Not marked.
But tell that to my instincts.
By the end of it, something in my chest is crawling—like the emotions I outran this morning have caught up and are sitting on my ribs, heavy, claws digging in.
I tell myself I’m just going home, just to check in on the situation.
Pack solidarity.
Whatever.
But my alpha knows why I’m really driving faster than usual. Why my hands keep tightening on the wheel at every red light.
When I walk up to the house and push open the door, the first thing I hear is Milton’s laugh—loud, stupid, happy—and the second thing I “hear” is…
Nothing.
But Ifeelher. Her scent hits me a beat later—mint and green tea, sweet and cool, threaded through the familiar notes of my brothers. It wraps around my nervous system like a soft hand to the throat.
Bayleigh is sitting cross-legged on the couch wearing one of Milton’s hoodies, no scratch that, wearingmyhoodie, actually, but Milton stole it years ago—her hair down, her cheeks soft pink, her body relaxed, omega-soft but steady.
She’s laughing at something he said, shoulders shaking, face lit up like the morning sun. Her green eyes crinkle when she laughs, copper hair slipping loose around her cheeks, and I’m done pretending I’m not interested. The air around her practically glows with contentment and safety, and my alpha settles for the first time all day, just breathing her in.
The second she looks up and sees me?
She smiles. “Hi, Korbin.”
Two words said perfectly. Two words pushed through vocal cords that are still relearning how to trust the world.
Two words that hit me harder than any punch I’ve taken on the ice.
My scent flares without my permission—lower, warmer, instinctively responding to that soft little greeting. To this omega acknowledging me like I’m something more than the asshole who hates her brother.
I stand there like an idiot, like I forgot how to talk, like someone unplugged my brain and cut the cord to my mouth.
“Hey,” I manage, my voice rough, low. “Hi.”
Lincoln raises a brow from the kitchen counter where he’s cutting fruit like he’s in a cooking show, his own scent amused and knowing.
He knows.
Of course he knows.
Alphas can smell when another alpha’s resolve is cracking.
I step further into the room, trying to look normal, and trying not to stare.
Failing miserably.
Because Bayleigh tucks her hair behind her ear—and the movement exposes her implant, the little piece of tech that’s part of her and yet something she hides when she can.
She doesn’t hide it now.
Not from us.
Not in our house. Inherpack’s house, if I’m being honest.
Something tightens behind my ribs.
