Page 32 of All Saints Day (Lucifer and the Saints #2)
Louise
T he first attempt at getting Frank to break and spill his guts was a failure, as expected.
Now all that stands in the way of the second half of our bat shit crazy plan is for Dennis and I to solidify our bond and to prepare with the others for Quentin and I to be triggered into a heat cycle once we’ve catalyzed Frank’s rut with the suppressant melters—using the extreme pressure of the rut denial to force him to divulge his darkest secrets, or to succumb to rut sickness.
We don’t have the setup for it here at the dual yurts, so we’ll be packing and getting underway to a more appropriate location arranged by Quentin before the sun rises, even though all of us are bone tired.
Even though Quentin and I had both put on brave faces, the interrogation had taken a lot out of both of us.
I knew that the physical proximity to Frank was going to be difficult—my mind and body at war with one another, fight, flight, freeze, fuck—none of me quite knows what to do.
The parts of me that function on pure sigma biology cry out for my fated mate—for Frank’s alpha nature.
Pheromones, skin, lips, teeth—my body craves it, even if my heart races and my adrenaline skyrockets as fear and loathing surge in me.
How could he betray me like he did? How could he betray us?
To say nothing of the three months we shared at the Country Estate—hours upon hours of grueling torture without quarter, without mercy.
Then I think of what Frank said about me being unbreakable. I think about Quentin’s reasoning for why Frank didn’t use the suppressant melter on me earlier—our justification for using them on Frank now.
A cold washes over me as I remember Frank’s entreaty to bite me—water from the horrible dunk tank still being coughed out of my lungs.
It had seemed insane then—even by a madman’s standards—but now I consider what Dennis and I are about to do; to allow unfettered access to one another mind, body, and soul, via the fated mating bond.
Anything and everything in Frank’s broken mind would be open to us…or would it? Could we see into the parts of the man that he could not see into himself?
I am pulled from my thoughts by Caz offering me a few squares of dark chocolate and an open thermos of steaming black coffee.
“I know you probably don’t have any appetite right now, but why don’t you try to get these down before we get on the road,” he croons sweetly, leaning down to kiss my forehead as he passes me the treats.
“You can sit up front with me; it’s only about four hours between here and the compound at Bear Claw Pass.
” Both of us turn to look at the curved wall that separates us from the still night outside—as if our eyes were X-ray specs that could see Frank, still held captive through another flimsy set of circular walls.
Dennis, who had been the last to clear out of the earlier interrogation, stepped between Caz, myself—and our invisible quarry.
“I know it’s impossible not to worry—but trust that Seb and I will do a good job keeping our… volatile cargo under wraps for the duration,” Dennis assures me as Seb makes a conspicuous fl ex of his bicep.
I nod, not wanting to press the matter further—but he’s right to reassure my paranoia.
“It’s no palace, but the hidey-hole we’re heading to is a right sight nicer than these yurts,” Quentin assures me, sliding in beside me at the edge of the bed while Caz and Seb return to packing our things to get on the road.
“Hot running water indoors, laundry, a proper nesting area,” Q continues to explain in a cool, even tone—as much to assuage his own apprehension over what we’re about to do.
“If it’s good enough for you—it’s good enough for me,” I purr, reaching my hand up his arm to stroke the scar of my bonding bite on Q’s bicep where it peeks out of the sleeve of his t-shirt.
The ride wasn’t that long, but the silence of the car—save for the entirety of Billy Joel’s discography—my choice of comfort music; while Frank lay flat across the back seat of yet another anonymous panel van we repossessed for our sojourn to the compound at Bear Claw Pass had threatened to crush me like a bug if we had spent any longer on the road.
Quentin made his way into the small tourist town in a combination hairpiece and false mustache to pick up some food and firewood for our short stay while Caz and I settled into the shockingly large log cabin in the woods.
One of Q’s CI pals had outfitted this cushy little getaway with a subterranean fallout shelter to retreat to in case things got really bad.
While the main cabin itself was clean and well furnished, the bunker basement was a cold, lead-lined cement box that felt more like a prepper mausoleum with rickety bunk beds and metal shelving units stacked with MREs and white plastic buckets of other dehydrated food, and medical supplies.
As soon as we’d taken stock of the place, Dennis and Seb had hefted the still unconscious Frank into the bunker and locked him inside.
It wasn’t long before Quentin made his return, handing each of us an icy cold cheap beer almost as soon as he’d placed the last brown paper bag of groceries on the sparse kitchen countertops.
Cracking the pull tab on my beer, I flopped down onto the middle of a well worn four seater sofa—Quentin flopping into a seat beside me as Seb began ferreting through the bags of groceries, Caz hot on his heels in search of snacks.
I lean my head against Q’s shoulder and close my eyes. I can feel the cushions sink beside me as Dennis takes a seat on my other side—his clean, herbal scent washing over me like the breaking of a wave.
“There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you—with regard to the bonding.” I open my eyes to see Dennis actually blushing.
“Oh?” I reach out a hand and drape it over Dennis’ knee—drawing his eyes to mine.
“Well.” He squirms slightly, his eyes darting quickly away. “I know it’s been a really long time since you and I—” He trails off, swallowing before trying to speak again. “A-and I know that you—well we—the bonding at the chalet…” Again, Dennis’ words sputter into silence.
“Dennis,” I can’t help but giggle, giving his knee an encouraging squeeze. “Just spit it out—you don’t have to be embarrassed. We’re fated mates after all—soon we won’t be able to hide anything from one another, even if we want to,” I snort playfully.
This seems to comfort him—because he puffs out his chest and lifts his chin; the proud boy scout that I first met at the bureau. The steadfast soldier I’ve grown to know—to love.
“I know we’re all going to have to do some mental gymnastics and chemical choreography to get properly into the mood in the first place, but I was wondering if I could make a humble request regarding our bonding?”
I want to tell him anything —for you, I’ll do anything—but in my healing state, I’m not sure that I could make good on such an offer. So instead, I say:
“All I want is to do this right.” It’s the truth.
Dennis nods sagely, lifting my hand from its place on his knee—clasping it between his hands as if it were a precious jewel.
“I…want to watch you with the other Saints for a bit, if that’s okay?” He flushes bright, hot pink—waiting for my reaction before he continues.
I bob a few tentative nods before Dennis continues to stammer:
“I kind of figured out some of our rhythms when I bonded with the Saints.” He nods to Seb, Caz, and Quentin.
“And while I got a little glimpse of how things had been between the four of you at the cabin and on the yacht, and all of us could all feel you on the other side of the connection—there’s still a gap in the space of how you and I used to be and how things will be now and I just—” he finally stops chattering and just fades off into silence, his hand squeezing mine as his beautiful sea-glass eyes search my face.
“We can go as slow as we need to,” I say calmly, to assure myself just as much as Dennis.
“I feel like I have to re-learn how to engage with this part of myself, if we’re being honest,” I laugh nervously, pulling my hands away from Dennis to rub over my chest—which aches from all the building anxiety.
“If you want to watch me with the others for a while before you enter the fray,” I scoff a laugh—my skin tingling warmly at the very idea of being with all of them again. “Then that’s just fine with me,” I purr, doing my best to soothe myself along with my fated mates.
All the boys circle in around me—binding me into a tight hug before we all set into the motion of preparation for the bonding.
While I am a sigma and don’t require any sort of nesting conditions to help me to get and stay in the zone, Quentin—the Saint’s resident omega, is going to need one for the pending heat, and took it upon himself to gather the softest and fluffiest blankets and pillows from around the cabin to adorn the massive double king bed.
Caz seems to have successfully found every piece of mood lighting in the house—be it a candle or a softly diffused LED lamp—to help make the nesting area as inviting and sensual as possible.
Seb raided the bathroom for lotions and oils before rolling a bunch of sticky indica from Caz’s backpack into the vestiges of a sweet cognac cigar wrapper, a big jug of sweet red table wine balanced on his hip as he lays out his tools on one of the nightstand.
I crawl into the center of the nest in a clean pair of panties and a camisole, allowing Seb to pass me a quilted crystal jam jar full of wine as I take a seat cross-legged in the sheets and blankets.
Caz—shirtless—wriggles in beside me, taking the blunt and the ashtray from Seb, letting them balance on his knee as he downs his handful of pills with a table wine chaser.
Quentin, in a pair of raw silk boxers and a cropped cotton shirt, slithers in beside me and offers Caz a lighter for the blunt.