Blood roars in my ears as I stare at Thane, who's just walked through the door limping like he was just spit out of a meat grinder. But I don't give a single solitary fuck about his injuries right now.
Not when he just casually mentioned the demise of my bike.
My pride and joy.
My Harley Davidson Road Glide Special with custom red metal flake paint that cost more than most people's cars.
Thane meets my eyes, unflinching despite the fact that he looks like absolute warmed-over shit. "Not me specifically. Wraith, too."
"Oh, well that makes all the goddamn difference!" I throw my hands up, pacing the living room. "What the fuck happened?"
"We had a disagreement," Thane says with infuriating calm as he eases himself onto the couch, wincing slightly. "In the parking garage."
"Adisagreement?" My voice rises an octave. "What kind of fucking disagreement ends with my bike destroyed? Did you just decide, 'Hey, let's murder Whiskey's Harley while we're at it!'? Was that part of the goddamn plan?"
"It wasn't planned at all," Thane mutters, pressing a hand against his ribs. "Things escalated."
I'm about three seconds from punching something—preferably not Thane's already bruised face, but I'm considering it. "Things escalated," I repeat flatly. "Thingsescalated."
"You sound like a broken record," Plague observes, which earns him a glare hot enough to melt steel. He's been perched on the arm of the couch, watching without a hint of emotion for my bike.
"Andyousound like you don't understand that Hogzilla was my baby." I stab a finger toward him. "And these two assholes just committed infanticide."
Thane sighs, the sound rattling painfully in his chest. "We'll replace it. Insurance will cover it."
I laugh, but it comes out harsh and brittle. "You think you can just replace a custom build I spent two years perfecting? You think insurance gives a shit about the hand-tooled leather seat or the custom exhaust?"
"Whiskey—" Thane starts.
"No. Fuck that." I'm too wound up to hear whatever excuse he's about to offer. The urge to hit something—to break something—claws its way up my spine. "What was so goddamn important that you had to demolish my bike over it?"
The question hangs in the air between us. I can see Thane mentally weighing how much to share, which only pisses me off more. I'm so fucking sick of secrets in this pack.
"I confronted him about Valek," Thane says finally, his dark eyes watching me carefully. "Tried to get answers."
"And?"
"And he nearly crushed my windpipe before telling me he was going for pho."
The absurdity of the statement momentarily derails my anger. "What?"
"Pho," Thane repeats. "Vietnamese soup."
"I know what fucking pho is, it's fuckin' delicious," I snap. "But why would he—" I stop, the pieces suddenly clicking together. "The omega."
Thane's head snaps up, his eyes narrowing. "What omega?"
Too late, I realize my mistake. Plague and I hadn't told Thane about our suspicions or our shared dreams. About the evidence we found in the tunnels. About the honeysuckle scent that still lingers in my nose even days later.
"What. Omega?" Thane repeats, his voice dropping into that dangerous alpha register that makes people shit themselves.
I glance at Plague, who's watching me with a clear "I told you so" expression that makes me want to throttle him. We were supposed to wait to confront Wraith, and here I am blurting it out to Thane like a fucking dumbass.
"We think Wraith is hiding an omega," I admit, figuring the jig is up anyway. "Plague and I have been having these dreams—the same dreams—about an omega in the maintenance tunnels. And we found evidence."
"Evidence," Thane echoes, his expression unreadable.
"Blood in the tunnels," Plague interjects smoothly. "A dented fire extinguisher that was likely used as a weapon. Signs of a struggle. And most importantly, an omega's scent lingering in the showers. Honeysuckle."
