Page 48 of Rogue & Her Hunters
See, I’m a good liar. I have no idea if I’ll be coming back at all.
This should be my best chance to escape. I have my Rogue Powers. I could do this.
But it would mean leaving my Omega behind to die.
Love and pack bonds truly do make you weak.
Why do I crave them?
Wanting Bird is a mistake.
I stand, glowering at Mr. Baskerville.
He must read something in my expression because he pales and takes a step back.
Then he clears his throat and adjusts the glasses on his nose. “If you’re thinking of fighting back or escaping, then not only will your Omega be killed, but you’ll be hunted.”
I snort. “I’m the one who hunts other people, remember?”
“A bounty, dead or alive, would be put on your head.” Mr. Baskerville regains his courage, taking out his keys and opening the cell. He swings open the barred door, gesturing for me to step out with a faux chivalry, as if he’s inviting me to dance. “Have you heard of the Hunter pack? I bet that a mobster like you has worked with killers like them. They’re dangerous contract killers. There is nothing outside this facility but forest and mountains. How far would you get in freezing temperatures dressed like that with some of the deadliest packs in the country after you?”
The Hunters?
My head spins.
I stalk out of the cell, which is locked behind me. I follow Mr. Baskerville and Dr. Gill down the bright corridor, deliberately not looking into the cells that contain the other Rogues.
I will free them.
My mind is still turning over the thought that the packIresearched as my last mission — the giant, masked Alpha and his sweet-scented Beta — will be hired to hunt me when I run.
Because I will run.
Except, I’ve studied the Hunters. I intended to kill them.
They weremyprey.
If they try to turn me intotheirprey, then they’ll be in for a shock.
I struggle not to smile, while I sneakily memorize the route out of my cell and closer to the edge of the facility and the exit.
Why doesn’t Mr. Baskerville just walk me out of the front door himself?
Idiot.
Dr. Gill pauses to press in a number on a pad by the side of a room. The steel door swings open.
I follow her into a clinical room.
Then my guts churn with dread.
The room is stark, as if it’s part hospital surgery room and part laboratory. Bright spotlights cast harsh shadows. Tall cabinets line the walls, which have numbered drawers.
I wrinkle my nose at the antiseptic scent.
Ventilators whir above my head.
I can’t look away from the large examination table, which stands in the center of the room. It is steel with a padded surface. But it’s the straps and stirrups that make me shudder.
