This is the kind of thing Cass should be making.
But he’s unconscious.
Maybe even dying.
And we simply couldn’t wait for him to get worse.
Warren stands beside me in the crush of bodies, jaw locked, eyes cold and narrowed. He’s wearing his best suit for this. Dark charcoal with a matching shirt, pressed crisp with his tie knotted perfectly at his throat. He looks like he’s walking into a board meeting instead of…whatever the hell this place is.
I tug at the collar of my button-up. It’s the nicest one I own, forest green, paired with my best slacks. No tie. I don’t do ties, but even dressed up, I feel out of place here.
Every alpha around us is posturing, circling, eyeing each other like wolves ready to fight over a carcass. The air is thick with pheromones, smoke from the central fire, and anticipation that makes my skin crawl.
“This is insane,” I murmur, leaning closer so only Warren hears. “Cass should be here.”
Warren exhales slowly. The breath looks steady, but the faint tremor in it betrays him. “We don’t have another option.”
He’s right. And it kills me.
We move deeper into the clearing, past the roaring fire, past the makeshift bar lined with already drunk alphas, past the stage wired with lights and sound equipment. Voices pulse around us, laughter too sharp, arguments too loud.
My instincts bristle. Hackles rising. Muscles coiled and ready, even though I don’t want a fight.
“This feels like a betrayal,” I say under my breath.
Warren pauses for a moment. And in that brief slip, grief flickers through him, before it vanishes just as fast. “Letting him die would be worse,” he says.
I nod, even though his words scrape something raw inside me.
“Come on.” He holds up the brochure we were given when we entered this place. “Let’s check out the display room.”
We push deeper into the camp, moving toward the biggest tent in the clearing. It’s an enormous forest-green structure stretched tight between towering pines. It rises like a cathedral made of canvas, lanterns casting golden light across its entrance.
Warren and I are a few steps from the flap when a beta steps into our path.
He’s tall for a beta, broad-shouldered, dressed in fitted black with a silver band around his upper arm that seems to mark him as staff. His posture is all practiced calm, but his eyes flicker from me to Warren, then back again.
“Gentlemen,” he says, holding up a hand before we can enter. “Welcome to the display room. A few rules before you go inside.”
Warren tenses beside me. I feel it in the shift of air, the subtle stiffening of his suit jacket.
I force my hands loose at my sides.
The beta continues, tone careful but firm, like he’s reciting something rote and non-negotiable.
“First rule: No crossing the barriers. If you cross a barrier or attempt to scent, provoke, or command an omega, you will be escorted out of the Morder.”
My stomach turns. Warren’s jaw ticks.
“Second rule,” the beta goes on, “No touching the omegas unless invited by staff.”
He meets my eyes for a fraction too long, as if I’m the one he’s worried about.
I swallow hard.
“Third rule,” he says, lowering his voice, “If an omega reacts to you, you alert a handler. Immediately. Do not engage. Do not approach. Do not speak to her unless given explicit permission.”
“Her?” Warren echoes quietly.
