Alpha (10 page)

Prick
. I felt my face flush even hotter than before.

“Now, Dean, if you'll show Ms. Sanders to her room…”

Colin stood, but I refused, so he hauled me up by one arm.

“Stop.” My dad stepped directly into Malone's path. “I will not leave her here alone.”

“Of course not!” Malone took another sip from his mug, overworking the whole you're-not-important-enough-to-ruffle-my-feathers routine. “She'll be under armed guard.” He gestured toward Dean, whose hand tightened around my arm, and my blood ran cold.

No way in hell was I going to be
under
Dean, in any sense of the world, armed or not.

“That's a blatant conflict of interest!” I insisted, twisting in Dean's grip to glare at Malone. Calm and steady would only go so far, and a controlled facade would not keep me from being harassed—or worse—while I was held handcuffed by a psychopath with a pistol in one hand and a misogynistic chip on his shoulder. “I'm on trial in part for stabbing Dean, and you want to hand him a gun and the key to my room? Maybe you'd also like to tie me up, strip me, and paint a big red target on my chest!”

“Are you suggesting one of the council's task force members can't remain impartial and in control of his temper?”

“I'm flat out
saying
it!” I jerked my arm from Dean's grip and before Malone could protest, I turned
to Blackwell, the de facto swing vote in everything important. “Look, Councilman Blackwell, the truth is that I stabbed Dean with his own knife to keep him from carving his initials into my chest.”

A couple of the enforcers actually gasped—either because they believed me or because they were impressed that I'd tell such a bold lie in a room full of Alphas. Blackwell actually flinched, so I pressed on, turning to address my next statement to the entire room.

“You have two choices about what to believe. You can either believe that he cut me and I was defending myself, which proves that Colin Dean shouldn't be allowed anywhere near either women or weapons…”

Dean started to grab my arm again, but I stumbled away from him and toward my uncle, who steadied me, even as I rushed on, the words tumbling from my mouth almost too quickly to be understood. “Or you can believe that after I stabbed him for no good reason, he had the strength not only to remain standing, but to remove the knife from his chest, hold me down, and slash my cheek in return. Personally, I think that explanation defies logic, but if you choose to believe that version, then the scar on my cheek can't be anything other than cold-blooded revenge on Dean's part. What's to stop him from doing it again, if you leave me alone with him? It'll be even easier this time, since I can't defend myself.”

Silence blanketed the room as my last word faded. My dad's allies looked incensed. Blackwell looked convinced. And even a couple of Malone's allies looked…confused. Which was as much as I could hope for, under the circumstances.

“That's ridiculous…” Malone started, but Blackwell
planted his cane firmly on the floor and stood, cutting Malone off.

“She's right,” he declared. “Until we have a verdict, I don't think Ms. Sanders and Mr. Dean should be anywhere near each other. Calvin, assign someone else to guard her, or I'll keep us here in a locked vote all night long, to make sure she's safe.”

“D
o we really need these cuffs?” I rotated my hands, trying to relieve the ache in my wrists and the pins and needles in my fingers, but only wound up straining my shoulders. “Dean put them on too tight, and my hands are going numb.”

Alex didn't even look at me.

I sat on the end of the twin bed on the right, trying to control my temper with Zen-like concentration on the faded, country plaid bedspread beneath me. Unfortunately, I didn't find country decor relaxing. In fact, it had a nails-on-chalkboard kind of effect on me. As did Alex Malone, my full-time jailer.

Alex sat in a straight-back chair to the right of the door, arms crossed over his chest, glancing my way every few seconds to make sure I hadn't so much as blinked since the last time he'd looked. Occasionally he'd squirm in his chair, searching for a comfortable position, which wasn't going to happen with that gun tucked into the back of his jeans.

I'd lobbied to get rid of the gun, insisting that the weapon and handcuffs together constituted gross
overkill. I was hoping Malone would be reluctant to admit that I warranted so much precaution. Instead, he'd asked if I was willing to swear I wouldn't try to escape from an unarmed guard.

Foiled, by my own unwillingness to tell a bald-faced lie…

Sometimes it doesn't pay to be the good guy. And the worst part was that I was too pissed off to enjoy the triumph of finally being acknowledged as a serious threat by the enemy. The risk of being shot kind of sucked the joy right out of the occasion.

But on the bright side—okay, the less-than-pure-gloom side—Malone would never be able to cite inherent female weakness as the reason women shouldn't be allowed as enforcers. Not after the fuss he was making over my detention.

“Hey, asshole, what's your dad going to say when I sustain permanent nerve damage on your watch?” I demanded, still trying to ease the ache in my arms.

Finally Alex's cold gaze met mine. “He's gonna say, ‘Good thing we don't need her for her hands.'”

Whatever.
That threat had long since ceased scaring me. “Wow. You guys are like a broken record. Don't you ever get tired of the whole ‘knock 'em out and drag 'em back to the cave' routine? 'Cause I swear, Cro-Magnons were more subtle.”

Alex didn't respond, but the answer was clear. He never got tired of it, because it was all he knew. Probably all his father ever talked about or planned for.

Our system of government was pretty twisted. Alphas were traditionally male, yet territories pass not from father to son, but from mother to daughter, and the only
way to become an Alpha of one of those territories is to marry the tabby born into it.

Unfortunately, the strength of the entire system depends on each individual tabby choosing the right man to run her territory—regardless of how she feels about him personally. Sometimes a tabby is fortunate enough to love a well-qualified man. Sometimes love comes several years into a marriage, when they have both Pride members and children in common. Sometimes love never comes. But the worst-case scenario is when a tabby marries for love, but her chosen mate is not strong enough to lead their Pride.

Some people think that's what happened with Jace's parents. That Jason Hammond was too weak, and that's why he died less than four years into their marriage, leaving his wife vulnerable to the advances of a ruthless, power-hungry wannabe-despot like Calvin Malone.

“When did this whole thing start, anyway? This whole ‘rule the women, rule the world' plot?” I scooted awkwardly to the corner of the bed closest to Alex, trying to draw his attention, but all I got out of him was another fleeting glance. “It was with Manx, wasn't it?”

Before she showed up, there were no “extra” tabbies, and my cousin Abby and I were the only eligible but unspoken-for female cats in the country. Abby was still in high school, and I'd already turned down Brett Malone's proposal years before, so Malone's ambition was temporarily stymied by circumstance.

Then came Manx.

“Your dad saw her as his golden ticket, right?” Manx was unclaimed and vulnerable, by virtue of being both pregnant and wanted for murder. Perfect prey for
Malone. “Suddenly there's an extra woman in the mix, and by divine rights—or pure, unadulterated gluttony—she must be his, in one fashion or another, right?” Fortunately, he was willing to live vicariously through his sons. Otherwise, the ick factor would be too much to contemplate. “And then along came Kaci.”

Kaci was initially ill-nourished from months spent on her own, confused from having no previous knowledge of her own species, and traumatized over having accidentally killed her mother and sister during her first Shift.

And by that point Malone must have heard the choir singing his name. After her trial and the loss of her claws, Manx was defenseless and desperate to protect her infant son. Kaci was young and terrified enough to be manipulated into compliance.

“Your dad's two for three, right?” But still Alex refused to acknowledge me. “Which means it all comes down to me.”

I was the thorn in Malone's paw. The fatal flaw in his plan. I couldn't be threatened, manipulated, or coerced into obedience, and I could hold my own in a fair fight. And I was willing to fight not just for myself, but to protect both Manx and Kaci, as well. I was everything Malone hated in a woman—not to mention everything he feared—and he was determined to either break me or kill me.

But I had news for him. Alex Malone wasn't up to the challenge—either part of it. However, hopefully he was up to helping me get out of my latest prison cell. Or at least the cuffs.

“So…how old were you when you decided to pursue professional ass-wipe status?”

That time Alex's head swiveled and he favored me with an eye roll. “Insulting me isn't going to make me talk to you.”

Yet I'd just heard his voice…

“I'd think you'd
want
to talk to me. Aren't you supposed to be seducing me, or something? Greasing the wheels on the way to our dreaded nuptials?” I glanced around the room, cataloging potential weapons out of habit. There was nothing I could wield without the use of my hands. “Or has your dad changed his mind about that?”

Alex sneered. “My father never changes his mind.”

“Oh, that's right. Your dad's the sort who'll bang his head into a brick wall over and over, convinced the wall will eventually collapse. But it isn't the bricks that are going to cave in, Alex. Fortunately, you seem to have avoided that particular character flaw—you're messed up in an entirely different way.”

He rolled his eyes, but I could tell I was irritating him. “That's not going to get you out of here. And I'm not messed up.”

“Right. So, I'm curious—is it hard to walk upright with no backbone?”

Alex looked ready to breathe fire, and I wanted to laugh. He was so easy to piss off! Of course, he was only eighteen; surely his temper would even out with experience. Unless he got in my way again, and I had to kill him. “Did anyone ever tell you you're a raging bitch?”

“That
does
sound familiar.” I forced my fingers to flex, desperate to regain some feeling in them. “But my point stands. Either you're a moron who's never had an
original thought, or you're a coward, too afraid to say what you're thinking.”

Alex frowned. “What is it you think I'm thinking?”

“That you don't really want to marry me. I think that's your dad's big plan, but you're not so wild about it.” I shrugged. “I mean, I'm a bitch. This has been thoroughly established. What kind of man wants to marry a raging bitch?”

“The kind who wants to be Alpha.” Alex plodded toward the dresser and half sat on it, staring at his hands like they held some answer his brain did not.

“Yeah, well, I'm starting to think that job's not all it's cracked up to be.”

“Not the way your dad does it,” he said, and the sneer was back, along with those cold, hard eyes. “But the benefits package sounds pretty damn good.” His suggestive leer was unpracticed at best, and I couldn't resist another eye roll.

“Why is it that every conversation I have with a tomcat winds up being about sex?” I tried to scoot back on the bed and almost fell over without my hands for balance. “And seriously, if that's all you're looking to get out of this, I gotta tell you, there are easier ways to get laid. You should just tell your dad to go to hell. If there's one thing I'm absolutely sure of, it's that you don't have to live your life to please your parents. Or anyone else. It's your life.” For however long it lasts.

“So, what, are we bonding now?” Alex crossed his arms over his chest, still leaning against the dresser, and in the mirror, I could see the gun tucked into the back of his waistband.

“Hell, no.” I scowled. “You're still the bad guy and
I still want to spill your blood all over this crappy carpet.” Being young and naive didn't absolve him of past crimes. I hadn't forgotten that in addition to killing his own brother, Alex was the one who'd told Dean to cut me. “But we'd be a lot closer to neutral tolerance if you'd take these damn cuffs off. My hands are seriously messed up from lack of circulation.”

Alex hesitated, glancing at the door as if his father could see him through the hollow wood panel. “You promise not to try anything?”

I arched both brows at him. “You know I can't do that. We've kind of got a mortal-enemy thing going on here.” I shrugged and tried on a cocky grin of my own. “But I promise not to try anything right now, and if I make a break for it later, you can totally try to stop me.”

To my surprise, Alex chuckled. “I'm gonna hold you to that.” He pushed away from the dresser and crossed the room to sit on the bed behind me, digging in his pocket for the handcuff key. “FYI, I have one hand on my gun.”

I rolled my eyes on the inside, but I could play my part. I could play
him
. “That's what all the boys say.”

He laughed again, and his hand brushed one of my wrists. It might also have touched my palm, but I couldn't feel anything below the cuffs. A moment later, something metallic clicked, and my left hand was free. I tried to flex my fingers again, but they wouldn't move, and when I held my hand up, it had a definite blue tint to it.

“Your hands are freezing,” Alex said, while I waited for the next click. “Dean's an abusive bastard.”

“You're preachin' to the choir on that one,” I said,
but still there was no second click. Instead, my right hand was tugged to the side and I felt warm, damp breath against my neck and something solid against my back.

“This isn't so bad…” Alex whispered, and I froze. “You're not always a bitch. You're kind of funny when you wanna be.”

“Yeah. I'm a funny bitch.” My pulse raced and my face flushed. The bastard was hitting on me! While I was still half-cuffed!
Who's manipulating whom here?
Juvenile little prick! “Can you open the other cuff now?”

Alex leaned back slowly, tugging on my right arm again while I opened and closed my left fist in my lap. In my current state, I couldn't even throw a decent punch.

“I'm not like Dean, you know,” he whispered, and my skin crawled.

Finally the last cuff clicked open, and I started to pull my hand into my lap, but Alex stopped me with one hand around my biceps. “I'm serious.” He leaned close again, and his breath on my neck raised chill bumps all over my skin. Not the good kind. The creeped-out kind. “We're gonna be stuck together, but we could make the best of this.”

I took a couple of deep breaths, trying to control my temper and think logically. He still had a gun and he was behind me, where I wouldn't see him draw it. “No, Alex. That's not going to happen.” I was almost proud of how calm I sounded, even if my voice was bordering on a growl.

“Oh, it's gonna happen, but that doesn't have to be
a bad thing. You're hot, and I'm not exactly a dog. We could both do worse.”

What was he, drunk? Delusional, more likely. “You're a murderer.” My pitch dropped steadily until my voice was too deep to pass for a human woman's. “You're your father's lapdog, and a repugnant little bastard.” I twisted to face him then, relieved only in retrospect to see that he hadn't pulled the gun, because I was too pissed to have stopped, even if he had. “And I'll tell you something else—I'm already tired of you assholes waving guns at me, so either get your fucking hands off me or shoot me. Those are your options. And if we fight, only one of us is going to walk away so you'd better shoot to kill. How do you think your daddy's going to like that?”

Alex swallowed thickly, and an instant later his expression hardened and his eyes narrowed. “You
are
a bitch.”

“Like that's a newsflash.”

He glared at me like a spoiled child. “I should put those cuffs right back on.”

“You're welcome to try.” But he'd have to use both hands for that, and if I got a chance to go for his gun, I wouldn't hesitate to shoot him in the leg. Which was part of the difference between me and him—I wasn't afraid to finish what I started. “But if you're not going to, then get the hell off my bed.”

“You'll be singing a different song once they take your claws. What are you going to do then? Talk people to death?”

“Maybe I'll arm myself,” I snapped trying to hide the horror slowly building inside me. I could
not
lose my claws. I flexed my fingers, glad that they were growing
useful again. I would not live my life at his mercy, or anyone else's. “Guns seem to be all the rage lately for the desperate and gutless.”

Alex tried to grab my arm again, but I jerked away as the door opened behind me. I whirled to find my father standing in the doorway carrying two steaming mugs. His face was flushed from the cold. “What's going on?”