Alpha Betrayed: A Dark Shifter Romance

Juliet

For a second, as I zip past Ford, standing there with a stunned look on his face, I almost feel bad.

But then I remember how many times he knocked me into a wall as he shoved past me in the halls at school or made me the b**t of the pranks he and my cousins played in the summers and pour on the gas. He was five years older and so much bigger, but he never took it easy on me. He was my bully and tormentor for too long to make the transition to buddies in one night, even if he did help me get away from Gorey.

He may truly be the decent guy he seems to be now, a man who wants to help me reclaim what we've lost and share in the spoils, but this could also be a trick.

And I don't want to share.

Not once in my years of fantasizing about revenge, did my plans include riding back into Zion with an army and Ford as my right-hand man. I'm my father's rightful heir-I shouldn't have to share-and I've always had big dreams for my pack. I don't want a return to the way things used to be. I want to restructure the distribution of wealth within Zion, give lower status pack members more avenues for advancement, and get rid of the summer solstice fights and the winter "pup hunt," where teen boys are forced to survive for days in the wild while older men do their best to injure them too badly for them to go on.

There won't be room for brutality in my pack-at least not once I've had my father and all the people who supported his choice to sell me publicly executed.

And I can't trust that Ford will be on the same page. He fit in far too well the way things were. The "survival of the biggest and meanest" thing worked for him, and people who are thriving within the system are the last ones to want to change it. Besides, I'll be able to get this done faster on my own. Convincing Agatha Muckbunner to finance my rise to power will be hard enough solo. If I show up at her estate dragging my stepbrother, looking like a weak little waif incapable of standing on my own two feet, she'll never believe I have what it takes to make a gamble like this worthwhile. She'd tell me to head to France and slam her door in our faces.

Or back Ford, instead.

Agatha hates my father and openly advocates for more females in top pack positions across the continent, but she also likes to win, especially when risking the kind of hell that would rain down on her from my father's camp should I fail. Which is why I have to prove to her that I'm willing to do whatever it takes to succeed.

On the other side of the motel, I aim the bike at the woman with the baby stroller and gun it again. A quick glance is all it takes to confirm Ford's suspicion that the baby is fake. If the woman is a head case out for a harmless stroll with her doll, I can dodge her at the last second. But if she pulls a gun, I intend to be on top of her before she can aim and fire.

When I come around the corner of the building, she's already facing me-alerted by the rumble of the motorcycle's engine, most likely-but her dark eyes barely widen when she sees me zooming toward her. She simply releases the stroller handles and reaches beneath her left arm.

I see the barrel of her gun locking on my forehead a split second before I ram into her, sending her slim frame flying over the top of the bike.

I duck down, locking my legs tight around the body of the vehicle as my momentum and the bike's go out of sync for a moment and gravity tries to send me over the handlebars. The front wheel swerves, my heart surges into my throat, and I nearly wipe out as I take the left onto the highway outside the motel, but I manage to stay on.

A beat later, I'm leaving the motel behind as I race north.Copyright Nôv/el/Dra/ma.Org.

I'll figure out how to get west and back down to Vancouver, where Agatha lives, later. First, I need to put some distance between me and Ford.

He may be stunned now, but that won't last long. He's always thought fast on his feet, and he has all the money and supplies. I'm not sure how long it will take to find and purchase another motorcycle or car in that tiny town, but I need to take advantage of every second of my head start.

I take the next left, zipping away down a dirt road leading toward even taller mountains, betting that he won't expect me to head back the way we came on a tiny road. After half an hour, I've left any sign of the little town or the main road behind as I wind up into a pine forest, populated by birds, wildlife, and a few small cabins that look empty.

There are no cars parked in front of any of the cottages I pass as I spiral higher and no cooking smells. The sun is setting, and the air is starting to cool, which means it has to be at least seven or eight o'clock. The sun sets later in the summer. If there were people around, they should have eaten or be eating by now, but there's no fire or smoke or scent of grilled meat, the usual for those roughing it in their summer camps.

By dusk, as the pink sunset light fades to purple and light blue, I decide to stop at the next cabin I find. I can poke around, hopefully find something to eat in the pantry, and use the bathroom before I push onward.

I didn't go before I made a run for it and my bladder is quickly approaching critical mass.

Slowing to search for signs of a driveway the dwindling light, I spot a turnoff just be fore the next bend. The dirt road dips down sharply and the cottage at the bottom isn't visible until you make the turn.

It's perfect and seemingly as abandoned as every other place I've passed.

I pull the bike around to the back door and cut the engine. Setting my helmet on the seat for easy access in case I need to bolt quickly, I tuck my gun into the pocket of Ford's hoodie and hurry to the edge of the woods. I pee with my hand in my pocket, ready to address any threats coming down the lane. But the night is quiet, broken only by the sound of frogs beginning to sing somewhere in the forest behind me.

Shaking myself dry, I pull up my tattered panties-add that to the list of things I need to beg, borrow, or steal-and pad over to the closest window.

Peeking inside, I see a darkened living room, populated by ghost furniture covered in white sheets. The sight is both a relief and a stomach clencher. Clearly, no one's been here for quite some time-good for not getting caught; bad for finding food and supplies. But I'm here now so I might as well do a little poking around.

Using the piece of the ink pen that I used to hot-wire the motorcycle, I try to pop the back door, but the lock is more sophisticated than it looks. When I try the windows, however, the second slides open easily beneath my hands. I climb into the living room, pressing a finger to my nose as dust assaults my nostrils, but after a second the urge to sneeze passes.

"Hello?" I call out. "Is anyone home? I got lost and was hoping to get directions." I fall silent, my ears straining, before I call out one last time, "Hello?"

But no one answers and the air doesn't stir.

I'm alone and free to explore.

Leaving the window open, I make my way past the covered couch and chairs into the kitchen.

The sink is full of dead insects and the first three cupboards I open are empty, but in the corner, I strike gold. The bottom shelf is full of canned goods and half-empty bags of rice. Checking the dates on the cans of soup, chili, and tinned spinach, I find several that are still good. Locating a can opener in a drawer, along with a box of old plastic utensils, I open a chili and eat it cold straight from the can as I explore the rest of the small cabin.

There's a bathroom off the kitchen, as well as a bedroom with a sheet-covered bed and a lofted area above it where I think I see the edge of another mattress. The closet in the bedroom is empty, but in the bathroom, I find a plastic bag filled with flossers and an ancient bar of soap, still in the box. Dumping the contents into the area under the sink, I return to the kitchen and load the rest of the edible canned goods into the bag. I add the can opener and a few plastic spoons and go looking for other supplies. I find a lighter in another kitchen drawer and a deck of cards, but no knives or anything else I can use as a weapon, no cash, and no clothes.

I'm sick to death of this dress but I guess it will have to do for a little longer. I find a hair tie in one of the mostly empty bathroom drawers, however, and use it to pull my hair into a low ponytail, the better to keep it out of my way as I'm driving.

I'm about to climb back out the window with my spoils when I hear a soft beeping sound. Drawing my gun from my hoodie pocket, I scan the small back parking area and the forest beyond. But the beeping isn't coming from an alarm system or someone else's weapon. It's coming from the bike.

I curse beneath my breath, abandoning my bag of food to scramble out and over to the motorcycle. I crouch down, ears straining to pinpoint the exact source of the sound. I find it near the back wheel, a small black circular device that seems to have been glued on to the Triumph, where it's hard to see unless you're crouched down low. There are three red lights in the center of the sphere and, as I watch, the second light begins to flash red, too, and the pitch of the beeping slides up half an octave.

But it's still not loud. It's barely audible in the absolute silence of the forest, in fact, and would have been completely undetectable if the engine were running.

I wouldn't have known I was being tracked until it was too late.

But why would a tracking device have an audio alert system and three countdown lights on it?

My stomach drops and the blood drains from my face.

A tracking device wouldn't have those things, but an explosive sure as hell would.

Pulse ramping into overdrive, I reach for the disc, trying to pry it from the metal with my fingers, but it's stuck tight. Clearly, whoever put it on there wasn't too worried about getting it off again.

I debate heading inside to look for something I might be able to use to loosen the seal-a tool I missed the first time or a chemical agent that might damage the glue-but I don't know how long I have left before that third light pops on or what will happen when it does. Whether it's one of Ford's would-be assassins on top of me or an explosion, I don't want to be anywhere close by when it does.

Deciding against taking time to dash to the window and grab my bag of food, I dash toward the increasingly dark forest.

I only make it a handful of steps when the rumble of an engine makes me glance over my shoulder to see an ancient light blue Oldsmobile pulling down the drive. The driver's side window is down and a gun hovers above the rearview mirror. "Stay right the f**k there," a familiar voice calls out. "Or I will shoot you. Don't f*****g try me, Juliet."

It's Ford. He's found me.