by Lola Rock
“Territory dispute.” I fold my arms. “No pet names, especially in front of your omega.”
“I didn’t think…” Hunter rubs his thigh. “How are we supposed to deal tonight?”
“Are you sure you can do this?” Atlas wraps a possessive arm around Orion’s shoulders.
When everyone’s attention shifts to him, they miss my wince—the flinch I can’t help at the invasive thought that I wish it was me in that spot.
Not in Orion’s place.
Between them.
Under both their arms.
Fuck, I’m hopeless.
“I think…” Orion slips out of Atlas’s grasp and crosses the limo. I hold my breath when he sits next to me, bracing myself for the blunt-force sweetness of his scent. “It’s fine as long as I can take the lead. Let me escort her tonight.” He tilts his head and his front curl bounces in a total tease. “Would you mind?”
My mouth drops open and he sneaks into my throat like sensual goddamned applesauce.
He tastes so good, as warm as a steaming cup of cider on a crisp fall morning. Sharpness gone, he relaxes into the seat next to me, stretching out his long legs like we’re the best of friends.
History says this is when he stabs me, sells me out, or loses his omega shit and uses me as his punching bag. But instead of reaching for my shiv, I find myself wanting to lean into him. It’s not trust, exactly, but something else, something deeper, a kind of understanding or resonance or vibe that I’ve never felt with another omega.
“Anything that gets us through the night.” In a different life, I would’ve fallen for Orion harder than any of them.
Atlas watches like he’s waiting for me to pull a machete on his mate. I keep my hands pressed flat to my thighs, praying he can’t spot the shiv that fits so nicely in my bodice.
When I don’t stage a coup in the backseat, his broad shoulders settle. “You’d better stick together. Easier to watch you both if you don’t separate.”
The car kicks into motion, and I try not to wiggle, too conscious of Orion sitting so close. The alphas can’t look away, either because he’s their mate or because the sight of two omegas sends their protective instincts into warp.
“What’s the plan tonight?” Hunter asks, turning to Jett. “Threats?”
“No more than usual.” Jett rattles off a list of guest names that the guys all recognize. “Mostly military and political packs. They’ll all have their omegas in attendance, so security is tight. Your basic dinner, dance, and networking event in the name of charity.”
Dancing?
My gaze slips to Finn, who’s been watching me all the while.
His smirk spells all kinds of trouble. “Save me a waltz, Babydoll.”
Orion goes rigid, nostrils flaring as he tries to keep his shit together. I don’t know if they’re trying to bait him or the whole idiot pack of them ditched their omega behavioral classes.
Damage control.
Orion grips his knee like a stuck gear shifter. Hesitantly, I press a fingertip to his hand, hoping touch—even my touch—grounds him. “I don’t have to dance. I’ll sit at the table and not talk to anyone if that makes you more comfortable.”
Wait, that’s a fantastic plan. Let’s do that.
I keep my eyes on Orion, trying to ignore the wall of growly, over-attentive muscle watching us like they paid for box seats. Orion’s pale skin is too hot, almost burning the pad of my finger. Instead of biting off my whole hand, he takes a breath, unclenches his death grip, and scoots a little closer on the seat. “I’ll be your dance partner. Question is, do we dance with outside alphas?”
“What?” My voice comes out sharp and panicked. “Is that a thing?”
“It might be tonight,” Hunter grumbles. “You’re unmarked.”
My hand slips to my bare neck.
Orion’s collar is low enough to show off the sliver scars of his mate marks.
My unbroken throat is an invitation with a mile-high spotlight and neon signs.
I squeeze my neck, hunching my shoulders at the idea of dancing with some rando alpha—anyone who isn’t one of these five. “I'm not dancing.”
And that is saying something because I love me some ballroom.
“We may not have a choice.” Atlas rubs his hands together. “We need to keep good relations with the other packs.”
“This is a business event,” Jett adds. “Everyone will be polite. Correct?” His gaze slides to Finn.
Finn shrugs. “I don’t want to dance with other packs’ omegas. I just want to dance with my babydoll.”
I tense, ready for Orion’s flinch, but he surprises me with a disgusted noise in his throat. “Don’t start shit, Finn. It’s already going to be a fucking night.”
“And can you not with the babydoll?” I can’t relax with Orion this close, but I’m at least comfortable enough to give Finn shit.
He grins. “I’ll think of an even better name.”
Orion scoffs. “Your nickname’s trouble.”
“Maybe Lilah likes a little trouble. Maybe she likes big trouble.”
I try not to shiver at the mischief in his voice, but I can’t fight the delicious rightness rolling through my body as the guys banter around me the way they would if I belonged.
Too soon, the car slows and comes to a stop in a shopping mall parking lot.
“Give me ten.” Hunter hops out.
Tension fills the limo when the door slams behind him. Hunter’s not the most dominant in the pack—that award goes to Atlas who draws my attention like a magnet every time we’re in the same space—but he is the most sane member, and without him, the pack’s problems jump out as boldly as the sexy freckles on the bridge of Finn’s nose.
Jett is in his own world, ignoring us all. Atlas stares at me and Orion like we’re a second from a blood-spilling brawl, and Finn’s too-sweet, too-angelic smile says he’s planning something fucking batshit.
It’s beyond weird that Orion and I—the ones who should be catfighting—are the most chill. Because as much as his scent stirs me up, giving my body ideas about how good that apple scent would mix with my carefully buried perfume, I’m very clear that we’re not in competition.
There is no competition, no matter how attracted I am to Orion’s mates.
They’re his and always will be.
The fact that I’m this hot for Orion is more proof that I’m an odd fucking duck. In all my classes, none of the trainers ever mentioned what to do when you want to lick another omega all the way down to his gooey center.
Hunter reappears carrying so many shopping bags that he must’ve charmed an army of beta salesgirls with his soul-seeing smile.
He offers the first bag to Orion, then ruffles his blond hair. “For you. You forgot to put this on.”
Orion pulls out a box of pheromone-suppressing perfume.
“Oh shit.” He rips off the plastic. “Good idea.”
“And for you.” Hunter hands me the bigger pile of bags, and it doesn’t escape me that he knows exactly how to manage Orion, giving him attention before he even looks at me.
Curious, I open the first bag.
It’s makeup.
Piles and piles of brand-name, expensive-as-hell product that I don’t need and don’t want to owe him for. “I can’t. It’s too—”
“It’s a gift, Lilah.” Hunter thumps the partition, signaling Craig to roll out.
I don’t want to accept, but I can’t toss the bag out the window.
Since there’s no way to hide in this dress, I might as well paint myself a shield.
Digging through the bag, I realize how thorough Hunter is. There’s a mirror, foundation that’s a scary perfect match for my skin tone, palettes and palettes of shadows, and when I add up what it must have all cost, I want to puke.
“Speaking of going in prepared,” Atlas says while I’m sorting boxes. “Are you armed tonight?”
I don’t answer, assuming he’s talking to the guys.
“Lil
ah?” Orion asks softly.
“Me?” I glance around. Finn’s eyes glitter while the rest look on in various degrees of suspicion. I shrug. “I’m always armed.”
Atlas scowls. “Give me your weapon.”
“No.” I clutch my bodice.
“You need something better than plastic,” Atlas says, shocking the hell out of me. “Finn.”
Finn barely twitches, and suddenly he’s holding two knives in each hand. I blink, trying to figure out where the fuck he just pulled them from, but the movement was too fast.
“You didn’t tell me you like knives.” He grins with all his teeth. “We’re going to have so much fun.”
Atlas plucks a slender blade from Finn and passes it to me. “You know how to use it?”
“More or less.” It feels heavier than I’m used to, but it fits perfectly in my palm.
“Get rid of that other shit,” Atlas insists.
There’s nowhere to hide, but I turn away from Orion, tilting my body toward the window before plucking the shiv from the front of my dress.
“Holy shit,” Orion laughs.
I try to tuck the new blade demurely down my gown, setting the shiv on my lap.
Orion grabs the shiv before I’m done, and when I turn to him, he’s examining the sharpened length of plastic with respect. “There’s dried blood on this.”
“I cleaned it.” But I’d used it enough times. Mostly as a deterrent. I’d go somewhere worse than prison if I ever killed one of the OCC’s precious omegas.
Finn snatches the shiv. “Mine now.” He picks at the dried blood and shoots me an affectionate smile.
Weirdo.
Atlas sighs. “Whatever happened to you before… That’s not going to happen again.” He fixes each of his pack mates with a stare. “You’re under our protection for as long as you’re with the pack. Understood?” Everyone nods, but it’s Orion he looks to for the final approval.
“Agreed.” Orion pats my knee. “We can coexist.”
I let out a breath from my soul.
The more they let me in, the more worried I am that I won’t be able to leave.
It’s a pain in the ass doing makeup in a moving car, even one as smooth as this limo, but I’m in a full face by the time we reach the ball.
Craig smiles like a dog with a ham bone when Orion steps out. His lips curl when I follow at the omega’s side.
Or maybe he scowls because Orion offers me his hand.
My prince.
Fuck, I have to kill that thought, but Orion’s so perfect.
He’s only slightly shorter than the alphas, just the right height to be my escort. I try to clutch his sleeve more than his toned forearm, but when we cross from the limo into the posh manor housing the ball, I want to climb him like a kitten in a tree that not even a team of shirtless firemen could coax back to the ground.
The old-school mansion opens up to a grand foyer with two grander staircases and a chandelier with more bling than a mine for blood diamonds. It’s packed. Wall-to-wall alphas and a handful of omegas tightly protected in circles of bulky men.
The Wyvern alphas form a square with Orion and me in the center.
“Is this normal?” I ask, looking from guest to guest. Every other dude looks like secret service with football shoulders and a not-so-concealed carry.
“The Patricks’ donors are all high profile. See there?” Orion nudges me. “That’s Senator Patrick and his pack, with his omega—”
“Noelle.” My stomach deflates.
“You know her?” Atlas glances over his shoulder.
“Yes,” I answer in a sickly rasp. My ears buzz like a swarm of wasps is nesting in my throat.
I always thought karma would do its work on the evil bitch. But here she is, swilling a glass printed with her designer lipstick, giggling on the arm of a pack of politicians, and wearing a red, crystal-crusted gown that makes her look like a poisonous rose.
“She was the ringleader,” Jett offers without turning. “She put Lilah in the hospital.”
The guys’ heads whip to him, maybe wondering where the fuck he got that information.
Because how the fuck did he get that information?
I never named names. I never narked.
“It was that bad?” Orion casually rubs my hand where it rests on his arm.
I squirm, suddenly more focused on his touch than the slow reveal of all my sad, dark secrets. “I survived. And I doubt she remembers me.”
I hope she doesn’t remember me.
“You don’t have to greet the hosts. I’ll speak to them for the pack.” Atlas moves at the head of our formation, and the crowd parts in front of his overwhelming dominance. The beta servers dive out of his path the way you’d expect, but just as many alphas recoil as he leads us across the glittering ballroom.
“Table’s over there.” Hunter nods to a central table, where over-the-top orchid centerpieces decorate a white tablecloth set with sparkling crystal, and it’s all so gaudy, so wasteful, and so freaking beautiful that I know Noelle had a hand in planning.
She always loved to flash her cash.
Orion holds out my chair, and my stomach does a barrel roll. Everyone’s watching the Wyverns. Their attention sears my bare shoulders, and I can feel them wondering who the hell I am to the most notorious pack in town.
Orion slips into the seat next to me, thin-lipped. “Everyone’s staring.”
“At you or me?”
“Both.” Finn drops onto my other side, sliding his chair close. “We have the hottest omegas.”
I shouldn’t let him in my bubble, but the scent of blood orange and gunpowder reassures me just as much as it does when he starts playing with his knives. Finn licks his lips, meeting our watchers stare for stare, and every alpha, beta, or omega who meets his eye flinches the fuck away.
Atlas sits next to Orion, and Jett and Hunter fill out our table, which thank the sweet lord, only has enough chairs for our six.
“Drinks?” Orion asks.
“Drinks.” I nod. Lots and lots of drinks.
“Be right back.” Hunter heads for the bar.
As soon as he disappears, an alpha steps into his place.
“Atlas,” the man rumbles, offering a bone-crushing handshake.
They trade greetings and news while I pretend I don’t notice the guy checking out my neck from the corner of his eye. I fiddle with my fancy cloth napkin, wondering if I should just tie it into a scarf.
When the first guy disappears, another takes his place, then another, and another, pack leader after pack leader, all wagging their tails to make an impression on Wyvern Pack.
I sink deeper and deeper in my chair until I hear a giggle like breaking glass.
“Lilah Darling? Is that you?”
I whirl, gripping my butter knife.
Noelle Patrick smiles a smile so toxic her scarlet lipstick should give off smoke. The red of her sleek gown sets off dark hair arranged with sparkling crystal hairpins, and if not for that subtle poisonous smirk, and the shine of malice in her eye that everyone else mistakes as charm, you could believe she’s the perfect pack princess.
Noelle has a Ken doll on her arm. Her pack leader’s smile is so plastic, his hair so perfectly smooth, I’m already bracing for all kinds of bullshit about strippers, golf, and tax evasion.
“It’s so wonderful to see you.” Noelle’s gaze drops to my neck, and I can feel her calculating. “Is this your new pack?”
Half of me wants to tuck and roll under the tablecloth, but I’ll die before I show weakness to my childhood bully. “I’m their guest.”
“You’re the talk of the party.” Noelle’s alpha flashes me a political rally grin, offering his hand. “Senator Charles Patrick.”
The arrogance of announcing yourself by your title fits the guy so perfectly. Before I can take the handshake that looks as welcoming as a dead pigeon, Finn intercepts.
“Charlie.” He shakes like he’s trying to dislocate the senator’s shoulder
.
“Mr. Finnegan. Ah. Nice to see you again.” Charles steals back his hand a little too quickly.
“Senator.” Atlas slides between me and our guests, and his broad back cuts off my view of them.
Did he just shield me?
I’m trembling, gripping the butter knife so tight its scallop-shell design embosses my palm. Scooting his chair closer, Orion gives my hand a sympathetic squeeze.
I almost drop the knife.
My brain can’t do the math to calculate why the guys would protect me.
Like a predator who needs to keep me in her sights, Noelle glides around the table with her mate, putting them on the same side as Jett.
Atlas stands behind my chair. It should make me uncomfortable, but with his body heat at my back, and the subtle promise he’s offering, I’ve never been able to face Noelle so calmly. It also helps that Orion hasn’t let go of my hand, and Finn watches her over three knives buried tip-first in the tablecloth.
Noelle clenches her mate’s arm, but her viper red smile never slips. “What have you been up to all this time, Lilah? Goodness, it’s been ages.”
She says ages, but I remember every day, every corner I turned, and every closet I ducked in to stay out of her way. After Noelle and her drones kicked the shit out of me, I made sure she never spotted me again, keeping my ass hidden until the future senator and his politico-pack gave her the bite that finally removed the bitch from my life. Rachel’s probably been giving her sad status updates that they’ve been laughing over for years.
“Same old,” I answer. “Thanks for saying hi.”
I hope she’ll take a hint and disappear, but Noelle grins like a cat who sees a long tail in the grass. “Message me when you decide to go into rotation. I know so many lovely packs who’d love to have you for a heat.”
I could snatch one of Finn’s knives, vault the table, and slice her throat, but when I let myself play out the fantasy, I’d rather stab her somewhere less vital, ten or a hundred times with the blunt end of my butter knife.
Someone rumbles. Maybe it’s me, but I can’t look away from Noelle. We lock in a stare, and her pointed chin wobbles when I won’t back down. She’s used to me running and hiding, the first one to give in.
I’m not that girl anymore.