Lost Russian Luna

Chapter Nine

The hall empties one by one. George stalks away first, clutching his bright red mug. Eric lingers, staring at the spot on the table as if he could glare a hole through to the underworld. Tyler watches me for a long, silent moment, takes his dishes towards the kitchen, and follows the others out. When the room is quiet, I breathe again; it is shallow but clean. My stomach twists, reminding me that I hadn’t eaten anything. I grab one of the cold pieces of bacon to eat. It was cold but thicker than any I had been able to afford in years. I took sausages and wrapped them in a tortilla to make a burrito.

I slip from the chair and drift down the corridor, hands stuffed in the kangaroo pouch of my oversized hoodie. The hallway is narrow, the sort you can walk down blind and still scrape both shoulders. It smells of old sweat, patchouli air freshener, and the musk of too many wolves in one place.

I walk slowly. Quiet as a rumor. I keep my head down, so I don’t see Duncan until I round the corner and he’s right there, leaning against the drywall like he’s part of the architecture. He’s too big for the space, filling it to the corners, and when I try to pass, he doesn’t move.

“You handled that well,” he says, and the way he says “handled” makes it sound like breaking a horse.

I freeze. The wall behind me is cold. I want to run. Sprint into the desert. Do anything but stare at this Alpha.

He’s close enough that I can smell the layer of aftershave he puts on to mask the wolf, but it doesn’t work. The animal is there, hiding just under the skin, waiting. The woody cedar only enhanced the wolf below.

I can’t find my voice, so I nod.

He doesn’t smile. “They’ll keep testing you. That’s how it works.”

I keep my eyes on his shoes. Black leather, dusted with Nevada sand. “I’m not trying to…” I stop. What am I not trying to do? Take over? Die? I was an i***t.

He lets me dangle for a second. Then he leans in, not touching, but close enough that every cell in my body starts to ping the alarm. “I need you,” he says. “At the summit. The other packs are willing to listen to Omegas. You can keep them from going for the jugular in the first five minutes.”

There’s a laugh in his voice. But I could hear the sound of teeth behind it.

I try to step sideways. He blocks me with his arm, slow and easy. “Listen. You want out of this house? Out of this country? You want a shot at not ending up in a shallow grave?”

I can feel his breath on my cheek, the heat of it. It’s not a threat, exactly. It’s hunger.

He lowers his voice, softer. “Food. Clean clothes. Protection. All yours, if you help.”

It’s a wolf’s deal, but it’s better than any I’ve had in years.

My throat works, but the words come out thin as string. “What if I say no?”

He shrugs. “Then I keep you here. You’ll be safe. But you’ll rot like the rest of the house.” He straightens up, gives me a look that might be an apology, or maybe just tiredness. “You’re not the first stray I’ve picked up. But you’re the first who made those idiots shut up.”

I shiver, but it’s not all fear. There’s a flicker of something old in me, something that remembers what it was to be useful.

I nod. “I’ll do it.”

He lets out a breath, slow. Relief? Maybe. He steps back, finally, giving me room.

“Come on,” he says. “I’ve got something for you.”

He walks ahead, knowing I’ll follow. He leads me to a small room, the kind of guest room you’d find in any Airbnb, minus the cheerful throw pillows. There’s a cardboard box on the bed, and next to it, a pile of folded clothes: jeans, t-shirts, a sweater with the tags still on. Duncan picks up the top shirt and tosses it to me.

“Try that,” he says. “It’s not much, but you can burn what you wore before. That maid’s outfit has to go.”

“I didn’t even quit, I disappeared from my job,” I said, holding it up. It’s navy blue, with a faded print of some American university on the front. I took off the hoodie and slipped it on. It swallows me, the sleeves hanging past my wrists, but the cotton is soft and smells faintly of soap.

He hands me a plate, too. Fresh eggs, still steaming, and bacon, crisp and shiny with grease. My hands shake as I take it.

Duncan doesn’t leave. He just watches, arms folded, as I eat. I try to go slow, but hunger takes over, and I shovel in half the food before I realize what I’m doing. I stop, embarrassed, but he just nods, as if that’s what he wanted to see.

“You’ll need your strength,” he says, “if we’re driving all the way back to Vegas.”

I stop chewing. “Now?”

He grins, a flash of canines. “No time like the present.”

I finish the plate, every last crumb. My stomach hurts, but in a new way.

He leads me out, and I follow, steps careful but steady. As we pass through the hallway, I catch Tyler, Eric, and George staring from the living room. Their faces are hard to read. Some mixture of jealousy and respect and maybe something else, something that makes my skin itch.

But I keep walking.

Duncan opens the front door, sunlight pooling on the tile. The desert heat is already thick, coiling into the cool of the house. He pauses on the threshold and turns to me.

“You know what happens if you screw this up,” he says, matter-of-fact.

I nod.

He holds out his hand, not as an offer, but as an order. I take it, and his grip is iron.

We cross the threshold together, and for the first time since I woke in that hotel, I feel the world tilt on its axis. I’m not in the cage anymore. Or maybe I’m just in a different one.

But it’s mine, for now.