"Qu'est-ce que tu fous ici?"
The French words come out sharp and clipped, cutting through the evening air like a blade.
What the fuck are you doing here?
I am oddly pleased that three years of high school French are finally paying off in the most unexpected way.
Bastien rolls his eyes; that cocky smirk never wavers.
"Je suis juste curieux, petit frere." He spreads his hands in mock innocence. "Being a nosy fucker, what does it look like?" His gaze slides to me, then back to his brother. "But I am curious why you are hanging around with this one. You are not a fuck boy. Do not have the social skills for it."
He pauses, tilting his head with theatrical consideration.
"Probably still a virgin, are you not?"
Wait.
What?
I glance at Etienne, whose face has gone red with either rage or embarrassment. Possibly both. His jaw is clenched so tight I can see the muscle jumping beneath his skin.
Is he actually a virgin? Not that it matters. Not that it is any of my business. Completely irrelevant information that I have no reason to be curious about.
But... interesting. Filing that away for absolutely no reason whatsoever.
"Fuck off, Bastien." Etienne's voice is tight, controlled, barely leashing the violence that is clearly simmering beneath the surface.
"Make me, brother." Bastien takes a step forward, his posture shifting into something challenging. His scent spikes with aggression, filling the space between them. "You think because you are about to hit bulk season that you can out-fight me? You think Coach Moreau's little pet project can actually take on the real deal?"
He laughs, and it is an ugly sound.
Sharp and cruel and nothing like his brother's warm amusement.
"Please. You are still the same pathetic little?—"
"Oh my god."
The words burst out of me before I can stop them, frustration overriding self-preservation.
Both Laurent brothers turn to stare at me with identical expressions of surprise.
I straighten my spine, channeling every ounce of confidence I have been faking all day. Every bit of bravado that I have had to manufacture just to survive the past few hours.
"Si vous voulez faire vos conneries de freres comme si j'etais un trophee," I say, letting my rusty high school French sharpen with annoyance, "pouvez-vous le faire plus tard? J'ai eu une tres longue journee. J'aimerais vraiment m'installer dans ma chambre avant minuit. Merci."
If you want to do your sibling bullshit like I am some grand prize at a carnival, can you do it later? I have had a very longday. I would really like to settle into my room before midnight. Thanks.
The silence that follows is deeply satisfying.
Bastien's eyes go wide. His mouth opens, closes, opens again. He clearly did not expect the Omega he used to torment to speak fluent-ish French back at him while telling him to shove his family drama where the sun does not shine.
Etienne looks equally stunned, but there is something else in his expression. Something warm…that looks dangerously like admiration.
Yeah. That is right. The little mouse has claws now. Surprise.
But the satisfaction is short-lived.
Because Bastien's surprise curdles into something uglier. Meaner. His expression hardens, and before I can react, his hand shoots out.
