spoken word. (gxg)

twenty-nine.

twenty-nine.

"June Willow."  The name dripped from his tongue like it was made of fine poison. Their gazes mingled like fire and ice.

It was odd to see her with a lively expression, for once, though it was of pure fury; even weirder still to see her usual cool expression reflected on Alpha's gruff features. He had the gaunt face of a man who had done worse and seen worse and wore it like a crown, though his paleness left him with an almost vulnerable appearance. She stared at him like she had hated him for a longer time than I could possibly imagine, like he was the one responsible for every bad day she had ever had. I wondered briefly if that was true.

Though her eyes were full of hatred, body tense, her grip was gentle on me. It was an odd contrast to the bruising touch I had become accustomed to.

I wondered for a moment if she would put me down and punch him in the nose or something, but instead she turned and fled, running impressively fast though she was carrying me as well. She shifted her grip on me so I was flung over her back, an odd maneuver I had seen done before in soldier movies. Apparently it was a real technique. Not that I knew much about fighting.

What was crazy was how, as soon as my skin made contact with hers, all of my fear seemed to dissolve, my body heating up dangerously. It was embarrassing, the effect she had on my hormones.

As she ran through twisting hallways, a confidence that could only be from years of navigating this place, I noticed the numerous guards scattered across the floor. How many people had she taken out?

"June?" I said, another dumb question on my tongue.

"Not now," she told me, voice dim and restrained. I quieted immediately-- it wasn't a tone I was familiar with.

Finally, we reached the outdoors. June blasted through the darkness towards a large truck, new and black with tinted windows. She opened the door hastily and placed me in the back, before hurridly sitting beside me and slamming the door shut.

"Drive," she commanded the person sitting in the front seat.

"That's no way to treat your kind older brother, who, might I add, just got beat up under your orders," a teasing voice returned.

"I only told you to distract them-- getting beat up was your choice," was her taut reply. My head whipped toward the front seat. In it, Tyler slammed on the gas, wearing the same get-up the masked fighter.

"Mia." June's voice brought my gaze back to her. The back seat was huge, and I adjusted myself so I was leaning on her-- partially because it got the pressure off of my tied hands and partially because I wanted every inch of contact with June I could muster. June's gaze trailed from my face to my feet, expression unreadable.

When she pulled a knife out of her belt, I flinched, and for a second her facade broke and I could see every inch of rage she was willing herself to hold back. It was like peeking into an exploding volcano; before, I would have lowered my gaze. Now, it sucked me in relentlessly.

"To cut your restraints," she explained, voice low, hands held up defensively as if I was wild and fragile. I wondered what my appearance must have been for her to act so strangely.

"Okay," I mumbled, maneuvering so she had access to the zip-ties holding my wrists together painfully. Slowly, methodically, she cut them. The cool touch of the blade to my skin reminded me of Asshole, and I shivered.

When my hands were free, I moved them in front of me cautiously. As I examined my bruised and bloody wrists, moving slowly as to not aggravate the wounds, June's eyes scrutinized me.