Quentin
Quentin King knew a doomed mission when he saw one. He excelled at quickly assessing a situation and calculating the odds of success. He’d say this job had an eighty-twenty chance of going FUBAR fast.
“Our daughter can be a bit…challenging,” the client was saying, with one of those shit-eating grins some men gave you when they expected you to agree with their sexist bullshit. “If she’d been born an alpha, she’d be taking over our company by now. Unfortunately, her personality traits aren’t as becoming in an omega. Until we can find a suitable pack for her, we’re looking for a security detail with a firm hand and a healthy understanding of the value of discretion.”
Quentin had never liked this kind of condescending bullshit. It pissed him off that so many alphas like this rich asshole took their omegas for granted, when hardworking men like Quentin and his packmates would most likely never have a chance with one. Omegas who revealed in the slums where he grew up disappeared quickly, whisked off to better lives or trafficked into far worse ones. Quentin had read Serenity Rhodes’s all-too-familiar story and been glad the issue was being brought to light. He did not, however, buy Pack Bonnycastle’s claim that their daughterneeded constant surveillance based on that article and her association with Serenity.
“Rest assured, gentlemen, you can count on King’s Guard,” Dante replied, smiling his politician’s smile at the wealthy men across the desk. “We treat our clients like royalty, and that means protecting them at all costs.”
Quentin fought the urge to roll his eyes. Dante was laying it on pretty damn thick. His number two had never had a problem schmoozing powerful people for Pack King’s benefit. It was the reason they were proving as successful as they were, despite being relatively new to the security business.
Quentin could plan and execute tactical operations with precision and efficiency, but he’d never gotten the hang of ingratiating himself to pompous pricks like the alphas currently stinking up his office with expensive cologne. Quentin didn’t have the patience to stroke the fragile egos of lesser men. He just needed them to sign the checks, get out of his way, and let him work.
Which is why he was grateful that his second was better at playing the game. It had always been that way. As teens, it was Dante who’d always managed to talk their way out of trouble when either Quentin’s temper or Dante’s own schemes landed them in a sticky situation. And it was Dante who’d convinced him to enlist, steering them both off a path that would’ve ended in prison or a meat wagon. Thanks to him they’d ended up here, less than a year into running their own security firm and already landing clients with net worths followed by more zeros than a bowl of cheerios.
When the clients departed, Dante gave him an exasperated look. “You could at least try to be nice.”
“They don’t need me to be nice, they need me to be effective. Which I am,” Quentin replied. “Besides, you’re nice enough for both of us. You sound like a used car salesman with that ‘treat you like royalty’ shit.”
Dante shrugged, returning to his desk. He reached into a drawer and produced a beautiful cedar box, along with a cigar cutter, lighter, and heavy ash tray. He cut two cigars, put them both in his mouth, and lit them, the flame dancing in his dark eyes.
“Rich dicks eat that shit up,” he said, flashing the mischievous grin that reminded Quentin of their teenage years, when that grin could’ve led to a blow job or grand theft auto depending on Dante’s mood. And Quentin was still just as helpless to resist him as he’d been back then. Dante’s grin widened as if he knew exactly what he was doing, the little brat. He winked as he handed Quentin a cigar. “Smoke up, shithead. We just landed a fucking whale.”
Quentin smirked and took a long pull on his cigar, enjoying the warmth in his throat and the sense of calm that unfurled like the smoke snaking out between Dante’s lips. He tapped the cigar against the ash tray before crossing to the window to stare out contemplatively. A few stories below, the clients were climbing into a black town car. A chauffeur closed the door behind them before rounding the vehicle to drive the rich assholes back to their mansion, where they’d go on talking down to their famous omega mate and bullying their pretty omega daughter.
Dante had provided him a brief overview on Pack Bonnycastle before the meeting, including a short bio on their daughter. Bianca Bonnycastle was a real beauty, but the photo Dante showed him had revealed something more than attractiveness. There was something haunted in the socialite’s enchanting gray eyes. Something Quentin had seen before.
Watching the town car pull away, he couldn’t help but remember the day his platoon had earned their nickname. They’d infiltrated thecompound of a notorious arms dealer with one mission: to take him out at any cost. Once Quentin led a squad into the heart of the compound, they’d found a lot more than weapons of mass destruction.
Over three dozen women and girls were packed into a dank basement cell. They were obviously malnourished and showed signs of abuse. The women were all omegas, but many of the girls were betas. Their captors had been hoping to trigger a few latent omega genes and, barring that, they could still make a little money off trafficking young betas. The cell reeked of sweat and blood and fear.
It had made Quentin sick.
He’d gotten the go-ahead to adapt the plan on the spot, which was lucky for him because he would’ve done it anyway and accepted his punishment for disobeying orders. There was no way he could’ve left them there. He still saw their faces in his nightmares—hollow eyes, sunken cheeks, and a hopelessness he could almost smell when he woke up. That day had been the beginning of the end of his time on active duty. He’d known he wouldn’t re-enlist again, and that he’d be haunted by those faces for the rest of his life.
Quentin, Dante, and the other seven alphas in his squad had quickly and efficiently killed all thirty-three men in that building, including the arms dealer they’d come for. The rest of the platoon had contained other threats, clearing a path out of the compound for them to escape with the omegas. From then on, they’d been known as “Plague Platoon” or simply “The Plague.”
Quentin personally delivered the women and girls to a social worker who would take care of them from there. The woman was an omega herself, and he didn’t know her story, but she had that same hard, haunted look in her eyes when she took charge of the captives. Quentin knewthen that he would never truly understand what it was like to survive as a woman in this world.
“What are you brooding about?” Dante sighed and poured himself a drink.
“I don’t like them,” Quentin said honestly, watching the town car pull away. “And I don’t like this gig.”
“You don’t have to like them to take their money, and they’re willing to part with a fuck ton of it for this grape of an assignment,” Dante retorted, waving his glass as he gestured around the room. “We can practically pay off the loan on this place, and all we’ve got to do is babysit Pack Bonnycastle’s little princess until she’s mated.”
Quentin frowned. He loved Dante Walker more than he could ever put into words. He was Dante’s and Dante was his in every way. But the asshole could still be such an idiot sometimes.
“First, cut the casual misogyny. I heard enough of that from those Bonnycastle bastards.” Quentin turned from the window to give his packmate a hard stare. “Even if she does turn out to be a shrew or some shit, we ought to give her some grace considering what she must’ve dealt with growing up with Daddy Dearests.”
Dante looked sheepish. “My bad, King. I just meant to say that playing bodyguard to a wealthy socialite is far from the toughest mission you’ve led us on. And you’ve always brought us out safe and sound on the other side.”
That was an understatement. Quentin had climbed the ranks from boot to Staff Sergeant in the Marine Forces Special Operations Command, earning his fair share of chest candy in the process, and Dante had watched his six the whole way. Quentin thrived on the military’s blunt honesty, clear expectations, and consistent rules. Becoming a Marine Raider allowed him to channel the burning rage that would’ve otherwiseconsumed him from within, and he discovered he was a natural tactician. Still, he couldn’t have predicted his unique skillset would serve them so well.
Dante had known, though. He had ambition and vision. If Quentin was a hammer, Dante was a scalpel. Together, they always got the job done.
Quentin ran his hand over Dante’s dark hair fondly before pulling up a chair to sit beside him. He’d preferred to stand during the meeting with Pack Bonnycastle, but alone with Dante he could relax a bit. He stretched his long legs out in front of him, and Dante scooted closer, angling his chair so that he could slide his legs between Quentin’s. For a moment, both men silently smoked their cigars.
“We’ve been through worse, but this isn’t going to be a cakewalk,” Quentin said finally. “Bianca Bonnycastle is a wealthy, unbonded omega who’s well past the mating age in her tax bracket, and her fathers are obviously eager to auction her off to the highest bidder at the first opportunity. We have no idea how long it’ll be before she mates, and we don’t know why she hasn’t done it already, especially considering how motivated her dads seem to sell her off. It doesn’t add up, and I don’t like it. Plus, something tells me she’s not going to like being watched and given orders by a trio of middle-class alphas. There’s a bigger story there.”
