Too big.
Too much.
Too intense.
But her eyes hold nothing but affection as she nuzzles into my neck. "Perfect," she whispers. "You're perfect for me. My alpha."
Something breaks open inside my chest.
Something I walled off years ago.
My alpha…?
My scarred hand comes up to cradle her cheek, thumb brushing across this perfect omega's flushed skin with reverence.
My omega.
Mine.
Chapter
Thirty
THANE
"So..." Whiskey says, dragging out the word as he holds up a broken lamp base. "Think we can hot glue this, or should we just chuck it in the 'fucked beyond repair' pile?"
I glance up from where I'm sweeping shattered glass into a dustpan, fixing him with a flat stare. "What do you think?"
Whiskey shrugs his massive shoulders and tosses the lamp base into the cardboard box we've designated for things too destroyed to salvage. The ceramic shatters further on impact, because of course it does.
"Gentle," Plague chides from across the room, where he's methodically righting furniture and sorting debris into neat piles. Despite having just been in a knock-down brawl, he somehow looks immaculate again. His long black hair is pulled back in a perfect low ponytail, and he's changed into a fresh black turtleneck that probably costs more than most people's entire wardrobes.
"Gentle went out the window about the same time Wraith put your head through the drywall," Whiskey retorts.
"He missed," Plague says primly.
"By like an inch."
"An inch is the difference between a hospital visit and a minor inconvenience."
I tune out their bickering, focusing instead on the mess that used to be our living room. The damage is extensive. One couch is salvageable, but the other is completely wrecked, its frame snapped and cushions slashed open. The coffee table is in splinters. There's a Whiskey-shaped dent in one wall and several holes the size of Wraith's fist in another. Glass crunches underfoot no matter how much I sweep.
And from upstairs, faintly but unmistakably, comes a rhythmic thumping.
I feel my eye twitch.
Whiskey's head tilts, a shit-eating grin spreading across his face as he catches the sound. "Is that?—"
"Don't," I warn, pointing the broom at him like a gun.
"But they're?—"
"I know what they're doing."
"Our boy's getting some!" Whiskey's grin widens, his eyes gleaming with unholy amusement. "Who'd have thought feral beast bro would be the first to?—"
"Can we please," I say through gritted teeth, "focus on cleaning this disaster zone?"
