I hook a right then speed to the alpha quad. It’s been a while since I’ve been here, so I draw some attention as I travel through. Few omegas enter this part of campus alone unless they’re courting a pack, but these are extenuating circumstances.
My skin prickles as a pack working out in the yard wolf-whistles in my direction. I clamp my mouth closed to stop from shouting that bench pressing tiny kettle bells will do nothingfor their weedy arms, but I’m spared from saying anything as a female alpha jogging past overhears and yells at him, “Do you think any omega would look twice at your shriveled knot, dude? Keep pressing!”
I snort as she shoots me an apologetic smile and waves before continuing on her way. Not all alphas are assholes.
I zero my attention in on counting down the house numbers.
25. 27…29.This must be it.
The Blandon Pack house looks worse for wear. The mailbox is bulging with soggy envelopes, the lawn is overgrown, and a few beer cans lie in the grass alongside a deflated basketball. There are no personal touches. If not for the stack of pizza boxes piled next to the front door, I’d think they moved out months ago.
Squaring my shoulders, I suck in a deep breath. It’s now or never.
I hold my chin up high as I park and stride to their front door, willing my feet forward when all I want to do is turn around. I attempt to close my nostrils from the assault of the rotting smell emanating from the takeout boxes at my feet before trying the doorbell. It doesn’t work—go figure—so I hammer on the wood.
No answer.
I make my way to the window, peering through the grubby glass to see if there’s any movement inside. The interior looks as scruffy as the outside with dirty clothes strewn over the sofa, empty chip bags scattered across the coffee table, and a decaying sandwich poking out from underneath a cushion.
I head back to the front where I bang on the door again. Frustrated and grossed out, I’m about to turn around when the door finally opens.
“Are you lost, omega?” a male voice slurs from the darkened doorway.
Shea Cockburn leans against the door frame, his bleary, red-rimmed eyes and his repulsive scent hitting me like a slap to the face. The smell of stale beer and his BO-baked clothes make my stomach churn. I reflexively take a step back, recoiling.
Hoping my expression doesn’t show my disgust, I cross my arms, peering over his shoulder into the dingy hallway. “Is Tyler in?”
“Maybe.” Shea narrows his eyes in curiosity, opening the door wider. The motion of the door wafts more of his scent in my direction. It has a distinct yeasty undertone, overlaid with an overpowering, synthetic, fruity smell. “Who’s asking?”
“Step aside, Shea.” Tyler appears behind him, baring his teeth in what I assume is meant to be a smile. “Don’t be rude to our guest.”
Unlike his packmate, Tyler at least appears to have showered today. However, his button-down shirt and slacks are overly formal, giving the impression that he’s trying too hard. They’re also a size too small, making his movements jerky and wooden. He’s shorter than Shea and only an inch taller than me at 5′8′′. While I’m tall for an omega, it’s still unusual to find an alpha below 6′.
Tyler quickly smooths his thinning brown hair to one side, presumably to disguise his premature balding. It’d be better if he shaved it all off since he’s not fooling anyone, but I bite my tongue. He smells oddly sterile, like pure ethanol with a splash of baby powder, plus a stinging whiff of pine needles to round it off.
“A hot guest.” Kyro lets out a low whistle from behind Tyler. Unfortunately, he smells as bad as his twin—nasty cheap cologne and booze. Kyro and Shea are identical. They’re bulky in stature—all muscle with no neck. If you were to draw them, they’d have a profile similar to Sponge Bob.
“Enough.” Tyler hip checks Kyro. “What can we help you with, omega? Do you need directions?”
“Actually, I came to see your pack. I’m withTheValley Voice.” I show him my lanyard. “I want to speak to you about what happened at the speed scenting mixer.”
Tyler’s lips purse like he’s sucking on a bitter lemon, giving his pock-marked face a drawn, unhealthy appearance. “We’re not talking about that.” He shoves Shea out of the way then lunges for the door handle with surprising speed for such a scrawny guy. “There’s no proof?—”
“Wait!” I stick my foot in the doorway before he closes it. “I just want to talk, okay? I have a proposition for you.”
“A proposition?” He eyes me up and down before a flash of recognition appears in his watery eyes. “You’re Kady Sinclair.”
“Yes, I am.” I don’t usually use my name as leverage, but I can tell from the way Tyler’s chest puffs out that he’s the type of alpha who responds well to status. “Now can we talk inside? Please?”
“Fine.” Gnawing on his cheek, he reluctantly steps aside. “But you better make it quick. We have places to be.”
As soon as I step over the threshold, the combination of their three scents makes me want to take a shower and scrub my skin for hours. Gross doesn’t even begin to describe it.
“The living room’s this way,” Tyler says as Kyro kicks a garbage bag out of my path like it’s a soccer ball. “Our housekeeper is stopping by later.”
“Uh-huh.” My gaze sweeps over the inches of dust along the floorboards and the suspicious brown stains deeply ingrained in the filthy carpet. From the looks of it, no one has cleaned in here for months, but I’m not going to call Tyler out on his bullshit when I need his help. “No problem.”
After leading me into their living room, Tyler gestures to the sofa where there’s only a tiny section that’s not covered in take-out menus and discarded food boxes. “Take a seat.”
