Page 56 of Claimed By the Psychos

JUNIPER

Felix is reading some military thriller he found on the shelf, sprawled across the bed in a way that makes him look almost relaxed. Almost. I know better. His muscles are coiled tight under that casual facade, ready to spring at the first sign of danger. But right now, in this moment, he's just Felix. Reading. Existing.

And fuck me if I don't love the way he smells now.

Not the sharp chemical tang of artificial alpha pheromones that used to make my nose itch if I got too close. Not even the omega scent that would probably drive these alphas insane if he wasn't still on suppressants. Just... him. Winter mornings and diamonds and something indefinable that makes my chest do stupid things every time I breathe him in.

I'm curled in the chair by the window, watching him over the edge of my own book. The heroine keeps fainting at convenient moments, which seems like a design flaw if you're trying to survive in a world full of rakish dukes and dragons.

"You're staring," Felix says without looking up from his page.

"You're pretty," I shoot back, and he snorts.

"I look like someone fed me through a meat grinder."

"A very attractive meat grinder."

He finally glances up, silver eyes catching the afternoon light filtering through the window. There's amusement there, buried under layers of exhaustion and pain he won't admit to feeling. "Your standards are concerning."

"My standards are exactly where they should be." I close my book with a snap, not even pretending to read anymore. "Which is why I picked you."

"You didn't pick me," he reminds me, voice going soft in that way that means he's thinking about the past. About the Serpents' Den and his brother and all the things we don't talk about in daylight. "We picked each other."

The shadows in the corner murmur their agreement, shapes shifting like smoke given form. They've been quieter lately, less insistent with their warnings. Like maybe they approve of this place, these alphas who should be our enemies but keep acting like... I don't even know what. Not quite friends. Not quite captors anymore.

My stomach is actually full. Felix made me eat real food, not just coffee and whatever sugar packets I could scavenge, but actual protein and vegetables and all that nutritious shit that supposedly keeps bodies functioning. I'd rolled my eyes and called him a mother hen, but I ate it anyway because he gets this look when I don't take care of myself. Like I'm hurting him by hurting me.

It's manipulative as fuck and it works every time.

A knock at the door interrupts my thoughts. Soft, almost hesitant. Like whoever's on the other side is asking permission instead of demanding entry. Which is weird, considering they own this place and could walk in whenever they damn well please.

"Come in," Felix calls, not bothering to sit up properly.

The door opens and Archer steps through, all six-foot-whatever of him trying to look non-threatening. It's like watching a wolf attempt to convince sheep he's vegetarian. Technically possible, but nobody's buying it.

"Sorry to interrupt," he says, and the fucker actually sounds like he means it. Those warm brown eyes flick between us, assessing, probably noting that we're both relatively calm and nobody's bleeding. Progress. "We were hoping we could discuss something with you both."

Felix finally sits up, setting his book aside with deliberate care. "Discuss?"

"The team would like to talk. About... the situation." Archer shifts his weight, and I realize he's nervous. This massive alpha who could snap both our necks without breaking a sweat is actually nervous about asking us to a meeting.

The shadows perk up, interested now. Whispering.

"Shut up," I mutter at them, then realize Archer's looking at me with concern. "Not you. The... never mind."

Felix and I exchange a look, one of those wordless conversations we've perfected over the years.

His eyebrow raises a fraction:Your call.

I shrug:Might as well see what they want.

He nods:But we bail if it gets weird.

"Fine," Felix says, swinging his legs off the bed with only a slight wince. He's healing faster than he should be, probably because Doctor Actually-Is-A-Doctor keeps pumping him full of the good drugs instead of whatever back-alley cocktails we usually make do with. "Lead the way."

Archer looks relieved, like he expected us to tell him to fuck off. Which, to be fair, was definitely on the table as an option.

We follow him through hallways I've started memorizing despite myself. Third door on the left leads to a supply closet with cleaning chemicals that could be weaponized if necessary.Fifth door is usually locked but the hinges are on the outside. Total rookie mistake. The kitchen is exactly seven steps from our room, twenty-three from the main exit that's always guarded.