"ATTENTION COMPATIBLE INDIVIDUALS!" Rebecca's voice carries across the room. "Phase Two compatibility testing begins in fifteen minutes! Please report to Station Alpha with your preferred beverage temperature and three words that describe your ideal nesting environment!"
An omega near me looks genuinely confused. "Do I have to participate in this?"
"Hell no," I grunt. "You can just tell them you're already mated or not interested."
"But what if I am interested?" she asks, which makes me realize that maybe Rebecca's insane approach is actually working.
Before I can figure out how to respond to that, there's a commotion near the main entrance. Through the crowd, I can see someone trying to prop open the front doors.
"WHO THE HELL IS LETTING THE STORM IN?" I bellow, pushing through the crowd of people who are apparently content to watch someone freeze the entire building.
I find Tyler Brooks and Jake Thompson standing by the doors, both of them looking like they've lost a fight with a snowbank. They're covered head to toe in snow and ice, their faces red from cold, and they're tracking slush across Logan's perfectly refinished floors.
"We were checking on the cars," Tyler explains through chattering teeth. "Making sure the snow wasn't burying them completely."
"And?" I ask, though their expressions already tell me this isn't good news.
"Mine's completely buried," Jake reports miserably. "Can't even see where I parked it. Tyler's truck is visible, but there's got to be three feet of snow around it."
"My dad's going to kill me if anything happens to his truck," Tyler adds, looking like he's contemplating walking into the storm rather than facing his father's wrath.
"Your dad's going to kill you if you freeze to death checking on a truck that's not going anywhere until spring," I point out. "Get inside, get dry, and stop opening the doors unless someone's actively dying."
They nod and shuffle deeper into the building, leaving puddles of melted snow that someone's going to have to deal with. Probably me.
That's when Beverly Hartwell appears at my elbow again, because apparently crisis situations don't stop the matchmaking committee from doing what they do best.
"Griffin," she says with the conspiratorial tone of someone sharing state secrets, "I've been observing the pack dynamics during this crisis, and I think there are some very interesting developments happening."
"Beverly, I really don't have time for..."
"Pack Thornmark is fracturing," she continues, ignoring my attempt to escape. "Three of their unmated members have gravitated toward other groups. Very telling behavior during stress situations."
I look across the room to where the Thornmark pack is clustered near one of the working fireplaces. They do look smaller than they did an hour ago, and Derek Thornmark is pacing like an alpha who's lost control of his pack.
"And Redtooth Pack's aggressive recruitment is actually working," Beverly adds with the tone of someone discovering a new scientific principle. "They've gained four new potential members just from their compatibility testing. Revolutionary approach to pack building."
"That's one word for it," I say flatly.
"Oh, and there's been a very interesting development with the bride and her alphas," Beverly says, and something in her voice makes me pay attention. "They've been scenting each other quite intensively. Very public claiming behavior."
I look toward where Emma and her pack have set up near the largest fireplace. Sure enough, Emma's pressed between her three alphas in a way that's definitely more intimate than typical wedding party behavior. They're all over each other in the way that suggests their control is slipping.
"Crisis bonding," Beverly explains with academic interest. "High-stress situations often accelerate pack dynamics. Very natural response to perceived threats."
"Beverly," I say carefully, "are you telling me that being trapped in a blizzard is making everyone's instincts go haywire?"
"Oh yes," she says cheerfully. "Absolutely fascinating from an anthropological perspective. I'm taking notes."
Of course she's taking notes. Because apparently even a natural disaster is just research material for the matchmaking committee.
That's when I hear shouting from the direction of the kitchen.
"THIS IS NOT ACCEPTABLE!" someone's yelling with the kind of outrage usually reserved for major political scandals.
I push through the crowd and find Aunt Dolly Brooks standing in the kitchen doorway, gesturing wildly at the catering staff with a wooden spoon that looks like it could be classified as a weapon.
"This woman," Dolly announces to anyone within hearing distance, "refuses to let me improve the hot chocolate with my special holiday blend!"
