PLAGUE
Islam a broken lamp into the garbage bag with more force than necessary, watching it shatter further inside the plastic. The crash doesn't satisfy the tension coiled tight in my shoulders, and I exhale slowly through my nose.
Three hours of cleaning up this disaster, and we've barely made a dent in the destruction.
"Careful there, Plague. If looks could kill, that garbage bag would be six feet under." Whiskey's drawl grates on my last nerve as he lounges against the wall, holding a broom but not actually sweeping.
"Are you planning to help, or just provide commentary?" I ask, keeping my voice level despite the irritation simmering beneath my skin.
"I am helping. See?" He makes one token sweep with the broom, pushing glass shards two inches to the left. "Besides, my back fuckin' hurts after Thane threw me into that wall."
"Your back wouldn't hurt if you hadn't tried to break into Wraith's loft," I point out, kneeling to pick up pieces of what wasonce a coffee table. And I liked that table, too. It was easy to wipe down and didn't have many grooves for crumbs to get into. "What did you think would happen?"
"I didn't think the big guy would go full grizzly bear on us." Whiskey finally starts sweeping properly, though his movements are lazy. "Actually, that's not fair to bears. They're more reasonable."
I give him a flat look. "You tried to force your way into his private space while he has an omega in heat up there."
"An omega who's our pack's scent match." Whiskey's voice drops lower, gaining an edge I recognize all too well. I've heard it during games when he's about to deck someone who's crossed a line. "Don't pretend you're not feeling it, Plague."
The honeysuckle scent still lingers in the air, even down here. Faint but unmistakable, sweet yet sharp, calling to something deep inside me. I've been deliberately breathing through my mouth for the past hour.
"What I'm feeling is that you're not pulling your weight." I straighten up, tossing broken wood into the trash. "And I'd like to finish this century."
Whiskey sets the broom aside and crosses his arms. "You're really not gonna talk about it? About her?"
"What is there to talk about?" I keep my voice clinical, detached. "Wraith found our scent match. Good for him."
"Good for him?" Whiskey repeats, eyebrows shooting up. "That's all you have to say about the omega we've been sharing dreams about?"
"What do you want me to say?" I snap, finally losing my composure. "That I'm thrilled about this situation? That I'm delighted we have an omega in heat upstairs with Wraith while we clean up the aftermath of you trying to break into his space like a damn caveman? That I'm overjoyed we're now going to have Valek—the one who got knocked out by said omega—livinghere?"
Whiskey stares at me, momentarily speechless. Then his face breaks into a grin. "There he is. I was wondering when you'd drop the ice prince act."
I turn away, focusing on cleaning again. "We need to finish this."
"You didn't answer my question," he persists, stepping closer. "You can't tell me you don't feel it too."
The problem is, Idofeel it. The omega's scent calls to me in ways I've never experienced before, lighting up receptors I didn't know existed. But I've spent my entire life keeping my emotions under tight control. I don't lose it the way other alphas do.
"It doesn't matter what I feel," I say finally. "She's with Wraith."
"For now," Whiskey says, something knowing in his tone. "But that's not how it works with a pack scent match, is it?"
I straighten up, fixing him with a hard stare. "Do you even hear yourself? You're talking about her like she's property to be shared."
"That's not what I meant," he backtracks, having the decency to look slightly abashed. "I just meant?—"
"I know what you meant." I cut him off, picking up another garbage bag. "Let's just finish cleaning."
"You didn't," Whiskey grumbles, but for once, he drops it. He grabs the broom again and actually puts effort into his sweeping. We work in relative silence for the next half hour, broken only by occasional grunts as we move furniture or Whiskey's growled curses.
The omega's scent grows stronger as night deepens, wafting down from the vents and permeating the air around us. I catch Whiskey lifting his head several times, nostrils flaring, his pupils dilating slightly each time.
"You should go to your room," I finally tell him, noticing the way his movements have become increasingly agitated. "I can finish up here."
"I'm fine," he insists, but his voice has a slight rasp to it.
"You're not fine. The scent is getting to you."
