“I amnotattracting all my exes.”
“Oh, really?” Candy settled into the chair beside my vanity with the comfortable, authoritative posture of a woman preparing to deliver a presentation she’d been rehearsing for days. “Let’s not get into it for your own sanity, or we’ll have to crack open a bottle of wine.”
I groaned again. Longer this time. More sustained. The vocal equivalent of a white flag being waved over a foxhole.
“I still don’t get it though. Kael specifically. I haven’t even figured out why he did what he did,” I whined—and yes, it was a whine, the unvarnished, undignified, Octaviana-grade vocalization of a woman who was emotionally exhausted and didn’t have the energy to maintain her usual composure. “Sending Maddox to claim me as his pack’s Omega—what was the angle? What was the strategy? Kael doesn’t do anything without a reason, and the reason is never the one you’d guess.”
Candy’s expression shifted from prosecutorial to analytical. The hazel eyes narrowing, the crossed arms tightening, the posture of a woman transitioning from “cross-examination” to “forensic analysis.”
“Oh, like rushing to your rescue by saving you from elimination—somehow—by sending his pack member mid-hockey scrimmage.” She raiseda finger. “Therehasto be a reason. And you’re going to have to confront him eventually. You can’t just show up to pack registration next week and not address the fact that a man you haven’t spoken to in five years claimed you as his Omega through a proxy without warning.” She leaned forward. “But I’m telling you—he has eyes on you. Whatever his reason, whatever his angle, that man is not done.”
I tilted my head. The investigative instinct that had snagged in the corridor that morning—the frequency I’d detected between Kael and Luka, the charged, loaded, not-entirely-platonic energy that had vibrated beneath their bickering—resurfaced with the insistence of a melody you couldn’t stop humming.
“Well,” I said, “I think he might have eyes on Luka.”
Candy’s eyebrow arched. “Huh?”
“I have a strong feeling,” I said, and the words came slowly, carefully, the verbal equivalent of walking across a surface I wasn’t certain was stable, “that those two have history.Together-together. T-O-G-E-T-H-E-R.” I spelled it for emphasis, because the implication deserved the full weight of its letters. “The way they were in that corridor—the bickering wasn’t just rivalry. It wasspecific. Personal. The kind of tension that doesn’t come from competing for the same position on a roster. It comes from competing for the samespacein a relationship. What if they had a falling out? Not over an Omega. Betweenthem. What if that’s why the dynamic is this charged?”
Candy absorbed this. I could see the hypothesis being received, examined, rotated through multiple analytical angles, and tested against the available evidence—a process that took approximately three seconds and concluded with her arriving at a question I had fully anticipated.
“Who’s the top?”
I smirked. Flickered my fingers through the curled ends of my hair with the casual, queenly energy of a woman about to deliver a verdict.
“Me, obviously.”
Candy’s groan could have been registered on the Richter scale. “BETWEEN THEM! We all know you’re a dominating bitch in the bedroom—Christ, is there a setting on you below maximum? Are you submissive toanyone?”
I laughed. Genuine, full, carrying the warm, unguarded frequency of a woman having a conversation she could only have with this specific person on this specific planet.
“Okay, fine.” I held up a conceding palm. “I do have my submissive moments. With Luka. But that was when we were on-and-off, and he’s one of the rare men who understands that foreplay isn’t a line item you skip to reach the main event. He loves the build. The anticipation. The slow, deliberate escalation where every touch is a question and every response is a negotiation.” I caught myself mid-sentence and realized I’d drifted into a level of specificity that the conversation hadn’t requested. “We were…compatible in that regard.”
Candy shook her head with the bewildered, amused exhaustion of a therapist who had accidentally stumbled into a session they hadn’t billed for.
“How we arrived at this destination in a conversation about your eventful sex life isbeyondme.”
“You mean mydry land,” I corrected, “since I haven’t had good dick in ages. I’m going to wither at this rate. Decompose. Return to the earth as a desiccated husk of unfulfilled potential.”
Candy burst out laughing—the sharp, explosive, friendship-forged kind that was equal parts sympathy and recognition. “Join theclub, girl. I’m going to have to order another vibrator just to make ends meet. The last one gave up on me. I think I burned out the motor.”
I was still laughing when I collected my purse from the bed—a small, black, crossbody thing that held my phone, my ID, a single credit card, and the specific shade of red lipstick required for touch-up maintenance throughout the evening. The essentials. The survival kit of a woman whose plans for the night were optimistic and whose accessories reflected that optimism.
“Alright.” I slung the strap across my body and adjusted the dress one final time in the mirror. The red lips. The loose curls. The hemline that was going to cause problems and solve none. “I’m heading out. I’ll meet you there.”
Candy nodded, already reaching for her phone with the expression of someone steeling themselves for an interaction that required emotional armor of a different grade than party preparation.
“I’ve got a quick Zoom call with the evil stepmother.”
I groaned in solidarity. Deep, theatrical, carrying the full weight of my accumulated knowledge regarding Candy’s stepmother—a woman whose warmth index fell somewhere between permafrost and the customer service line at a cable company. The woman had married Candy’s father when Candy was fourteen, had immediately established herself as the household’s chief financial officer and emotional auditor, and had spent the subsequent decade viewing her stepdaughter’s gymnastics career as a budgetary inconvenience rather than a source of familial pride.
“I pray for you,” I said.
Candy’s laugh was dry. Arid. The laugh of a desert thathad stopped expecting rain. “Bitch, please. I know you ain’t doing shit but cackling and hoping you get some good veiny cock tonight.”
I shrugged. The gesture was unapologetic, honest, and accompanied by a grin that confirmed every accusation she’d just leveled.
“You’re not wrong.” I paused at the doorway. Turned. Let the sincerity cut through the banter for a single, precise moment. “But Idopray you survive another phone call with the most wicked witch of your family lineage.”
