Four alphas. One omega. A beach house. A heat. A storm.
This is literally the setup to one of the romance novels I brought with me, except in those it’s sexy and everyone wants it. This is just... a disaster.
“We’ll stay tonight,” Malik says finally, in the tone of someone making a command decision. “Wait out the worst of the storm. First thing tomorrow morning, we leave and figure out alternative arrangements.” His dark eyes shift to me. “If that’s okay with you.”
My mouth opens and closes. I’m suddenly at a loss.
I planned my entire week. I didn’t plan this.
“I don’t think—” Dax starts.
“Do you have a better idea?” Malik asks.
Silence.
“We’ll keep to separate parts of the house,” Malik continues. “We’ll be respectful of boundaries. This is just one night. We’re all adults. We can be professional about this.”
“Professional,” Dax says, like the word tastes bitter. “With the omega who accused us of corporate espionage at the Sweetwater Event Planners conference.”
“I didn’t accuse you of espionage,” I snap. “I accused you of poaching my vendors and undercutting my prices. Which you did.”
“That’s called competition,” Cole says. “Maybe if your prices weren’t so inflated?—”
“My prices reflect quality work,” I shoot back. “Something you’d understand if you spent less time on flashy presentations and more time on actual client care.”
“Our clients love us,” Jalen says quietly.
“So do mine,” I retort. “The ones you haven’t stolen.”
The temperature in the doorway has dropped about twenty degrees.
“One night,” Malik repeats firmly. “We can survive one night of being civil to each other.”
I want to argue. I want to tell them to leave, to take their chances with the storm, to just get out of my week and my space and my life.
But I’m not heartless. And I’m not stupid.
They’re right. Driving into a coastal storm is dangerous. And as much as I hate it (and I really, really hate it), I can survive one night sharing a house with the Knightley Pack.
I’ve survived worse.
“Fine,” I say, holding back my sigh. “One night. But I’m taking the master bedroom. You four can have the sectional. And stay out of the kitchen. I just made fresh cinnamon rolls.”
I march back inside, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs. I head straight for the kitchen island, placing a protective hand over my bowl of frosting as if I expect them to steal that, too.
Heavy boots thud against the hardwood floor as they file in behind me, dragging expensive leather duffels and tactical-looking backpacks. They fill the space instantly. The entryway, which had felt spacious and airy five minutes ago, now feels suffocatingly small.
Cole drops a heavy bag onto the dining table with a thud.
“Careful,” I snap, my nerves fraying. “That table is mahogany. If you scratch it, I’m not losing my security deposit.”
“It’s a rental, Sierra,” Cole says, flashing a grin that doesn’t reach his eyes. “It’s industrial-grade furniture designed for tourists. It can handle a gym bag.”
“Just like you assume every venue can handle your ego?” I shoot back.
“Okay, claws out,” Cole murmurs, though he looks delighted by the friction.
Dax moves to the kitchen counter,mykitchen counter, and sets down a case of water bottles right next to my cooling cinnamon rolls.
