He’d thought they werehappy.
Guilt curled in his stomach, a slithering, ugly thing. To Viggo’s knowledge, his and Bjorn’s life had been perfect. They both had jobs that challenged them, more money than they knew what to do with, and most importantly,each other.For Viggo, that had been enough to guarantee his happily ever after.
He should have known that Bjorn needed more. Bjorn was analpha, just like him, and Viggo should have remembered what that meant. He should have remembered that Bjorn’s wolf had the same needs and desires as his own, and that a life of constant submission to another alpha would eventually take its toll.
In truth, Viggo had always thought that Bjorn was simply better than him. He’d thought that Bjorn was able to suppress his alpha instincts and take the submissive role in their relationship without finding it a burden – that he simply didn’t struggle with his wolf the way Viggo did.
Bjorn’s wolf had just seemed to be moretame, for lack of a better word, than the raging beast Viggo grappled with.
He’d been stupid.
Pouring himself a scotch, filling the glass to the top now that Bjorn wasn’t there to judge him for it, he took a sip and carried the glass back to the couch.
He sat, glass held loosely on the armrest, the leather sofa smooth and slippery against the fine wool of his suit-clad thighs. It wasn’t until he leaned back and closed his eyes that it hit him how exhausted he was.
Spreading his legs, letting them push across the carpet and come to rest under the coffee table, Viggo sank into the couch and let the tension leech out of his body.
It felt good to relax, even if just for a minute. With work and worrying about Bjorn taking up most of his time, it had been months since Viggo did anything fun or truly relaxed. He was living in a state of limbo, and if he was excruciatingly honest with himself, it couldn’t go on for much longer.
Opening his eyes, letting his gaze drift around the room without lifting his neck, he admired the job Bjorn had done decorating their home.
While their penthouse in the city was characterized by an airy, minimalist design – everything sleek and white and modern – the house where they made their true home was warm and lived in.
Viggo hadn’t been a fan at first, believing that the forty-minute commute from the city was too much of a hassle, but now he loved it.
The mounted stag heads on the wall were a particular favorite. They were majestic, hung on either side of the fireplace, antlers branching out wide and nearly touching the ceiling, glass eyes staring serenely into the room.
Viggo grinned at the memory of taking them down. It had been his and Bjorn’s first hunt as a mated couple, and he could still remember the exhilaration he’d felt running through the woods with Bjorn at his side, the two of them in perfect sync, proving to their respective packs that they were a good match and that they could make it on their own.
Viggo let out a long breath, moving his glass to balance on his now tense thigh.
They’d shown them, all right. Shown them a real fucking train wreck.
Downing the scotch in one swallow, annoyed at himself for wallowing, Viggo set the glass aside and reached for the package.
It was time to get down to work.
He tore the seal, dumping the contents out on the coffee table.
There were about two dozen plastic bags, some bursting at the seams and some containing just a single item of clothing, each one representing a human willing to sign his or her life away to a werewolf.
Some of them did it for cash, desperate for the incentives Life Mate paid out for signing up, while others just wanted an easy life where they didn’t have to be responsible for themselves.
Viggo hoped for someone in the latter category, but he wasn’t picky. He’d take any compatible human if it meant he got Bjorn back to normal.
Reaching for one of the smaller bags, drawn to the cute print on the fabric inside, Viggo pulled the plastic seal open, his nose wrinkling at the sour smell that wafted up at him.
The scent wasn’t anything that would upset a human – too mild by far – but one sniff was enough to know that it was not a match. Closing the bag and putting it aside, he reached for the next one.
With so many samples, he hoped that this time there would be at leastonecompatible match.
Opening the second bag, he lifted it to his nose and took a sniff. The scent was far less offensive than the one before, like cotton candy, but it still wasn’t right. It was a shame, too. The bag was stuffed to bursting, a sure sign that the human it belonged to wanted to be picked.
Tossing the second bag into the reject pile, he reached for a third bag and repeated the process. The scent was even more offensive than the first, and he rushed to close the bag back up.
He hated this so much.
Moving on, he worked his way through the pile. He forced himself to give each sample due consideration, not wanting to miss a compatible human in his rush to finish, but it was sheer torture.
