Plague looks up from organizing broken picture frames, his pale eyes darting toward the ceiling as another, louder thump and growl echoes from above. "I have to say, I'm surprised a normal bed frame would be structurally sound enough to withstand?—"
"Do you both," I snap, cutting him off, "want to die tonight? Is that what's happening here?"
"Just making observations," Plague says mildly, but even he can't hide the slight quirk at the corner of his mouth.
I jam my hand in my pocket, fish out the remote I yanked out of the wall a few minutes ago, and aim it at the TV. The screen flickers to life, and I crank the volume up to max level. A hockey game blares through the speakers, the announcer's voice booming through the room.
"—AND JENKINS WITH THE SAVE OF THE SEASON! ABSOLUTELY INCREDIBLE REFLEXES FROM THE BLUE JACKETS' NETMINDER?—"
"Holy shit," Whiskey yells, clapping his hands over his ears. "Are you trying to make us deaf?"
I point upward and give him a flat look.
The message is clear.
Yes. I'd rather go deaf than listen to my brother fucking our omega senseless.
Plague rolls his eyes but resumes sorting through the wreckage.
"At least put on something romantic, bro," Whiskey says, shoving the remains of our coffee table into a trash bag that's already tearing on the side. "You're gonna ruin their ambience."
I shoot him a look. "Isn't this bothering you? Did you not just get the pack house turned upside down because you decided to break into the loft?"
Whiskey shrugs. "I mean, I'm obviously pretty fucking jealous, but your reaction to this shit is funny enough it's helping me put it aside."
I growl at him, but I put on thunderstorm sounds instead.
For a few minutes, we work in relative peace, the roaring TV drowning out most of the sounds from upstairs. But we all hear it anyway—a deep, feral snarl followed by a high, feminine cry.
I close my eyes, counting to ten in my head. When I open them, both Plague and Whiskey are staring at the ceiling with identical expressions of shock.
"I didn't know he could make that sound," Plague says, his clinical tone betrayed by the slight widening of his eyes.
"Apparently," Whiskey says dryly, "there's a lot we don't know about him."
Another loud growl upstairs that drowns out the thunder, and I slam the dustpan down harder than necessary, sending a spray of glass shards across the floor I just swept.
"Fuck," I mutter, bending down to clean it up again.
Whiskey's watching the ceiling with his head cocked to one side like a confused golden retriever, mouth slightly open. "You know, for a guy who can't talk, bro's gotgame. Who'd have thought?"
"Nobody thought that," I snap, though that's not entirely true. "Nobody was thinking about Wraith's sex life until you opened your mouth."
"I kind of have," says Whiskey. "You should see the shit some of the fangirls say about him in the chats."
"Youreallyshouldn't be looking us up online," Plague says to him.
Whiskey raises his eyebrows at Plague. "What have you seen that has you so mentally scarred?"
"Plenty," Plague grits out.
My phone rings in my pocket, the generic tone cutting through the thunderstorm sounds still blasting from the TV. I fish it out, glancing at the screen.
Coach.
Perfect. The last fucking thing I need.
I lower the TV volume slightly—it isn't fucking helping anyway—as I swipe to answer. "Coach," I greet, forcing my voice into something resembling professional calm. "What's up?"
