Page 22 of Altered By Lead (Undercover Sinners 2)
Hawke takes off into the dark woods to go god only knows where.
There's nothing out here in this Podunk shit part of Oregon.
Oregon.
Half the population is made up of aging hippie liberal douchebags, and the other half is aging right wing nutjob psycho-religious hicks. Ugh. I miss the city already.
"You alright?" West asks, but I shrug him off, feeling Arsen's eyes on me. He can smell weakness, and the last thing I need is to wake up in my bed at night with him hovering over me, carrying a knife.
"Fine."
I storm up to the side door and wrench it open only to see a small-statured girl whip around the corner and pound up the stairs.
Huh.
I bet she heard us, I think as I lick my lower lip.
If she did, she'll have two choices: she can run away again, or she can finally figure out how to stand and fight. And I don't mean physically, because she's clearly made great strides in that arena. Nah, the Russian princess will have to decide if she's strong enough to take her seat on the opposite side of the chessboard and move her own pieces.
I just hope she calls checkmate on both Arsen and Hawke, sooner rather than later.
The universe knows she's the only one with the power to do that.
Too bad she isn't aware of that just yet.Chapter 6NataliaTwo weeks later, and I still haven't figured out how to channel the anger I felt that day when I overheard the guys discussing their filthy ass bet.
With a scream, I throw myself at Hawke and he shoves me off, sending me flying. I stumble, and end up bruising my shoulder on the training mat before he puts a knee to my back.
"I could kill you right now," he says, completely devoid of any emotion. "Last bet was to get her to spill info. Well, this time, I want her to spill her heart. All of it. Do your worst, boys." Please. He pretends to be the upstanding leader type, this lawful-good badass who’s all morality and shit.
He's just as bad as Arsen.
Worse.
Arsen is a psycho who wears his crazy for all the world to see. Hawke just hides behind a stern face and a strict obsession with rules and protocol.
"You're angry," he says, just a simple observation. "You have been for weeks. And you've been a useless liability during every single session since. Did that praise I gave you go to your head?"
"No," I grind out, hands fisting on the black, worn surface of the training mat.
"Then get up, clean yourself off, and take a walk. While you're outside, ask yourself if you really want this. The last thing I need is some angry, spoiled princess pulling my team down." Hawke releases me, and I suck in a sharp gulp of air.
Shaking, I push myself to my feet and stalk out of the room, past Mace and up the stairs, my hand sliding along the old banister. There might be six people in this house, but I may as well be communing with ghosts.
Most everyone seems to be avoiding me.
The only person who actually stops by to see me is Arsen, and even then, only when he thinks he won't be caught. He pushes me up against walls, and yanks my pants down, fucking me until I can't breathe.
It's become a game for us, to see how much we can fuck without getting caught.
We've managed at least one or two sessions a day since the incident on the porch. He did put his gun to Colt's head, I remind myself, but somehow I knew he wasn't going to pull the trigger. No, I'm more upset about the bet.
The bet.
Please.
On my way to my room, I linger, hoping Arsen might find me and join me in the shower. I should be just as angry with him as I am with the others, but at least he talks to me. Well, at least he fucks me. Even Colt, West, and Mace—who didn’t seem all that thrilled with Hawke’s ridiculous bet—haven’t been honest with me. Arsen … I grade on a different rubric. Maybe it’s not fair, but as long as he’s acting semi-normal, I consider that good enough.
I wait a bit longer to see if he’ll show. Hoping he’ll show.
He doesn't, and I end up washing my hair quickly and scrubbing my body until my skin is pink, just to get rid of Hawke's scent.
When I get out, I find both Weston and Colt waiting for me in my room. West is sitting on my bed, smoking a cigar with the window open, and billowing smoke into the cool evening air.
Colt, meanwhile, is going through my underwear drawer.
"You fucking perv," I snap, storming over to him in a towel and ripping away one of the few pieces of clothing I have: a big, ugly wrinkly pair of granny panties.
