Poison Ivy Ch. 07

"Shit."

"Don't worry, my man," Fowler said, grinning from under his unruly mess of facial hair. "She's gonna be back with us in no time. I heard about how you found her. She's a fated, isn't she?"

Hunter nodded, throwing back the rest of the amber, burning liquid. "She sure as fuck is. She's a little spitfire. You'd like her, Fowler. She'd give you a run for your money. Sure as hell drives me absolutely fucking insane at times." He chuckled.

"I can confirm that," Pyle declared, holding his glass up like he was about to make a toast. "She came to admin one day, looking for Hunter and pissed as fuck about something stupid this asshole did," he said to Fowler, thrusting his chin out in Hunter's direction. "Fuck me, man, you should've seen her storming up and down the hallway, scaring the absolute shit out of a dozen or so Alphas twice her size. She was like an angry chihuahua barking at a bunch of pitbulls."

Fowler threw back his head and guffawed, although unless you knew the man well, you wouldn't have recognized what came rumbling out of his chest as laughter. "Oh, I know I'm gonna like her." He grunted. "Now, let's get down to business. We've got one more man comin' to this party. Trevino's gonna be here tomorrow, I called him in. Told him I was cashing in that favor for saving his ass on that fuckin mountain in Pruvia." He laughed. "You know I lost two toes in that shit? Ah, fuck. Sure was fun though. Anyways. We're gonna start with Senator Bowlin."

Hunter grinned. Trevino was a weapons man. He had more guns than the entire fucking Army. Up against Fowler, he was a slender guy. Trim, but muscular. And deadly as fuck. He'd been the best sniper in the military before he got out, by a very wide margin. No one else had even come close. Talk was that after he'd gotten out, he'd started taking contracts as an assassin. Hunter didn't know if that was true or not, the man was of the quiet, brooding variety, not one to share a whole lot about himself. But it certainly wouldn't have surprised him. At any one time, he kept no less than eight weapons on him, and that included when he slept. He was a walking, talking armory.

Senator Bowlin, on the other hand, was one twisted fuck. Corrupt to the bone, that one. Hunter had heard the rumor of a kiddie porn collection in his basement. He'd also been instrumental in the coverup that allowed Hickson to get away with the murder of his wife, and attempted murder of his daughter. He'd take pleasure in gutting the pudgy bastard.

He closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the plush leather cushion of the recliner, half-listening to Pyle and Fowler debate which method of getting Bowlin to talk would be more enjoyable. For them, of course. His thoughts, unsurprisingly, turned to his stolen mate. He concentrated on the bond, needing, at the very least, to feel her through it, to know that she was still on the other side of it.

I'm coming for you, Ivy.

I'm coming for you.

........................

Ivy jerked awake, still hearing Hunter's deep voice like an echo from his side of the bond. She strained her ears, hoping to hear it again, even if it was just a single word.

But instead of his rich, smooth tenor, what she heard was a watered-down-scotch drawl.

"Almost there, baby girl."

She looked outside. The sun was setting, the sky a picturesque blend of reds and oranges, and although she had no way to tell for sure, she thought they'd been driving for at least two hours. Too soon, the car slowed and turned onto a long gravel road, nestled between two stunning lawns, both with a well-planned assortment of foliage and flower gardens. They crawled to a stop in a circular drive. On one side, there was a massive, dark stone fountain, illuminated by soft lights both under the streams of water and circling the outside of the structure. And on the other side, a mansion big enough to rival a cruise ship glared down at her with dark, tinted windows and a blinding white brick façade. It was hideous.

The driver jumped out of the car as soon as they had stopped and rushed around to open the door on Maverick's side. Before she could reach for the handle of her own door, he locked his hand around her elbow and dragged her out of the car through his side. Squeezing the back of her neck in a silent warning, he led her up a flight of white stone steps to the front entrance, where two security-types stood sentry on each side. Both nodded to them as they approached. "He's expecting you," one of them said in a gruff, toneless voice.

Ivy swallowed. Who? Who was expecting them?

She gazed around as they walked inside, quickly deciding that the interior was just as ugly as the exterior. Everywhere she looked, she found some obnoxious, gaudy fixture or decoration, all in an ugly combination of red, gold and royal blue. Maverick led her straight to an open door halfway across the receiving room and up another flight of carpeted stairs. Here, the walls were white and bare. At the top of the landing, the space opened up into a small room, interspersed with gilded, matte black chairs with deep blue velvet cushions. Everything in this room looked so... official, and completely at odds with the rest of the house. In front was a small platform, on which was a dark wood podium with a massive microphone in the center.

Where the hell were they?

A man dressed in a fitted navy-blue suit and matching tie, the same color as her dress and Maverick's three-piece, stepped out from behind a thick curtain on the side of the platform, followed by several men and two women clutching notepads and tablets. Slightly shorter than Maverick, he was trim for an Alpha, but still muscular, judging by the way he filled out the dark, crisp suit. Grey sprinkled his smartly cut black hair. As if sensing her eyes on him, he turned to meet her gaze, and smiled.

Oh, fuck.

She knew this man. She'd seen his picture on the wall of every military building, just below the President's photo, and although she watched very little television and even less news, she was aware of the major political players. But unlike seeing him in a frame or on a screen, there was something about being in his physical presence that helped the pieces snap into place.

Ethan Hickson, Vice President of Lostra, was the root cause of her nightmares.

Her throat constricted. She took a step back, intending to get her ass as far away from the approaching man as possible, but was thwarted by Maverick when he stepped behind her and wrapped his arms tightly around her upper body.

No!

The memory slammed into her with the full force of a tsunami. She started shaking violently as a rush of images, scents and sounds flooded through her mind. All she could see was his face. All she could hear was a woman screaming. Her mother screaming. She felt a large hand wrapping around her neck, cutting off her airway, until everything went dark... and then smoke, suffocating, blinding and all-consuming black smoke, and everything was so hot, and then dad was there, and he was lifting her up, taking her away, away from her house, away from her mom, away from everything...

"Ivy." His thick, dark voice surrounded her, coiling around her body like a boa constrictor. "My daughter. My sweet Ivy. I thought I'd lost you!" His dark eyes were glittering, like he was about to cry. He reached out a hand and trailed a finger down her cheek. She couldn't stop shaking. Her knees buckled. If the Mav hadn't been holding her up, she would have crumpled to the floor.

And then she remembered the sound of her mother being struck so hard, she'd been lifted off her feet and thrown halfway across the hall, and she channeled her terror into something far more useful.

Rage.

"You killed her," she hissed. "You fucking killed her!" She struggled against Maverick's hold. "Let me go, fuckhead!" She snarled. "I'm gonna tear his fucking throat out through his asshole!"

Either the drugs were seriously dampening her reflexes, or everyone around her was becoming a lot faster. Either way, she never even saw the hand that struck her hard across the cheek. When she snarled and looked back up, a string bean of a man with thick, wire framed glasses and skin the color of weak cat piss was rubbing his hand, while her mother's killer frowned at him.

"Was that really necessary, Parsons?" he asked, annoyed. Parsons opened and closed his mouth a few times, like a fish. "Sir, she was threatening you."

"She's half my fucking size, Parsons. Look at her." He gestured to her with a shrug. "She's confused and frightened and has obviously been traumatized."

"Of course, Sir," the string bean said, dejectedly. "I only meant to snap her out of her hysteria."

Hysteria? Was this guy fucking serious?

Only one way to find out.

"Are you fucking serious?"

Her father turned back to her, still frowning. He cocked his head slightly and looked down at her with pity.

"My poor girl. You're confused. In total shock. We'll catch up after the press conference, hmm? I will explain everything."

He looked up at Maverick, still holding her tight against him, and nodded, then turned around and began walking back to the podium, his entourage of notebook-toting suck ups running after him like a trail of ducklings. Maverick began walking her forward. She tried to dig in her heels to stop him, and soon she was being scooped up carried down the aisle, cradled in his arms like a child.

"I'm not going near that man. He killed my mother! Put me the fuck down, Maverick!"

"Shh," he whispered, his breath hot on her ear. "You are being reunited with your long-lost father. The father you were stolen from by a Beta criminal. You will smile for the cameras, and cry, and embrace him when the time comes. Won't you, baby girl?"

"No." Ivy shook her head, and the room spun violently. "Unless you agree to let me kill him when we get up there, then no. NO. I'm not doing any of that. I can't!"

"Oh yes, you can, and you will. Or do I need to make a call?" Her eyes shot up to Maverick's grinning face. Aella. These assholes had Aella hidden away, under their thumb, just so they could get her to go along with them in this fucking joke of a story. They reached the podium and he slowly lowered her to her feet, spinning her around to face her forward. Bile rose in her throat as she watched a room full of reporters find their seats. She swallowed hard.

She'd never felt this weak, this afraid, or this angry in her entire life. She tried to center herself. This was a game. It was all just a game, and the only things that mattered were keeping Aella safe and getting back to Hunter. Despair gripped her as she thought of the man whose claiming marks hadn't even healed yet. Her feelings might be conflicted when it came to the big guy, but right now, she wanted nothing more than for him to barge in through those doors, gun down these motherfuckers, scoop her up and take her far away from this place.

It wasn't going to happen. If there was one thing her dad had taught her, it was that you couldn't wait for someone to come along and do things for you. Every problem she'd went to him with, he'd handed right back to her. She hadn't seen it at the time, but he'd always handed her a way to solve the problem herself, too.

When a group of punks started shaking her down before school to steal her lunch money every day, he took her to a boxing gym and taught her how to fight dirty.

When her first shitty little car broke down at the end of their driveway, he'd tossed her a toolbox and some gloves and told her she was grounded except to go to the library to pick up some books on cars and auto mechanics, so she could learn how to repair and maintain it.

When she'd come home crying after her first... actually her only... boyfriend had cheated on her, he'd taken her to the gun range and handed her four boxes of ammo and a target with his picture on it.

It had always seemed important to him that she knew how to take care of herself. She'd never been a daddy's girl, but as she grew older and realized she could do things for herself that almost no one else her age could, she came to appreciate the way he had raised her. And it wasn't just the skills she had developed along the way. It was the outlook.

You've got exactly one person in this life you can count on, Ivy, he'd always told her. And it's not your dad.

She took a deep, steadying breath, ignoring Maverick's soft, moisturized hands pressing down on her shoulders. She wasn't helpless. She was never helpless. Thrown for one fuck of a loop? Yes. Drugged out of her mind? Yes. Outweighed, outnumbered and outgunned? Yes, yes and yes. But doing nothing, letting herself get tossed around like a hacky sack, was not an option, and it was not what she was doing now. Maverick had given her the power to keep Aella safe, and she was going to do everything it took to make sure she kept that power.

Hold on, Ivy.

She looked up, startled. The flash of the cameras began exploding like fireworks in her face. Her "father" was speaking at the podium. Maverick was pushing her closer and closer to the man who had killed her mother, who had tried to kill her. But none of those things had been what'd captured her attention. She'd heard his voice. In this room.

He wasn't here. She knew that. But she had heard him, as clearly as if he had been speaking directly into her ear. She could almost feel the rough stubble of his jaw as it rubbed against her cheek.

She knew she couldn't wait around, like a trapped princess, for Hunter to come slay her dragon. Aella had believed in fairy tales, but that was only because she had been tricked. Plucked from whatever home she had known and stowed away in a tower, waiting for a prince to come sweep her off her feet. It hadn't been her fault that a monster had come for her instead.

She also knew that, this time, she couldn't get out of this completely on her own.

But what if her dad had been wrong? What if she could count on Hunter, not to save her, but to be there when she needed him? What if they could work together? Save each other? Save Aella?

I'm coming for you.

She twisted around to look up at Maverick-dude. He caught her eye and smiled wickedly. When she beamed up at him, genuine beatitude lifting the corners of her lips, his smile faltered. She turned back around to face the crowd, gazing up at Hickson with fabricated adoration. The drugs still in her system created a dense fog in her mind, like condensation hovering over a mirror-still lake in the early morning hours. She allowed it to dampen the panic and rage that threatened to smother her every time his dark eyes caught hers.

The cameras flashed. The hated Alpha put an arm around her shoulder, hugging her close, and she forced herself to melt into him.

Okay, big guy. Let's do this thing.

She smiled.

I'll meet you halfway.

.................................................

"We have a problem."

Hunter looked up at Pyle from where he sat, sprawled comfortably on a wide black leather couch in Senator Bowlin's living room. He and Trevino had been enjoying the show playing out across the seating area, where Fowler was demonstrating some of Bowlin's more sadistic tendencies back to him... With a splintered broom handle.

Pyle held out a small tablet, pressing play just before he handed it off to Hunter. Trevino leaned over his shoulder to watch, sucking in a breath as the two Alphas took in the images of the delicate Omega they had left back in Torrin. Aella's throat was red and bruised, and her right eye almost swollen shut. Hunter cursed and stood up, following Pyle to the kitchen, Trevino close on his heels.

"This is Maverick's Omega? The one he beat?" Trevino grabbed at the tablet Hunter held at his side. His fingers hovered over the image frozen on the screen, Aella's tear-streaked face looking fearfully at someone off screen, just to the side of the camera. Hunter grunted in affirmation. Trevino glanced up and narrowed his eyes.

"And you just fucking left her there?!" the walking, talking armory growled at him. Hunter cocked his head, momentarily thrown off by the fury emanating off his old battle buddy.

"An all-female Beta crew was supposed to bring her to the Omega compound in Runda. I was told she was picked up before I came to." He turned to Pyle, who was watching Trevino carefully. "Who did we forget?" he barked. "Who's doing this?"

Pyle shrugged. "Three guesses. I'll give you a hint. He's an ugly motherfucker with a scar on his mouth."

"Eli?" Hunter asked, his eyebrows drawn together in confusion. Eli was the Torrin General who had tried to surrender use of the port to General Nelson. The move would have ended the war in Torrin and would have made Eli rich beyond his wildest dreams with the cuts he would have taken from Lostran sea merchants. When Nelson had refused his offer of surrender, Eli had orchestrated the attack on the main base that had put Ivy in danger. It wasn't beyond the realm of possibility that Maverick was working with Eli, but to what end, Hunter couldn't guess. "Why? Why Aella?"

Pyle shrugged again. "Why does that shithead do anything that he does? Money. My guess? Maverick's paying him off, keeping him happy enough to extend the war and hold off on more port negotiations. It's no secret he's itching to make a deal." He cracked his knuckles and shook out his hands, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet. "Listen, boss. He's sending these videos to Maverick, and fairly frequently." He paused, waiting for his words to sink in.

"Fuck. FUCK!" Hunter roared. He spun around and slammed his fist into the side of the wall. A framed picture of Senator Bowlin and his estranged wife fell to the floor, shattered glass sprinkling across the ugly blue-and-white tile. Rancor poisoned his veins. Maverick was using Aella and his own fucking daughter to keep Ivy in line.

Trevino looked up from the tablet where Aella's image still lingered, glancing between the two other Alphas. "Explain. Now."

Pyle reached for his tablet and smirked when Trevino pulled it just out of reach, refusing to relinquish the image of Maverick's abused mate. Hunter shifted back toward the two other Alphas, rubbing his fist. "Ivy's got no fucking sense of self-preservation. I pulled her out of a conflict in Torrin, running around in the middle of a firefight with a bullet lodged in her shoulder, trying to save everyone but her fucking self. She barely knows Aella, but I have no doubt she'd die for her and that baby. She wouldn't think twice."

Trevino nodded, then went back to staring at the screen. "I've got this one."

Hunter looked at Pyle, who was wearing his signature crooked shit-eating grin, then back to Trevino. The Alpha could only be described as dark. Jet black hair hung low across his forehead but was trimmed neatly in the back. His wardrobe varied in color from charcoal to ebony. It was difficult to see where the pupils of his almond-shaped eyes ended, and sable irises began. To most, he looked perpetually expressionless, hardly ever hinting at what was going on beneath his stoic gaze. But Hunter had seen him in action.

Trevino was a stone-cold killer. With his arsenal of weapons, he was professional and efficient. The sniper spilled blood like he had something to prove. When he watched the life drain out of a body, it was all there, written on his face, apparent in the way his eyes glowed and danced. Elation. Mirth. Rapture. The Alpha was one sick fuck.

A sick fuck who was on their side.

Fowler walked into the kitchen, wiping blood from his hands on a soiled rag. "We're done here," he grunted, grabbing a tumbler of whisky from the counter next to Pyle and throwing it back in one smooth swallow. Pyle clapped his hands while he jumped up and down, his smile turning into something downright malevolent. "Then it's settled!" he exclaimed, like a little kid.