In doubt, p.4
In Doubt, page 4
For the second time this morning I open my mouth and no words come out. “He ... he…”
“Yes?”
What exactly has he done? Scowled at me a lot? Directed snippy comments my way? Muttered under his breath whenever I answer a question in class? Threatened to snatch that prestigious place on the professor’s team from my grasp?
None of those do sound earth-ending when you put it like that.
Then I remember the words Carl had overheard, remember those gossip columns in the paper, remember who exactly he reminds me of.
I bite my tongue and turn towards the window.
I wish I could believe her but experience has taught me otherwise. Experience has taught me to be on the lookout for alphas who will take advantage of an omega like me.
The landscape here is lush from the Nile’s waters, but at the lightening horizon I can see the shifting dunes of the desert. The temple sits between the two. At the edge of fertile land, where the desert begins. No good for farming and hence undisturbed until recently.
We weave through the dense green shelter of the palm trees and grasses and drive out into the sunshine. Already bright enough to make us squint despite the ungodly hour. As we turn a bend, driving between an outcrop of golden rocks, we see the site in the distance. The bus fills with excited chatter. It’s so much bigger than I had pictured in my mind. The size of a cathedral easily and covered in makeshift tents, diggers and other machinery waiting silently to one side.
“This is it, folks,” Professor Weaver says, standing in the aisle and grinning like everyone else on the coach. Her whole body seems to buzz with energy, and it’s clear she is as excited as the rest of us.
I can hardly sit still, the metres between us and the site taking an age to close. All my worries about my unsuitable partner vanish as I stare open-mouthed at the tip of the temple peeking out above the sand. Sia squeals beside me, squeezing my hand, and for a second I can hardly breathe.
It’s not until we’re climbing out of the air con coach and the heat of the desert slaps me straight in the face that I remember.
My suppressant. The medication I take to control my heats.
In my rush this morning, I forgot to take it.
4
Jake
It’s magical out here. Only the top of the temple has been exposed so far, the rest buried beneath the earth. Regardless, it is still a sight to behold. Men work painstakingly to remove the desert’s sand that over the decades have shifted to cover and, hopefully, preserve this temple. It’s believed to be an offering to Rah, God of the sun, the first, the Egyptians believed, of the alphas.
I can picture the alphas of Ancient Egypt travelling here to leave offerings to a god who gave them their power, their strength, their knots, their omegas.
The ascending sun warms my skin and I tip back my head to breathe the dry air of the desert, unchanged, I’m certain, in all this time.
A sweetness melts across my tongue and I snap open my eyes in frustration. That scent again; doomed to torture me for the next ten days. There isn’t much I can do about it today beyond my emergency suppressant. Tonight I’ll discuss with the others what additional measures I can take to try to reduce the impact of her goddamn stench.
My gaze flicks to her now as the group listens to one of the head archeologists explain what has been discovered so far and how the site is operating. She stands right at the front, her eager face tilted upwards, soaking in every detail in obvious delight. Her body hums with enthusiasm and she rocks back and forth on her toes like she always does when she’s excited.
I rub my hand along my jaw, wondering how the hell I know that.
Because you spend far too much of your time watching her, you creep.
When the man finishes his lecture and Giorgie leads a round of appreciative applause, then Professor Weaver motions for us to collect our equipment from the nearby tent and get to work.
I shove my hands into my pockets and reluctantly follow the crowd. Not that I’m uneager to start – I can’t wait to plunge my hands into the dirt, to feel the sand shift through my fingers, to unearth whatever lies hidden beneath. This is what I’ve always dreamed of. Maybe I spent too much time as a kid watching movies like Indiana Jones and The Mummy. But I’d fallen in love with the adventure and mystery of archeology. Now after years of hard work, I’m finally here. Ready to begin my own. I want nothing more than to start – I’m just not keen to spend any more time in the vicinity of that scent than I have to.
Standing in the warmth of the sunlight, I continue to watch the men work, noting the way one man brushes away grains of sand from the structure as if he were caring for a newborn.
“Are you going to grab your stuff?”
I jolt and immediately that scent floods my nostrils.
How does that omega manage to sneak up on me as often as she does?
I shake my head, surprised to find she is actually smiling at me in giddy delight. For a fraction of a second it knocks me for six and I stare at her. Then I remember it’s all an act. Her continued, fake chirpiness is bloody grating.
“Uh, yeah.” I duck inside the tent, give my name and am handed a bag with a trowel, several brushes, a map and a clipboard as well as a reminder of the instructions. Then I stroll back out to meet her. It’s clear she is forcing herself to wait, eager to sprint away and get started.
“I think it’s this way,” she points and I follow her through the maze of trenches where several of our course mates are already busy examining their plots. She waves to her friends as we pass.
“Good luck,” the one with long black hair calls. And we follow a path further around to the west and into the shadow of the exposed parts of the temple.
We’re to one side, a little separated from the other trench sites, but at least it will be cooler here. I don’t want the omega overheating.
My foot hangs in mid air as I halt.
Why the hell am I worrying about this woman’s welfare? A woman who deliberately drives me around the bend.
“OK?” she asks, noticing I’ve stopped and stopping too.
I nod and bend down to pretend to tie my shoe lace.
She’s grinning at me when I stand up straight.
“What?” I snap suspiciously.
“Nice outfit, Indie. You decided to ditch the flip flops, then?”
“Of course. I just didn’t want to look like a film extra on the flight. Not like some people.”
She tips her hat at me and continues on her march to our trench.
Number 69.
We both stare down at the number in silence.
I wonder if that was some kind of perverse joke by the professor.
Then dismiss the idea.
The trench here is much further advanced than our peer’s sites and I can see immediately the chances of us finding something are much greater than theirs. It’s almost enough to forget the fact I’ve been partnered with Rainbow shine for the next five days.
Almost.
“I think we should start at opposite ends,” she says as I jump down into the belly of the trench. “Then we won’t …” she screws up her nose, “get in each other’s way.”
“Agreed.” This is in direct opposition to how we’ve been advised to work but at least it will keep me as far away from the omega as it is possible to be in a ten by six foot trench. I point my trowel to the end closest to the temple. “I’ll take this end.”
“Oh no,” she says, her hands landing back on her favourite place, her hips. Hips I’ve imagined grabbing as I … “Why should you get the best end?”
“We can swap tomorrow.”
She eyes me. “Fine, then I’ll take that end first.”
She peers down into the trench, assessing the drop and hesitating to jump.
“Where’s the ladder?”
“I don’t think there is one. Here,” I say, offering her my hand.
She flinches as if I’m about to strike her and with an irritated huff, I drop my hand and turn my back on her. Fine, she can find her own way down. The woman seems to think I’m some kind of psychopath half the time. I’m not blind to the way she takes tiny steps away from me or flinches like she just did.
It’s ironic considering she’s the one playing me with her scent.
A minute later, I hear her squeal and twist back to find her tumbling on her arse into the hole. She lands in a heap.
“Alright?” I ask, unable to keep my lips from twitching in satisfied amusement.
“Fine,” she says, scrambling to her feet and dusting the desert muck off her backside. The action makes the globes of her arse wobble ever so slightly and I have to look away.
If I can just lose myself in the work, concentrate on the task at hand, everything will be fine.
Despite what she may think, I am not some feral alpha unable to control my temper and my passion. It sickens me that an omega would possess such prejudices, convinced any moment I’ll rip off my shirt and go on some violent, lust-fueled rampage. I guess that’s what she’s counting on, hoping I’ll lose control, be expelled and hand the spot to her on a plate.
I suppose it doesn’t help that in the past alphas didn’t see fit to control their urges like we do now. They did what they wanted to whomever they wanted. The ancient Egyptians included. If I’m completely honest, there are still alphas who act like that today. Luckily, most of them end up behind bars.
These thoughts swirl around my head and irritate the hell out of me and as best as I try to let the work distract me, I can’t help but probe her on the matter.
“What exactly do you have against alphas?” I snap out. When what I mean is, what exactly do you have against me? She’d taken an instant dislike to me, right from the start. No matter how often I recant our first few meetings, I can never understand why. What I did in those very first moments for her to take against me like she did.
“They’re arseholes,” she responds without missing a heartbeat.
“Most people are,” I retaliate.
“Some betas maybe,” she peers over her shoulder at me, grinning. “All the omegas I’ve met are lovely.”
“All the ones I’ve met are brats.”
She frowns at me before refocusing on her work. But I’m not done talking about this. Her attitude pisses me off more than it should.
“You live with a pack of alphas, right?”
“Yes,” she says, and I can hear the scrape of her trowel against the coarse ground. “A real pack.”
I pause, my own trowel hovering in the air. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
“It means,” she says, not pausing her work. “That there are alphas out there posing as packs, trying to lure omegas in with certain promises when all they’re really after is a gang bang with their friends.”
I spin on my haunches to face her. She’s on her hands and knees and that image from the shower comes hurtling into my mind. Fuck!
“What alphas?”
“Carl’s shown me stuff on the internet. Discussions between alphas about how they can lure omegas in.” Her lips curl. “It’s really sick.”
“And you think that’s what me and my pack are doing?” I say in shock.
She shakes her head. “I didn’t say that. I don’t know anything about your pack.”
She rocks backwards and twists around to face me.
“Exactly, so what the hell would give you that idea?” I say, battling hard not to lose my temper; the vein in my neck thumping with blood.
She sighs as if she is going to have to explain something difficult to a child. I grind my teeth together.
“I don’t have any ideas. I don’t know if you’re doing that or not.” She hesitates. “But you have to admit that your pack does have a …” her eyes swivel up towards the sky as she searches for the word. “Reputation.”
“You shouldn’t believe everything you read in that stupid paper,” I mumble, cursing those damn gossip columns about the pack’s exploits earlier in the year. Sure we partied a lot, went a bit wild when we first formed our pack – we were fucking riding high – but most of the stories were grossly exaggerated. And it was months ago. We’ve mellowed since then. Not that it matters. The labels about us have stuck.
“It’s not just the articles,” she says, staring directly at me. “Girls talk.”
I snort at that. “I’ve hardly looked at a girl this year.” If you discount Giorgie Martinelli and her delectable arse. “I’ve been too busy studying, training, and playing rugby.”
She raises her eyebrows, telling me she doesn’t buy that one bit.
“You’re incredibly judgemental sometimes, you know that?”
“You asked me,” she says, throwing her hands up.
“We’re a real pack,” I insist. “It isn’t some ruse to gang bang girls,” I add, my lips curling with disgust at the thought. “These men are my brothers. There is a bond between us and we’re committed to our pack, to each other.”
“How long have you known each other?” she asks with a hint of curiosity in her voice.
“Coming up a year. I met them when I moved to Studworth.”
She halts, her trowel hovering in the air above the ground. “Less than a year? Is that enough time to form a bond like that?”
“I think there are some people you meet and the bond is there almost immediately.”
“Like fated mates? You don’t believe in that nonsense stuff, do you?” She chuckles.
“I don’t know,” I say. “I’ve honestly never given it much thought.” I look up to the lip of our trench and the dust swirling in a lone beam of sunlight. “Maybe it’s something you can’t understand until it happens to you. Pack life hadn’t even occurred to me until I met my mates. Now I can’t imagine living any other way.”
She examines my face, then seems to dismiss whatever thought she was entertaining in her mind. Instead, she starts scraping away again, lifting her arse up into the air as she does and god if I’m not tempted to sink my teeth into it. “People don’t always turn out to be what you expected,” she says quietly.
I still. Does she have first-hand experience of that? Something about the weariness of her tone leads me to believe she does.
I decide there is no use in pursuing the conversation. No matter what she might say, Giorgie Martinelli is clearly not one to change her opinion about someone or a whole pack of people for that matter. What do I care what she thinks? I know the truth. Deep in my heart and in my gut. I’ve found my brothers, my pack. We have each other’s backs.
We work in silence, scraping away layer after layer of dirt and finding nothing for our hard labour. I don’t feel frustrated by it – no, that emotion is reserved purely for the woman with whom I’m sharing this trench – this is how the work of an archeologist goes. You need bucket loads of patience and a hell of a lot of concentration. I’m pretty unusual for an alpha because I happen to possess both. Or I usually do.
But her singing…
Not loud enough for me to hear the words. Just this incessant whispered noise under her breath. Cheerful and happy.
I wipe at the sweat forming on my brow and sweep my hair out of my eyes and back under my hat. The ground is hard against my knees and my back aches.
And that fucking noise.
“Do you think we could give the one-woman performance a rest for a bit?” I grumble, half under my breath.
“Huh?” she asks, dragging one of the clipboards into her lap and scribbling some notes.
I eye the writing, wondering if she’s found something of interest she’s not sharing.
“The singing. Could you give it a rest?”
“Singing?” She frowns at me with confusion.
Is this another of her plays to break me?
“Yes, the singing. Could you please stop?”
Comprehension dawns over her face. “Whoops, sorry. I don’t realise I’m doing it. It drives my brother crazy.”
“Me too. Please stop.”
She glares at me. “Now who’s the killjoy?”
“There’s absolutely no joy in that singing.”
“Well, I’m sorry but the conversation is seriously lacking and I don’t do well in silence.”
“I do.”
“And yet you live in a pack?”
“Part of being in a pack is knowing when to give each other space.”
“If only we both had some now!” She attacks the board with her pen, then tosses both to the ground. “I swear this trench is ten degrees hotter because of your presence.”
I smirk at her. “You think I’m hot?”
“That’s not what I said.” I keep on smirking and she shuffles on her spot. And I know it’s wicked, but I like seeing her squirm. I know she doesn’t really find me hot, but it’s fun to tease her. I just wish I could tease her in more enjoyable ways, the idea making my cock stir. “I said you’re making this trench hot.”
“Same thing.”
“Trust me, it’s not. You may be in love with yourself, doesn’t mean I am.”
Oh yeah, she’s made that abundantly clear. Again. And again.
“Just quit the singing, will you?”
“Fine!” she snaps, snatching up her trowel and attacking the ground with it.
I pick up my own and spin round, relieved at last to have some silence.
“Except, it’s not!” she blurts out a minute later.
I sigh and turn back to find her glaring at me, her face all hot and sweaty and looking exactly like she’s spent time tumbling around in bed. Fuck, I need to get my mind of the gutter. But it’s that scent and her arse and hips and..,
“I told you I don’t like the silence,” she adds.
“Can’t you talk to yourself in your head?”
Her eyes flick to the side. “I’d rather not.” She chews on her lip, weighing up her options. “We could play a game while we work?”
“Jesus Christ,” I mutter. “What you want to play? Eye spy?”
We both examine the confined space of our cell with its dirt walls and dirt floor.
The corner of her mouth twitches. I’m reminded of her smile from earlier this morning. The way it dazzled me. The way being here seemed to light her up from the inside. Something I can understand.
