Page 2 of Torment Me Knot
I flatten myself against the corner of an outbuilding and scan the facility. The perimeter fence has been patched recently. Cameras at regular intervals, not standard for a building nobody's supposed to be using. My skin prickles. I circle the perimeter, staying low, until I find what I'm looking for. A loading dock on the east side, service entrance tucked beneath a rusted awning. Camera blind spot. The lock is old, the kind that gives way to a pick in under thirty seconds. I slip inside and ease the door shut behind me.
The smell hits first. Antiseptic. Bleach. Underneath, something sour and animal, the kind of scent that seeps into concrete after months of fear. Emergency lighting throws sick green shadows as I move deeper into the building that’s meant to be abandoned, weapon drawn, back to the wall.
The smell leads me upstairs. A corridor stretches into darkness ahead, emergency green bleeding across concrete, no sound but my own breath. A door stands ajar twelve feet in. I flatten my back against the wall, ease sideways, and glance through the gap. Bile climbs hot and fast. I swallow it down.
A lab: empty but recently used. Restraint tables with leather straps worn soft at the buckles. IV stands with tubing that reeks of chemicals. Instruments laid out on steel trays, edges glinting.
A thin, reedy noise sounds from deeper in the building. A whimper so soft it almost wasn’t there. I follow it down a corridor lined with reinforced doors. Locked. Locked. Locked.Don't think about what's behind them. Focus.
Last door. Slightly ajar. Someone left in a hurry. Or maybe they’re coming back in a hurry. I have to be quick. I push the door open and find a female. Small, maybe five-three. Café-au-lait skin. Dark curls matted with sweat. She's unconscious on a medical table, wrists raw from restraints, IV lines snaking from both arms. Electrodes at her temples. The chemical smell's stronger here. Suppressants. Forced heat inducers. The sharp ammonia bite of adrenaline stimulants.
I check for threats. Clear. Then I move to her side. She’s breathing. Pulse weak but steady. Whatever they did, she's still alive.
I reach for her forehead.
Gardenia.
Clover.
Her scent hits me. My hand shoots out to the edge of the table, fingers white-knuckled against the metal. My whole body recognizes her. Reaches for her.Knowsher before my mind catches up. Scent-match. No.No no no.I can't pull my hand back from her forehead. Can't move. Can't breathe. Twenty-eight years and I thought this would never happen. Iknewthis would never happen. Female Alphas don't get this. We don't get mates. We don't get packs. We get respected from a distance and we die alone and that's just...that's how it...
She's sosmall.
I brush a sweat-damp curl off her forehead. “Sweetheart,” I whisper, and the word cracks in my throat.
Her wrists. God, her wrists are shredded, skin torn in layers where she must have twisted and pulled. How long did she fight? How long did she...Stop. Stop it. Focus.I'm shaking. When did that start? I look at her face. Really look. Hollowed cheeks. Purple smudges beneath her eyes. Cheekbones too sharp. The whole time I was sitting at my desk shuffling papers and she washere.I didn't know. I couldn't have known.That doesn't help.Doesn't change anything. My mate was being tortured fifteen miles from my office and I was reviewing fucking case files.
Footsteps in the corridor. Multiple. Moving fast.
“Check the final lab.” Voice from the hallway. “Wallace wants confirmation the subject is still viable.”
Subject.They call her asubject.My vision narrows. Too few voices. Wallace had already started clearing the facility out.
My heartbeat slows. Everything gets very, very still.Get her out. Then come back and burn this place to the ground.
Their scents reach me before I see them. Wrong. Chemical. The sharp synthetic edge of artificial pheromones layered over beta, but aggressive in a way betas never are. Ronan's intel mentioned enhanced betas. Gene modification.
I don't wait to see what's coming.
The IV lines first. I ease the needles out of her arms, one, then the other. Blood wells up in the crooks of her elbows. I press down with my thumbs until it stops. The electrodes leave raw red circles on her temples when I peel them off.
I slide one arm beneath her shoulders, the other under her knees, and lift. She weighs nothing. Her head falls back, and I have to look away for a second. Just a second. Then I tuck her against me, her cheek pressed to my collarbone, and move.
Window at the end of the corridor. Second story. Manageable. I move fast, keeping low. I feel every ridge of her spine against my forearm, the flutter of her pulse against my chest. Her scent wraps around me, warm and green andmine. Every instinct I have screams at me to stop, to curl around her, to growl at anything that comes close. I keep moving. Behind me, the voices get louder. Doors slamming open. They're checking the rooms one by one.
I reach the window, shift her weight to one arm, and flip the latch. The frame groans as I shove it open. Cold air rushes in. Below, a service alley. Dumpsters. Concrete.
“She's not here.” Closer now. Too close. “Where the hell would the little slut go?”
I swing my legs over the sill, cradle her against my chest, and drop.
The impact jars through my knees, my hips. Pain lances up my side, but nothing shifts wrong. Nothing grinds. I stay low, pressing us both into the shadow of the dumpster until the voices fade from the window above.
Then I run.
The car is where I left it, tucked behind a stand of dead brush. I wrench open the back door and ease her onto the seat, laying her down as gently as I can. Her head rests against the upholstery. She doesn't stir. I shrug off my jacket and tuck it around her, then slam the door and throw myself behind the wheel.
Engine roaring before my door's fully closed. Tires screaming as I tear out of the access road. I don't see anyone behind me, but I floor it anyway, taking back roads I know by heart, doubling back twice before I hit the highway. No pursuit vehicles. No roadblocks. Either Wallace didn't know who’d taken her yet, or he was more interested in disappearing than fighting for one Omega in a compromised site.
