"Just saying, your bro might not get out much, but damn, he's making up for lost?—"
"Okay, enough," I snap, cutting him off. "We need to figure this out. Plague, can you get contractors here first thing in the morning?"
Plague nods, already pulling out his phone. "I know someone who owes me a favor."
"Of course you do," I mutter, not even wanting to know what kind of favor someone owes Plague. "Whiskey, we need to get this place cleaned up enough that it's not a literal death trap."
Whiskey salutes sloppily. "Aye aye, Captain."
"And for the love of god, someone needs to tell Wraith that Valek is coming tomorrow and that he needs to... to..." I gesture vaguely at the ceiling, where the thumping has momentarily stopped.
"Finish fucking our omega senseless?" Whiskey suggests with a straight face.
I hurl a couch cushion at his head. He catches it, laughing.
"I'll inform Wraith of the situation," Plague offers. "Once they're... finished."
"And how exactly do you plan to know when they're done?" I ask, immediately regretting the question.
Plague taps his nose. "The scent profile will change. Post-coital pheromones?—"
"I'mbeggingyou to stop talking," I interrupt, holding up a hand.
"You asked," he says with a shrug.
"My mistake." I stand up, surveying the disaster zone one more time. "I need to make some calls, see if I can get some new furniture delivered before Valek gets here."
"Good luck with that," Whiskey snorts. "Most places don't offer 'alpha rage replacement furniture' this late at night."
"Then we'll make furniture out of fucking milk crates," I growl, rubbing my temples as I feel the last of my patience evaporating. "I don't care what we have to do, but we need this place looking semi-normal by tomorrow at noon. Got it?"
They both nod, but before either can respond verbally, a cry echoes from upstairs that makes us all freeze.
"Wraith!"
The omega—ouromega—screaming my brother's name.
For a moment, none of us move. The air between the three of us feels like it was just electrified. My body responds instinctively to her cries, to the honeysuckle scent that's suddenly blooming in my nose despite the distance. Blood rushes south, and I have to fight the urge to march upstairs and break into the damn loft myself. Even though I just tackled Whiskey over it.
My head is suddenly pounding, the dull throb behind my eyes intensifying. This day has been too much. Way too fuckingmuch. And I need to get out of here before I lose what little composure I have left.
"I'm going to bed," I announce abruptly, already heading for the stairs. "Early day tomorrow."
"It's early, isn't it?" Plague asks.
Whiskey groans, looking around at the mess surrounding us. "We still have work to do."
"Yes, becauseyoutried to get into the loft. And I have a migraine," I growl, not bothering to look back at them. "Getting punched in the head multiple times tends to do that."
I can feel their gazes on my back as I climb the stairs, but I don't care. Let them think what they want. I just need to be alone, away from the chaos and the constant reminders of everything that's spiraling out of my control.
All I can do is hope tomorrow is a fresh start that brings some semblance of normalcy. But deep down, I know better. Normal left the building the moment that honeysuckle scent entered our lives.
Shit's only going to get weirder from here.
Chapter
Thirty-One
