Curtis Freedman is one scary fucker.
11
MILES
It’s hard to breathe with the amount of angry alpha pheromones Freedman is pumping out. While there’s a light breeze where we’re standing, they still make the air around us feel thick, as if attempting to freeze us in place. Swallowing hard, I try to string together words that will make him understand what’s happening without telling too much of Caelia’s business to the other alphas in attendance.
That’s her story, and even I haven’t heard it yet, only pieces.
“Caelia doesn’t want to see or speak to you,” he growls.
“She’s perfectly capable of speaking for herself,” I say mildly. “She was sitting with two other people, are you worried they’ll hurt her?”
“What? Of course not,” Freedman sputters. “I have to work tonight, and they’re keeping people from bothering her. Where there’s alcohol, there’s stupidity.”
“I won’t argue that,” Levon says quietly. It’s like we’re all trying to diffuse a bomb. Levon usually throws accelerants into the flames, and I spare a moment of pride for him. The alphawouldn’t have done the same four months ago. “She seemed okay with talking to us. I also asked her for permission to speak to her.”
Freedman only appears slightly mollified, his face angry and mottled with red spots.
“We have a lot of history,” I tell him, sighing. “I realized something when I saw her in New Orleans.”
“What’s that?” Freedman practically growls.
“You’re going to really dislike this,” I add. “Caelia is my scent match.”
There’s a moment of silence before Levon says, “She’s mine too.”
“And mine,” Santos whispers. “Fate has a way of humbling you.”
“This is fucked,” Freedman says. “Caelia has panic attacks, true fear when she sees a hockey player come suddenly too close into her space. I don’t trust anyone with her, much less people I don’t know.”
“I’m not going to remind you that you know me,” I say. “Or that I’ve never specifically done anything to make you believe I’m a different person than I’ve always been. We were both fucked over by the past, Freedman.”
“Maybe so,” he sighs, raking his hand through his hair. “You’re too old for her, Miles. Leave her be. Caelia is trying to build her life.”
“Think about that when she goes into heat,” I say. “I refuse to be indelicate, but biology isn’t going to understand an age difference or the fact that you hate me.”
“I can’t do this right now,” Freedman says, shaking his head. “I’m not going to talk to you about fucking my daughter.”
Santo flinches as if he was struck, leaning around Levon to gape at me.
“I didn’t say it,” I shrug. “We’re leaving now. Please don’t freak out at Caelia about this. I don’t know if she even realizes that we’re scent matches.”
“That depends on a lot of things,” Freedman says cryptically. “Don’t fuck with her heart, boys. She’s had a rough few years.”
His eyes stray to where Santo’s fingers dig into Levon’s side.
“If there’s no place for her, leave her alone.”
Yanking the door open, he lumbers back inside, and the three of us sag as he leaves.
“Why did he look at me like that?” Santo asks, sounding strangled.
“Freedman can read a goddamned room like no one else,” I sigh, calling a ride share through the app. “You’re holding onto Levon for dear life. He’s not homophobic, he can tell you’re in a relationship and doesn’t know how Caelia will fit.”
“Oh,” Santo whispers.
“That was not how I saw any of this going,” Levon says, moving so we can lean against the wall while we wait.
