Torque specs. Timing. Fuel lines.
I lift the wrench and tighten a bolt way too hard. The metal gives with a sharp, ugly squeal before the resistance vanishes. The head spins loose and useless in my grip.
“Fuck,” I snarl, glaring at the stripped bolt. “Get it fucking together,” I growl softly as I push off my stool.
I step back to the small sink at the rear of the garage, turn the tap, and scrub my hands and face clean. Grease spirals down the drain, and I find myself staring at it, watching the dark streaks vanish. I wish like hell I could rinse this feeling out of my body the same way.
My cock has been rock hard all day long.
It’s so fucking painful, it's all I can do not to unbuckle and jerk myself off right here.
I reach down, palming the thick length through the denim and squeezing hard. It's a useless attempt to relieve the pressure. The friction only makes the ache deeper, more insistent.
Footsteps scuff at the edge of the garage, and I jerk my hand away, hitching my jeans up and shifting my stance, tugging the fabric flat like I can bully myself into looking normal. I clear my throat, force my shoulders loose, waiting for Beck to appear.
I know the rhythm of everyone in this house, and Beck’s always had a lighter step, like he’s half-dancing even when he’s walking.
“Hey,” the beta says softly as he pokes his head inside the doorway. “You’ve been in here for a long time.”
“Sorry,” I say, smiling as he steps inside. “I lost track of time.”
Beck smiles at that as he steps farther into the garage, hands tucked into the pockets of one of Grason’s oversized hoodies, the sleeves hanging a little long over his wrists. Loose sweatpants slouch low on his hips, soft and well-worn, and his favorite house shoes scuff quietly against the concrete as he moves.
The flush in his cheeks becomes more obvious as he moves toward me, and there’s a nervous energy rolling off him. His eyes won’t quite settle on me or the bike, darting around the whole room instead.
I lean back against the counter, waiting for him to finally look at me. “What’s up?”
Beck shrugs, then rocks on his heels, that half-dance motion he does when he doesn’t know where to put himself. “Just checking on you,” he says. “Figured you might need a break.”
I keep smiling. “I’m good,” I tell him, even as my body screams the opposite. “The bike's being stubborn.”
Beck nods as he bites his bottom lip.
He looks so…jittery?Or maybe even uncomfortable.
Our beta is a fairly nervous person, with lots of energy to burn, but the look on his face is different. I can’t help but wonder if Tansy’s sudden heat has something to do with it.
Although that would be a little surprising.
I mean, betas aren’t wired like the rest of us. They don’t get pulled under by pheromones or ride the same brutal instinctual highs and lows. Sure, betas can smellsomehormonal changes, but it doesn’t usually rattle them like this.
“Is everything okay?” I ask, keeping my voice neutral.
“Yeah.” Beck rocks back on his heels, then forward again. “I’m…” he trails off, shaking his head before starting again. “I’m fine. Just bored.” He gives me a stiff smile. “Grason ran out to get more stuff for Tansy’s room.”
I can’t help but notice the tension in Beck’s shoulders. His forced brightness. Something is definitely wrong.
I turn it over for a few seconds, running through the obvious possibilities. Too much noise in the house. Too many changes at once. Maybe he’s still worried about Cass.
Cass.
And then realization slides in.
Our pack alpha is fucking a woman. In our house. Claiming her so fucking loudly there’s no escaping the sounds or scents. And while Beck has always been easygoing about sex in general, never getting jealous or bothered if one of us hooks up without him, this isn’t “just” sex.
This is pack-shifting, foundation-altering territory.
“Are you upset?” I blurt out.
