Iris Delacroix.
Quentin goes very, very still. His jaw tightens as his scent shifts beside me, going deeper and more intense, more Alpha-adjacent even though he's technically a Beta. When his eye twitches like that, it means he's either about to murder someone or fall in love. Sometimes both. In this case, I'm betting on both.
"She signed up," he says quietly.
"SHE SIGNED UP."
"For Fab Feb."
"For Fab Feb, Q. The Alpha Auction. Where peoplebidon Alphas for dates. With money. That they exchange for time with said Alphas. Do you understand what I'm telling you?"
"I know what Fab Feb is."
"Then you know what this means."
His grip tightens on my phone. For a second, I genuinely think he might crush it, and I really can't afford a new phone right now.
"There's a catch though," I add. Life is just an endless series of catches. "Chad and Kevin are definitely going to bid. They've been waiting for this since she showed up on campus. Chad's been talking about it in the locker room for weeks. It's literally all he talks about." I’m not sure how Quentin missed all that but he usually keeps to himself.
Quentin's jaw somehow tightens further.
"He said, and I quote, 'She can't reject me if she's contractually obligated to go on a date with me.'"
"That's not how consent works."
"I know."
Silence stretches between us as I watch my brother war with himself for a long moment. Then his expression settles into something a bit darker, something that looks like a promise and a threat rolled into one. "We outbid them."
I gasp so dramatically that I lose my balance, my arms pinwheeling as I nearly topple backward. A couple of guys walking past shoot me a few glares, but I don't care because Quentin just said something that borders on emotionally invested. "Q! Was that competitive spirit? From you?" I clutch my chest like I'm witnessing a miracle, which honestly I might be. "The man who once said emotions were 'inefficient'?"
"I never said that."
"You heavily implied it. Multiple times. I have witnesses. I could produce a signed affidavit if necessary."
He doesn't bother denying it, and he doesn't rise to the bait the way he usually would. Instead, his attention has shifted entirely to the phone still clutched in his hands, his eyes scanning the roster with an intensity I usually only see before a big game.
He searches the other names, and I can practically see the gears turning in his head as he calculates bid amounts and threat levels. His thumb scrolls slowly, like he's memorizing every single person who might stand between us and Iris.
Coach blows the whistle again, the sharp sound cutting through the February air, and the last stragglers start heading for the locker room. Quentin stands first, offering me a hand up, and we walk together toward the athletic building.
Neither of us speaks, but the plan is already forming between us, unspoken and understood the way things always are with us. Twin telepathy or whatever. We've been finishing each other's sentences since we were three years old; planning a coordinated auction bid is nothing.
Finding the money, though, is an entirely different beast.
The locker room hits us with a wall of steam and noise the moment we push through the doors. Guys are everywhere, changing out of practice gear, complaining about the drills Coach ran us through, and making plans for the weekend. Someone's playing music from a tiny phone speaker, some bass-heavy song that's barely audible over the chaos. The whole place smells like sweat and cheap body spray and that particular brand of masculine desperation that only exists in athletic spaces.
It also stinks like Alpha in here, which means my scent-block is failing.Fuck.Quentin and I find our lockers in the back corner, away from the worst of the noise. We change quickly, keeping our voices low enough that no one nearby can hear.
"So we're doing this?" I ask, already knowing the answer. "Together? Package deal?"
"Package deal."
"We pool our money. Outbid everyone. Split the date."
"That's the plan."
"And if Chad cries?"
