Page 1 of Delta (Alpha #12)

M y stomach does excited, nervous little flips as the enclosed cable car lift ascends to the peak of the Matterhorn.

On my left, my younger brother Killian is obsessively—nervously—fidgeting with a zipper on his jacket.

On my right, Cal—Uncle Val and Aunt Kyrie's son and my BFF/sister/cousin Rin's younger brother—seems perfectly at ease, absently tapping his snowboard against his unclipped boot.

In the car behind ours is another group of guards who will spread out around us, skiing down ahead of us, fanning out behind us, and making the run down at our flanks.

These, we won't see for the most part. They're geared to blend in, and we don't know what they look like, on purpose, so we can't give them away.

Yes, we have personal bodyguards as well as undercover, plainclothes bodyguards we'll never see, unless shit hits the fan.

I fucking hate it.

Guards, guards, everywhere I go. Head to the ladies’ room?

A guard waits outside. Head to town for dinner and drinks?

Guards in the lobby, guards outside, guards in the kitchen, guards at the back doors.

Meet a guy at the club and go to a hotel to hook up?

Yep, I'm followed to the hotel, my guards waiting a discreet distance down the hallway, watching the elevators, stairwells, and emergency exits.

And windows, for snipers.

I'm pretty sure there are snipers watching us from somewhere, too. Or a satellite. I don't know that for sure, but I suspect it.

You know how those hairs on the back of your neck stand up when you're being watched? I have that feeling all the time . It's as fucking awesome as you'd expect.

"Brynnie." Killian elbows me. "Are you sure about this? This isn't Vail. It's the fucking Matterhorn."

"I'm sure about it, Killy," I say, trying to sound nonchalant when I’m as nervous as he is. "If you're scared, don't go down. Ride the car back around and go chase ski bunnies in the lodge or something. I don't give a shit what you do."

Killian sighs in irritation. “God, you’ve been such a bitch since—” he cuts off with a wide-eyed glance at me, recognizing the danger he was about to put himself in. "It's a big damned mountain and I haven't been skiing in a couple years."

Cal reaches across me to whack Killian's knee with the back of his mittened hand. "You'll be fine, Killy. Stick with me."

Killian just lets out another sharp, short sigh, nodding. "I've got this." He's muttering to himself, but loudly enough that I can still make out his words. "I'm a badass. I can do this."

I suppress a snicker of laughter—if you have to tell yourself you're a badass, then you're not a badass. I don't mock him out loud though—he’s right, I have been a bit of a bitch lately.

Or, if I'm being brutally honest with myself, a colossal, mega, ultra bitch. Super bitch. Bitch extraordinaire. Bitch-tastic. And it's not his fault, the poor guy. But he's my younger brother, so he tends to get the brunt of it more often than he deserves.

I mean, I've got my reasons, sure, but that's no excuse for how I've treated him.

I lean against him. "You'll be fine, Killy. You're a great skier. It's like riding a bike, I promise. Just go slow at first and stay to the sides until you get your legs under you again."

"Pizza, French fries, huh?" he says, laughing. "They don't have bunny hills in the Alps, I guess."

"Somehow I doubt it," I answer.

The skycar slows to a stop and lets us off.

Cal is first off, pushing away from the loading zone with one foot still loose, getting out of the way so Killy and I can get clear.

I join him and click into my skis, shove my hands into the oversized mittens, and grip my poles while Killian follows, doing the same.

We make our way to the mouth of the run, adjusting goggles, tugging hats and hoods in place, wiggling our hands in our gloves and mittens.

Cal pulls his balaclava up around his mouth. "See you losers at the bottom!"

He stomps his boot into the clip, hops to put his left foot forward, and carves down the slope.

"So much for sticking with me,” Killian mutters. "Fuck-tard."

I nudge him, pulling my scarf up around my mouth and nose. "Go. I'll follow."

Roger and Albie, Cal's guards, are scrambling to catch up to their ward. Gleason and Zidane, my stalkers—I mean, guards—are close by, ready to go, as are Cutter and Kazinsky, my brother's.

Killian rolls his shoulders, lets out a breath. "Fuck this. Let's go, bitches!"

He launches himself down the slope with a jump and a push of his poles— way too fast.

"Goddammit! Killy! Slow the hell down!" I shout.

I glance at Cutter and Kazinsky. "Well?” I gesture after Killian. “Go get him! He breaks a leg, it's on you two."

They both respond with muffled "Yes ma'am's" and bolt down the mountain after my brother, who, despite his nerves, is blasting almost straight down, only kicking out to arrest his momentum here and there.

"Fuck," I mutter. "The little shit is gonna get himself paralyzed."

I totally ignore my guys and take off down the mountain after the boys at a more responsible pace, making long, lazy esses back and forth across the width of the run.

I breathe easier on the way down—with my guards behind me, this is as free as I'll get. I blast past a slower-moving couple, kick my heels out to carve right around a long curve, and then settle back on my heels, poles tucked, as I swish a short, shallow series of slaloms.

Faster.

Faster.

Put all the boiling emotions down in their box and just enjoy the ride—-it's a perfect day, cold and clear, sunny and crisp. For a few minutes, I can pretend everything is normal.

There are no guards watching my every move with hawkish intensity.

The parents don't freak out if I miss a check-in by five fucking minutes, even though I’m a legit grown-ass adult.

And most of all, in this brief, pleasant fantasy, Zero is still alive, waiting for me at the bottom wearing that stupid hat he loved so much—the one that made him look like a six-foot-five, lanky, black-haired version of Pippi Longstocking.

Alas, the run to the bottom is over all too soon. I cut hard at the last second and skid to a stop by the boys, spraying them both with a fine cloud of snow.

Killian, who had just removed his helmet, brushes his hair out. "Nice, Brynnie, thanks."

"You're welcome," I tell him, grinning. "You made it down in one piece."

He grins. "Sure did. Forgot how fuckin' fun skiing is. You guys ready to head back up?"

Cal steps on the release of his board to free his feet, scoops it up under his arm. "Been ready. Let's fuckin' go, slowpokes!"

That's Cal for you—first on the skycar and first off; first down the hill, first to the big waves back home.

He's a daredevil, an adrenaline junkie. He loves anything that's reckless, fast, dangerous, or otherwise borderline psychotic.

Uncle Val and Auntie Key hate it, but he's always careful and hasn't had any major accidents, and he's been putting in a lot of hours with Uncle Val, taking Rinny's place as his right-hand man, now that Rinny and Apollo are busy running Valkyrie.

On the ride up the mountain, I find myself missing my best friend. In the past, this trip would have been a foursome—the big sisters and the younger brothers…the way it's always been from the day we were born.

But now she's married and pregnant, and busier than ever, especially since Valkyrie went into business with Hunter Hawkins.

And god, I'm jealous of Rinny for getting to meet that man.

Talk about fine —the man is sex on a stick.

I swear to Holy Moses I'd sell an ovary for five fucking minutes alone with him.

Alas, he's happily encumbered with some lucky-as-fuck Alaskan bitch.

And please understand that I'm only calling her a bitch because I'm green with jealousy. I bet he fucks like a god.

I let out a sigh. I miss Zero so damn bad, some days. Most days. Every day. All day.

All night.

I miss his messy black hair. I miss his green eyes and the way they sparkled greedily when he slid down to bury his face between my thighs.

I miss the way he kissed me—all tongue and teeth, as if he was trying to actually eat me.

I miss the way he'd roll over the moment he was conscious and nuzzle me and try to kiss me with his nasty-ass morning breath.

I miss his laugh.

I miss his cock.

I miss the music of him.

Okay, that's enough. I allow myself five to ten minutes a day to wallow in missing him, and then I force all that sorrow and anger into a cage, lock it, and put the cage back down in the depths of myself.

Does it work? Not really. Does it help a little? Sort of.

Mostly, I'm just a mess.

My phone buzzes, which is deeply annoying, since it means I have to take off my glove, unzip my jacket, dig down into the cavernous interior pocket where I keep it, and haul it out.

It's a text from Teddy, Zero's mom: a photo of Zero and me from this day a year ago, when we were touring the Pacific Northwest of the US with his band; the photo is a selfie taken by Zero.

We're side-stage in Portland, and he has his mandolin in his hand held across my front with his arm around my shoulders. We’re grinning ear to ear, and so, so happy. So in love.

TEDDY : Miss you, darling. Don't be a stranger.

I heart the photograph, but hesitate on what to say back.

I love Teddy to bits. I was over the moon excited to have her as a mother-in-law.

She taught me how to make lasagna. We spent several memorable evenings together getting wine-drunk and telling embarrassing stories about Zero.

We're bound together by the grief of his loss, so suddenly and so senselessly—a car accident.

No one's fault. Just a wet road, a patch of black ice, and a head-on collision with a cement truck. He was dead instantly.

That was nine months ago.

I’m having a grief baby, I guess.