The music cuts off with a screech of feedback that makes everyone wince. Then another roar, deeper and more vicious, followed by the unmistakable crash of chairs hitting the ground and glass shattering. Wine glasses, champagne flutes, and what sounds like entire bottles go flying through the air as alphas let their rage rip without restraint.
I race into the chaos, but the scene that greets me is like something out of a wildlife documentary about territorial predators. Sarah's biological pack and her mated pack are circling each other in the middle of the dance floor, lips pulled back in snarls, every muscle coiled for violence. Wedding guests are screaming, diving behind overturned tables, clutching their children and running for exits.
"Call the police!" I shout to Sharon, but when I turn around, she's already running in the opposite direction like her life depends on it, her cell clutched to her chest.
Thank you, universe, for giving me my tenth wedding this year, so much more than the previous years I’ve been running this business, and making absolutely sure it was the worst of them all.
2
XAVIER
Iadjust my tie for the third time and check my watch again. The Hollow Oak smells like stale beer, fried food, and bad decisions, but Dax insisted we meet here at seven. Being punctual matters to me, even when other pack mates treat schedules like loose suggestions and punctuality like a foreign concept.
Logan slouches in the corner booth, his broad shoulders crowding the space, smoky cedar scent thick with irritation and something darker I’ve learned to recognize as self-loathing. His storm-gray eyes track the bartender’s movements while his left hand, scarred from the job, drums against the wooden table. The man hasn't said a word since we sat down twenty minutes ago, but his scent tells the whole story. Another fight with Chief Patterson about protocol. A reminder that following rules doesn't guarantee respect.
Griffin sits across from me, sandy hair falling across his forehead in a way that would be charming if his warm brown eyes weren't currently shooting daggers in Logan's direction. His sandalwood and sawdust scent carries sharp notes of frustration, the kind that builds up over months of living withsomeone who leaves dishes in the sink for days and expects the world to revolve around his schedule.
"You planning to stare at him all night, or are you going to say what's eating at you?" Griffin's voice cuts through the ambient noise of the pub, drawing attention from the couple at the next table.
Logan's fingers stop drumming against the scarred wood table. His scent spikes with leather and rain, the combination that means he's about to say something he'll regret. "Nothing's eating at me."
"Right." Griffin leans back against the booth, his calloused hands spread flat on the surface like he's bracing for impact. "And I'm the Pope."
"Would explain the sanctimonious attitude."
I feel my cool mint scent sharpen as tension creeps up my spine like a familiar diagnosis I've seen too many times. This is exactly how it always starts with these two. One snide comment, then another, until they're circling each other like territorial animals and I'm stuck playing referee to two grown men who should absolutely know better by now.
"Enough." The word comes out firm and no-nonsense, the same tone I use with pet parents who refuse to follow basic treatment instructions.
Griffin's scent shifts, sandalwood mixing with something warmer, almost apologetic.
"Sorry, Doc. Long day."
Logan says nothing, but his shoulders lose some of their rigidity. Progress, I guess.
I trace the edge of my pint glass, condensation cool against my fingertips. No one's arguing about whose turn it is to take out the trash that's been sitting by the back door for three days. No one's passive-aggressively leaving dirty dishes in the sink because "someone else will handle it."
Griffin shifts in his seat, and I catch a whiff of sawdust from his clothes. The same scent that fills every room of the house he built for us, complete with separate bedrooms because sharing space felt too complicated. Logan stares at his beer, probably calculating whether his next paycheck will cover the mortgage payment he insists on making even though we've told him it's not necessary.
And here I am, the one who spent yesterday scrubbing their bathroom because apparently hoping really hard doesn't actually make soap scum disappear.
A year of this. A whole year of pretending we're a functional pack instead of three men who happen to share an address and a mutual inability to figure out what the hell we're doing.
"You're doing that again," Griffin says, his voice softer now, less combative.
"What?"
“Where you organize everything in your head while your scent goes all clinical and distant." He gestures vaguely at my face. "Your jaw gets tight, and you start making mental lists of everything we're screwing up."
Logan's eyes shift to me, storm-gray and unreadable. "He's right. You smell like the hospital when you're cataloguing our failures."
"Maybe because someone has to think about how messed up this arrangement has become." The words taste bitter, sharper than I intended. "We formed this pack with a specific goal in mind, and instead of working toward it, we spend our time arguing about whose turn it is to take out the trash."
"The goal," Logan repeats, his voice flat. "Right. Finding an omega who'll want three broken alphas with more baggage than a cross-country flight."
Griffin's scent spikes with sawdust and something raw, vulnerable. "We're not that broken."
"Aren't we? When's the last time any of us went on a date? When's the last time we even tried to meet someone new?"
