Beta (5 page)

“We’re ready,” Niamh said. Her laptop was plugged into the side of the telecaster, and she was seated beside the camera so she could operate both at the same time.

Stark took the chair in front of the green screen.

Deirdre slowly straightened, the fear draining out of her now that he wasn’t about to strike.

“Nice,” Bowen said. He was a werewolf with long hair braided down his spine and tattoo sleeves from biceps to wrists. “You’re acting a little less stupid than you usually look.” He spoke directly to Deirdre’s cleavage without so much as glancing at her face.

“That’s nice to hear, because you’re exactly as stupid as you look,” she said.

“Don’t be like that, baby,” he said.

“Call me baby again and I’ll end you.”

He gave a low chuckle, lowering his nose to take a long inhale of her shoulder. “I like the scent of blood on you. It’s attractive.”

Deirdre looked down at her hands. Her fingernails were still caked with blood from carrying Vidya around the night before. She hadn’t been able to shower. She only dared bathe when the communal showers were filled with other women, just to make sure she wouldn’t be caught alone by the shifter men.

Men like Bowen, who thought she was sexiest when she reeked of blood.

She shoved him away. “Gods, don’t talk to me like that. Actually, just don’t talk to me at all. You’re disgusting.”

Niamh shot a disapproving look at them. Her wild curls and feathers were pulled back into a thick ponytail, and she wore thick-framed reading glasses. She was in business mode. “Quiet on the set. We need total silence.”

“Sorry,” Deirdre said.

The swanmay’s admonishment didn’t do anything to stop Bowen. He sidled closer to Deirdre.

“Gage talked to you like that, didn’t he, baby?” Bowen whispered under his breath, quiet enough that Niamh wouldn’t be able to hear. His hand slid across Deirdre’s butt, cupping the left cheek. “Don’t you want to see what it’s like to be with someone who isn’t Rylie Gresham’s bitch?”

She grabbed his hand, twisting it so hard that the bones cracked. He grunted and bent over, trying to free his arm from her grasp.

It brought his face low enough for her to drive the heel of her palm into his nose. The bridge snapped. Blood coursed down his upper lip. “You bitch!” he cried, stumbling back, hands clutching his face.

Deirdre shoved him off. “Quiet on the set,” she said serenely.

Bowen pointed at her, as if to silently say,
This isn’t over
.

She stared at him in challenge. Inviting him to attack.

Deirdre had survived beatings by the likes of Stark and Jacek. Bowen was nothing compared to them. Her blood burned with hatred and grief, and she was gagging for an excuse to wreak violence upon someone she knew who deserved it.

But he left, and he didn’t try to grab her butt again on his way out.

He could make all the threats he wanted. Deirdre knew who had won that confrontation.

She let out a slow breath and faced the makeshift studio again. Was Stark smiling at the sight of his Beta breaking noses? No way.

If he had been, it was only for a moment. He was properly stony-faced again by the time the cameras rolled.

“Five, four, three, two…go,” Niamh said.

“For the last ten years, the Office of Preternatural Affairs has been aggressively expanding their illegal detention centers,” Stark said. “Our brethren are arrested and indefinitely detained without due process because of Rylie Gresham’s—”

“Wait, wait, wait.” Niamh stood, flapping her hands at Stark. “You’re not reading the teleprompter.”

“I’m paraphrasing,” Stark said.

“You’re using big words and weird concepts. Don’t say due process. People don’t know what that is. Read what we wrote for you.” She tapped the side of the machine. “Hey Colette! Can we get you over here with the makeup? Our hero’s features aren’t showing up with enough definition in this light, and we’ve got major forehead shine going down.”

Colette hurried over with a tray of makeup and a few brushes. Stark ignored her as she worked on him.

“I won’t talk down to people,” he said.

“That’s not what we’re doing here,” Niamh said. “You’re not condescending. You’re accessible.”

Deirdre had to muffle a laugh at that.
Stark, accessible?

She could think of dozens of adjectives that would describe Stark. Cruel. Charismatic. Bloodthirsty.

Not “accessible.”

He could have passed out free cookies on a street corner and he wouldn’t have seemed accessible.

Stark’s jaw clenched. “You underestimate our audience, Niamh.”

She sighed. “Okay. Think of it this way: Shifters outside of the sanctuary haven’t had access to the Academy’s education. The boarding schools we put gaean kids in are staffed by undereducated and underpaid teachers held to standards so low there might as well be no standards at all. They’re not taught about due process and why indefinite detention without a trial is a problem. That’s what we’re trying to fix! Until you’re in charge, our audience doesn’t have the foundation to get what you’re talking about. Understand?”

Stark was getting annoyed now. Deirdre could see it in the way he held his back, the clench of his teeth.

She wanted to tell Niamh to stop pushing before he went over the edge.

Deirdre remained silent.

“I know what I’m doing,” he said.

Niamh sighed. “You’re the boss. Say whatever you want to say.”

Deirdre only looked away for a moment—keeping an eye out for Bowen and his grabby hands, in case he hadn’t really fled Niamh’s set.

The shriek of pain drew Deirdre’s attention back to Stark immediately.

Niamh was crouched in front of him, clutching her face. Blood dribbled from between her fingers.

Stark towered over her, fists still clenched. “I don’t need your permission for anything,” he said, as calm as ever. “And you won’t talk to me like that again.” He addressed the room at large. “Does anyone else want to question my methods?”

Deirdre didn’t stick around long enough to hear if anyone responded, but she was pretty sure that she knew that the answer would be a resounding no.

She brushed past Andrew and his camcorder. He wasn’t filming Stark’s reproach. He was tracking Deirdre as she walked from the green screen toward the hallway.

“Keep that off of me.” She planted a hand on the lens and shoved it away.

The last thing she needed was to be immortalized in pro-Stark propaganda.

It seemed like half of the asylum’s residents were clustered in the hallway behind the foyer, watching the filming from relative safety. Jacek was at the head of them.

He had his own little clique of followers. People who thought that Stark should have named Jacek his Beta rather than Deirdre. None of them had been her fans before she took position as Stark’s right hand, and she wasn’t more popular now.

The looks they gave her when she passed through the hallway could have curdled milk.

What would Stark have done? Probably pounded respect into all of them with his fists. If not respect, then fear.

She wouldn’t do it now, but she would surely have to do it soon.

This was her life now, after all.

The courtyard was a large, open area at the center of the asylum, filled with flora that was surprisingly well maintained.

Life as a terrorist in hiding was boring so it was easy to find volunteer gardeners. Someone was even rebuilding the dried-out pond so that it could be refilled, though they weren’t working on it at the moment. It was too hot for physical labor now that the clouds had dispersed.

Deirdre sat on a rusted old park bench and tipped her head back to absorb the warmth in solitude. It felt sinfully good to soak up the sunshine, especially after all the rain as of late.

Maybe she was a lizard shifter. Cold blooded.

She certainly felt cold that afternoon.

With her eyes closed, she didn’t feel like she was in the courtyard anymore. She was standing in front of the incinerator in the basement of the asylum. She was watching Stark stoke the flames, growing a fire that was hot enough to melt metal in the coals.

The warmth on Deirdre’s face wasn’t midday sunlight; it was the heat from the oven scorching her skin, burning her eyebrows.

She was watching as the body of a bear shifter was pushed into the oven again, his fur consumed by flame.

And she watched as Stark closed the door on his ashen remains.

Deirdre opened her eyes with a jolt.

There was a bird in the tree nearby, singing a sweet song that was far too bright for her mood. Early morning rain still glistened on the trees. Freshly tilled soil near the far wall marked where Gage had died weeks earlier. He’d left his blood everywhere and Niamh had helped Deirdre churn the earth to bury the stain.

It had been a month.

Deirdre still saw Gage’s body in the oven every time she shut her eyes.

He never would have approved of Deirdre serving as Stark’s Beta. He would have been horrified to know that she’d released prisoners that had been incarcerated during Rylie’s “rule” as Alpha—people that Rylie wanted to be locked away from society.

But Gage was gone. He had thrown himself at her and given Deirdre no choice but to end his life.

He had done it for both of them. For his selfish desire to no longer be subject to the berserker inside of him, and for the selfless desire to make sure Deirdre could continue protecting Rylie from Stark. It had been his choice. She knew that.

Yet it had been her finger that pulled the trigger.

It shouldn’t have hurt to lose someone she’d only known for a week.

Deirdre opened her eyes and pulled a tooth out of her pocket. It was almost as long as her thumb, and the same width at its thickest point. The tip was sharp enough to cut through flesh. She knew that for a fact—she’d accidentally scraped herself with it multiple times.

The fang had belonged to Gage. Stark had ripped it out of his head during an unfair fight, then given it to Deirdre to teach her a lesson once he was done.

At the time, Deirdre hadn’t been certain what that lesson was supposed to be. Now she suspected that Stark had been telling her not to get attached to Gage. Even before Gage’s traitorousness had been revealed, Stark must have known that the berserker was too unstable to last long.

Gage wouldn’t have shot Reuben and the other guards at the detention center. He would have found a way around it.

“Necessary evils,” Deirdre muttered.

Now that she’d spent more than a month as Stark’s Beta, she wasn’t sure she could tell the difference between necessary and unnecessary evils anymore.

She had finally decided what she was going to do with the tooth, though.

Deirdre popped open her compact. It was a silly thing to carry around, but she did it for Niamh’s sake, since the swanmay might want to check her makeup at any moment. It distorted and magnified the side of Deirdre’s face.

She leaned in close to the mirror, tilting her head so that she could see her left earlobe in the reflection. She was wearing a slender black stud in the piercing at the moment. She’d started to gauge out her ears when she lived in Montreal, but the process had proven to be too itchy and uncomfortable with her shifter healing. The skin had kept trying to grow over whatever she put in them.

It wouldn’t be able to grow over a berserker fang.

Deirdre pushed the tip of the tooth into her earlobe. The fang widened quickly. She clenched her jaw as she kept pushing it through to the point where it hurt. Once the skin started tearing, she stopped.

The tooth had gotten a half-inch in. She shut her eyes, blew out a long breath. The healing fever tingled along the side of her face and made her ear burn.

After a minute, the throbbing abated, and Deirdre pushed the tooth through again. It slid in another half-inch. She stopped to let it heal. Then pushed a third time.

Finally, the tooth was deep enough in her earlobe that it wouldn’t fall out anytime soon. She tugged on it gently to make sure it was secure.

The earlobe would itch constantly with the fang in there.

A perpetual reminder of what had happened with Gage.

It had been Stark’s order that forced her to shoot him. Stark’s order, Gage’s attack, and Rylie’s machinations.

Three people Deirdre planned to never forgive.

Four if she counted herself.

A door opened behind her. Stark entered the courtyard, and Deirdre tucked the compact into her pocket.

The Alpha was no longer wearing the tactical vest, so she could see the flex and relax of muscle underneath the black shirt as he approached. Those were the liquid movements of a predator in his territory.

“Done already?” Deirdre asked, hugging her knees to her chest.

“I only needed one take,” he said.

“Where’s this video destined to be shown? Any news channels want to play ball with us, give us some air time?” It had taken practice to get into the habit of saying “us” and “we” rather than “you.” She was his Beta. Part of the team. She was supposed to be in favor of Stark’s message getting out.

“The news channels haven’t returned my calls,” he said. “I’ll release it on the internet once Niamh is done with editing.”