Alpha Warriors of The Cause - Tamara Rose Blodgett Page 0,4

unknown potential doesn't keep him from jumping after her.

Jeb turns, slapping his hand around Jacky's forearm. His mossy-green eyes bulge, then Jeb is tearing them forward, leaping into a fifty centimeter square then into the next.

The leap-frogging method feels natural to Jeb. However, it has the opposite effect on Jacky, who begins to vomit after only three jumps.

“Pudwacker! This sucks!” He bellows in Jeb's ear as they hurtle the ten seconds between streetlamps.

Jeb winces. Sounds are amplified in transit.

They land in an ungraceful pile. Jacky bends over, and a third stream of bile shoots out of his mouth.

He'll live.

Jeb's eyes are already on Beth's domicile.

A door closes with a loud click as he watches. She's already inside.

“Come on,” Jeb says, heading toward the shared domicile.

“Are ya okay, Jacky? Do you have jumper's sickness? Can I get you something to take away your fucking nausea!” he screams at Jeb's back.

Jeb turns. “I don't have time for your self-pity. We must find Beth and get sustenance. In that order.”

Jacky stares at him. After almost a full minute, he comments, “You're a jackass. You were a helluva a lot more fun when you didn't have a soul mate and you had to use my words. Now, you’re just a stuck-up, Latin-speaking pain in my ass.”

Jeb groans. I don't have time for this!

He stalks directly to the door and rips it open. Jacky jogs to catch up and manages to jam a sneakered toe inside the door before it closes.

Jacky fights to open the heavy door.

Jeb has to return and open it for him. He throws the heavy gallery-height door wide and it smacks into the wall.

Small flakes of plaster float to land at their feet, and Jacky steps away from Jeb.

First sentient thing he's done.

“Exactly how strong are you guys?” Jacky asks, scooting through the doorway and studying the steep staircase.

The door swings shut behind him with a clank.

“Four times stronger than the average human male on Three,” Jeb recites by rote.

Jacky hooks his fingers through the belt loops of the too-big Reflective uniform and blows his longish hair out of his eyes. “Well, you're a real winner, beating the shit out of an almost eighteen-year-old Three. I never had a chance, ya douche.”

Principle, help me.

Jeb turns. “Hear me. This”—livid, he swings a palm around the tight space of the foyer—“is entirely too much for me. I'm hungry, tired, and dirty. And my soul mate is not within sight. In the economical words of your sector, I'm knackered.”

Jacky's slow grin just pisses Jeb off more. He claps Jeb on the back. “I gotcha, ya big sloppy turd. When things go to hell, you can't keep a stiff upper lip.”

“What?!” Jeb brays.

“I'm making fun of you, doofus. You're speaking like a Brit. You really screw up the linguistics, pal. But I'll forgive you if you can stop acting like a dickbag for, like”—he looks up, cupping his chin—“two minutes.” His eyebrows jump. “Think you can manage that?”

Jeb's not sure. If he were with anyone but Jacky, perhaps he might have.

Jeb turns on his heel and heads up a steep flight of stairs, going straight for a door with a number two on it.

“Can ya?” Jacky asks. “Because you're consistently pissing me off.”

Jeb looks down at him.

Jacky's foot is poised on the first step as Jeb stands before Beth's locked door.

“I'll try,” Jeb concedes through his teeth.

His gaze moves to the door. The silent compulsion to find and be with his soul mate is all-encompassing. He can't think of anything else.

Jeb depresses his thumb at the pulse dock beside the medieval door, and a low chime thrums through him and Jacky.

Beth tears open the door with such force, her hair lifts around her smiling face.

Jeb smiles automatically in return.

He's desperate for good news—anything to balance the desolation that sucks at their marrow.

“Maddie's here!” she squeals.

Jacky shoots forward like an arrow—into the waiting arms of a malnourished and frightened Three.

Jeb and Beth embrace and she whispers, “I think it might be okay, Jeb.”

Jeb wouldn't go that far, but it's a start.

CHAPTER THREE

Slade

“Does she know, Bloodling?” the slaver's eyes narrow on him like a demon's.

“No. Do you not think if she knew, she would have been so willing to hop away with the Reflectives?” Slade asks the obvious.

Dimitri smirks.

Slade yanks his longish hair into its customary club at the base of his skull, wincing as he does.

That fuck Ryan damaged every surface of his body. Even bleeding out three nightlopers had not set things perfectly to rights.