Whiskey laughs. "And it's not getting to you? Mr. Perfect Control?"
"I didn't say that." I tie off the last garbage bag. "But one of us needs to maintain some semblance of rationality."
"Rationality," Whiskey repeats, raking a hand through his already messy hair. "Here we go again. You know, that's rich coming from you. You're not rational, you just overthink everything."
"And you don't think at all," I mutter.
Whiskey steps closer, invading my personal space in that way he always does, like boundaries are suggestions rather than rules. "Oh yeah?"
I step back immediately. "I'm going to shower."
He makes another remark as I leave, but I don't stick around to find out what it was.
I shut the door to my suite harder than necessary, my shoulders tense with strain I refuse to acknowledge. The spacious bedroom offers immediate relief—clean lines, minimal furniture, everything in its place.
No broken glass. No splintered wood. No physical evidence of alpha rage.
And no lingering scent of honeysuckle.
Or so I tell myself.
The shower beckons, promise of hot water and steam to wash away the evening's chaos. I shed my clothes methodically, folding each piece neatly despite knowing they'll go straight into the hamper. Control in small things. It's what keeps me sane in a house of alphas who operate on instinct more often than reason.
Especially Whiskey with his impulsive, boundary-pushing presence.
The bathroom is spotless white tile and matte black fixtures. I turn the hot water on and step inside, letting the scalding heat pound against my tense shoulders. The cascading water drowns out any sounds from above, but it does nothing to block the phantom scent that seems to have embedded itself in my nasal passages.
Wild honeysuckle. Summer rain. Warmth and sweetness with an edge that makes my blood run hot.
Her.
The omega.
Ouromega.
I close my eyes and tilt my face into the spray, trying to focus on the shower itself—water droplets hitting my skin, steam filling my lungs—rather than the memory of that scent.
Or the sounds she made.
Or the knowledge that she's currently being knotted by Wraith while Whiskey, Thane, and I clean up the mess of our collective frustration.
The thought sends an unwelcome spike of heat down my spine. I reach for the shampoo and scrub my scalp with more force than necessary, as if I could physically erase the desires taking root.
It doesn't work, of course.
Nothing ever does.
I've spent years perfecting the art of restraint. Of maintaining the appropriate distance. Of never revealing the current beneath the still surface. It's what makes me effective on the ice.
But this—this omega, this honeysuckle storm that's crashed into our lives—threatens to unravel years of careful discipline.
I rinse the shampoo from my hair, watching it swirl down the drain. If only unwanted thoughts could be so easily washed away.
When I finally step out of the shower, I feel marginally more in control. I dry off roughly before wrapping the towel around my waist. In the mirror, my reflection stares back at me. Damp black hair falling past my shoulders, the jagged scar above my heart flushed from the heat.
Evidence of my own mistakes.
My own failures of control.
