could we see into the parts of the man that he could not see into himself?
I am pulled from my thoughts by Caz offering me a few squares of dark chocolate and an open thermos of steaming black coffee.
“I know you probably don’t have any appetite right now, but why don’t you try to get these down before we get on the road,” he croons sweetly, leaning down to kiss my forehead as he passes me the treats. “You can sit up front with me; it’s only about four hours between here and the compound at Bear Claw Pass.” Both of us turn to look at the curved wall that separates us from the still night outside—as if our eyes were X-ray specs that could see Frank, still held captive through another flimsy set of circular walls.
Dennis, who had been the last to clear out of the earlier interrogation, stepped between Caz, myself—and our invisible quarry.
“I know it’s impossible not to worry—but trust that Seb and I will do a good job keeping our… volatile cargo under wraps for the duration,” Dennis assures me as Seb makes a conspicuous flex of his bicep.
I nod, not wanting to press the matter further—but he’s right to reassure my paranoia.
“It’s no palace, but the hidey-hole we’re heading to is a right sight nicer than these yurts,” Quentin assures me, sliding in beside me at the edge of the bed while Caz and Seb return to packing our things to get on the road. “Hot running water indoors, laundry, a proper nesting area,” Q continues to explain in a cool, even tone—as much to assuage his own apprehension over what we’re about to do.
“If it’s good enough for you—it’s good enough for me,” I purr, reaching my hand up his arm to stroke the scar of my bonding bite on Q’s bicep where it peeks out of the sleeve of his t-shirt.
The ride wasn’t that long, but the silence of the car—save for the entirety of Billy Joel’s discography—my choice of comfort music; while Frank lay flat across the back seat of yet another anonymous panel van we repossessed for our sojourn to the compound at Bear Claw Pass had threatened to crush me like a bug if we had spent any longer on the road.
Quentin made his way into the small tourist town in a combination hairpiece and false mustache to pick up some food and firewood for our short stay while Caz and I settled into the shockingly large log cabin in the woods.
One of Q’s CI pals had outfitted this cushy little getaway with a subterranean fallout shelter to retreat to in case things got really bad.
While the main cabin itself was clean and well furnished, the bunker basement was a cold, lead-lined cement box that felt more like a prepper mausoleum with rickety bunk beds and metalshelving units stacked with MREs and white plastic buckets of other dehydrated food, and medical supplies.
As soon as we’d taken stock of the place, Dennis and Seb had hefted the still unconscious Frank into the bunker and locked him inside.
It wasn’t long before Quentin made his return, handing each of us an icy cold cheap beer almost as soon as he’d placed the last brown paper bag of groceries on the sparse kitchen countertops.
Cracking the pull tab on my beer, I flopped down onto the middle of a well worn four seater sofa—Quentin flopping into a seat beside me as Seb began ferreting through the bags of groceries, Caz hot on his heels in search of snacks.
I lean my head against Q’s shoulder and close my eyes. I can feel the cushions sink beside me as Dennis takes a seat on my other side—his clean, herbal scent washing over me like the breaking of a wave.
“There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you—with regard to the bonding.” I open my eyes to see Dennis actually blushing.
“Oh?” I reach out a hand and drape it over Dennis’ knee—drawing his eyes to mine.
“Well.” He squirms slightly, his eyes darting quickly away. “I know it’s been a really long time since you and I—” He trails off, swallowing before trying to speak again. “A-and I know that you—well we—the bonding at the chalet…” Again, Dennis’ words sputter into silence.
