Page 17 of Alpha's Revenge Luna

The bond is already forming, pulsing through my veins like a drug despite the Belladonna, making me wonder if it’s too late.

Each second I spend with Dion fuels it more, until it seems as though we are two sides of the same coin.

His very presence makes me feel alive, but at what cost?

The thought of leaving him, once a shot at freedom, now fills me with an ache that burns deep into my bones.

However, I know being with him will eventually become my end.

As I step out of the shower and wrap myself in a towel, tears stream down my face as I remember all that had transpired over the past forty-eight hours. It felt like a lifetime ago since I saw my little brother last.

I know how unlikely it is for anyone else to find me here besides one person–Grandma. And she is far from capable of getting me out of this place, so that leaves one option: I need to find my own escape.

I revel in the sense of peace a few moments of solitude provide. I towel myself off, and when I glance over at the bed, I notice Dion has gone.

In his place lay a neatly folded outfit, a sun dress of light blue cotton accompanied by a pair of white sandals. I had never seen the outfit before, but it looked as if Dion had carefully selected it for me.

I spot the note he left on the bedside table, and pick it up, the instruction is simple, “Get dressed and wait for me.” It’s impersonal, commanding.

I glance at the dress, is that why he wants me to wear this?

Dropping the note back on the bedside dresser, I glance around, ensuring I am truly alone before reaching for my jewelry box, knowing my only chance of getting out of here hinges on him not marking me.

I quickly open the hidden compartment and pop the pill in my mouth.

Racing to the bathroom, I swallow some water down and quickly get changed into the new dress.

I pull a face at the dress; I would rather wear pants than this flimsy fabric.

As I am pulling the dress over my head, the world seems to tilt as I take it, the bitter aftertaste of the pill filling my mouth and threatening to come back up.

Doing up the top buttons of my dress, I sit heavily on the bed, trying to catch my breath and ride the wave of vertigo that has crashed over me.

When Dion comes for me later, he wakes me from my nap.

There’s an air of dominance around him that makes my skin crawl.

I try my best to appear calm on the outside but inside my mind is racing; fear mixed with excitement churning up tortured emotions that threaten to burst out from within.

Fear of him but excitement to be leaving the boring room in which I am trapped.

He escorts me to the dining hall for lunch, where, to my dismay, he forces me to sit on his lap again.

I try to hide my discomfort, but the effects of the Belladonna are making my stomach churn.

Waves of dizziness wash over me as I force myself to eat and chew what he presses to my lips.

By the time lunch is over, I am feeling a little better, making me realize I need to try to ensure I eat before taking them.

Once lunch is over, Dion leads me to his office across the other side of the packhouse.

The office is spacious, floor to ceiling windows lining one side. They overlook a vast expanse of the forest that surrounds this town. Seeing it, however, makes me a little nervous because I know when I get out of here, I will need to find my way through it.

Dion, I notice, doesn’t leave his office for hours, nor does he talk. The chair I sit in is soft and plush, but firm.

The slick velvet upholstery and wooden armrests are polished and smooth.

However, sitting here this long is making me bored and causing my butt to fall asleep.

The only sound is the scratch of a pen on paper and the typing of his keyboard.

Not to mention the never-ending phone conversations I am forced to listen to while barely understanding a thing he is saying.

Sitting back in my chair, I chew my lip watching him. “Can I call my grandmother?” I ask him. He stops what he’s doing and looks up over the document he’s holding.

“What for?” he asks, and I purse my lips.

“To check on her and my brother,” I deadpan. He growls, and the door suddenly opens before he can answer. Tara enters.

“Border patrol meeting, Alpha,” she tells him, and he sighs heavily, his eyes darting toward me.

He nods for me to get up, and I roll my eyes. “Come, I’ll take you back to your room,” he tells me, and I sigh heavily when Tara speaks up.

“Or she could help me in the kitchens?” she asks hopefully. I look at Dion, who simply shakes his head. Tara, though, does not give up.

She pleads with Dion, her eyes darting between us as she tries to convince him. “Emery’s been good today. Let her help in the kitchen. How is she supposed to earn your trust if you never let her?” I detect a note of pleading in Tara’s voice that stirs my curiosity.

Dion gazes at me, his dark eyes scanning my form.

A moment of silence stretches between us, heavy and awkward.

Finally, he grunts an approval and turns his gaze away, heading for the door, only to pause.

He turns back to me, eyes narrowing slightly, his fangs poking out from under his upper lip.

“Behave, I mean it. I find out you tried anything, and you’ll be punished. ”

I quickly nod stepping further into the kitchen.

There are ovens on one side and a long counter runs down the middle. A dozen or more people work here, all dressed in white and black. As we step in, the sound of clanging pots, sizzling pans, and rushed conversations hits my ears. They chop, stir, bake, and season.

It’s overwhelming, even overstimulating, but Tara guides me through the labyrinth of counters and stoves.

She pulls me over to a wooden table littered with sharp tools and utensils, knives and spoons, and spatulas.

She grabs me a knife and pulls me to a workstation.

Everything here is in order; people are moving about everywhere, and no one manages to get in each other’s way, like a well practised dance.

While helping Tara prepare dinner, people walk past and glance up at Dion and his Beta Kyrio. My eyes catch sight of the medical room across the hallway, and I point to it.

“That’s our infirmary,” Tara informs me, following my gaze. “Want to take a look?”

I nod, curiosity piqued.

The infirmary is small, the air sterile and laced with the faint scent of antiseptics. Rows of bottles filled with different types of pills line a glass cabinet, the labels neatly handwritten. “Doc makes them,” Tara explains, “He supplies a few of the other packs, too.” She shrugs.

I take note of the unlocked cabinets, a plan formulating in my mind when I notice one row says sleeping pills .

Tara leads me out and back to the kitchen, and I am told to cut up onions.

I peer around to see Tara talking to the main chef.

Suddenly, a brilliant thought occurs to me.

I flick my thumb off the blade, checking how sharp it is before I take a deep breath and slice my hand on purpose.

Hearing me hiss, Tara glances over at me while all I can think is I should have used a different knife, one not covered in onion juices.

Tara panics, “Why aren’t you healing?” she snaps at me, pressing a tea towel to it.

Her eyes meet mine and she remembers. “Right, crap forgot. No wolf. Quick,” she gushes, rushing me back to the infirmary.

She opens drawers and cabinets, grabbing materials she needs.

As soon as her back is turned, I snatch the sleeping pills when she’s not looking, stuffing the small bottle inside my bra. She carefully wraps my hand.

Back in the kitchen, I am placed on kids’ duty of manning the pantry and passing out everything requested.

Tara no longer trusts I know how to handle a knife.

But I prefer this while I go over my plan in my head: knock him out then sneak out while everyone sleeps.

Maybe by late tomorrow afternoon I can be back at Grandma’s and we can make a run for it.

“Six more potatoes,” Tara calls out and I nod, passing them to her. She hands me a cloth, “Chef said to wipe the benches down in there.”

I nod, accepting the task. Little does she know it gives me a perfect opportunity to use a can of soup to crush the pills in the pantry. Glancing around, I sweep it into my palm. This would be so much easier if I had a funnel or piece of paper. Just then, I spot Dion’s whiskey bottle.

The cook sent me to grab it earlier. It’s laced with blood so he’s the only one who drinks it.

I set the fun task of making sure it is shaken well to mash up any congealed pieces, the thought nearly making me gag.

I snatch the bottle as the chef starts barking orders for meals to be taken out. He stares at me.

“Grab the napkins and bring the last tray out along with his whiskey.”

I smile and nod. Honestly, I’m proud of myself.

I disguise it in Dion’s favorite bottle of whiskey and go on to serve dinner like nothing happened.

When Dion lifts his glass, a smudge of the powder clinging to the rim catches his attention and my eyes widen in horror.

I was in such a rush I hadn’t had a chance to wash my hands.

“Must be residue from the dishwasher,” I say quickly, praying he won’t suspect.

He brings the glass to his lips, and I watch in anticipation when he stops and sets the glass down.