Shocked, I glance up at him. Why did he lock it?
But Pace doesn’t look at me. His attention is already forward.
I suddenly feel trapped, walking into certain death, but I keep my mouth shut, following my alpha into our home. We make our way down the short hallway and into the open kitchen and living room. The lights are on, and the spacelooks exactly the way we left it this morning, but then I see him.
My father is sitting in the large navy armchair beside the couch, one ankle resting over his knee like he owns the damn place. His gray hair is neatly combed back from his forehead. His suit is stiff and perfectly tailored, charcoal with a pale blue shirt and a dark tie knotted tight at his throat. There is a faint five o’clock shadow along his jaw that makes him look harder than usual, and there’s a thick cigar burning between his fingers.
The smell hits me immediately.
Heavy tobacco and smoke, sharp and bitter. It coats the back of my tongue and turns my stomach. My body reacts before I can stop it. My shoulders curl inward, and my throat squeezes with the urge to gag.
Pace feels it.
“Put that out,” he says, his voice calm but unmistakably commanding.
My father’s eyes snap to him slowly. “Excuse me?” Father says like he’s shocked someone would dare to tell him what to do.
“The cigar,” Pace says evenly. “It’s upsetting my omega. Put it out.”
The air in the room shifts, and I see the flash of rage in my father’s eyes. He doesn’t like being told what to do, especially not by people he thinks are beneath him.
But then, somehow, my father manages to rein in his anger.
“Fine,” he says calmly as he uncrosses his legs and leans forward.
Slowly, deliberately, he presses the burning end of the cigar down onto the polished wood of the coffee table. Theember hisses as it dies, leaving behind a small black circle scorched into the surface.
Then he stands.
Father takes his time buttoning his suit jacket with careful fingers as he straightens to his full height. He is tall, but not as tall as Pace. He sets his shoulders back and lifts his chin as he studies my new mate.
Pace doesn’t move a muscle.
If anything, he seems to take up more space. He squares his shoulders and straightens his back, his body angled slightly in front of mine. His hand tightens around mine, steady and certain.
Father looks him over slowly. “You must be Pace Greene.”
“And you must be Jude’s father,” Pace replies coolly.
“Marcus Thorne,” Father says. “But you can call me Mr. Thorne.”
Pace’s eyes narrow slightly, but he doesn’t say a word.
The air between them tightens until it feels hard to breathe.
The silence is killing me. My pulse slams against my ribs as my palms go damp where they’re wrapped around Pace’s hand. It feels like I’m standing too close to a live wire.
“Jude.” My father finally speaks as he turns his intense glare to me. I feel his growing anger like a physical touch. “Come here,” he says, his voice controlled.
My body flinches hard at his command, but Pace’s fingers tighten around mine. It somehow gives me the strength to stay put.
“He’s not going anywhere,” Pace says calmly.
My father’s eyes darken. “This is a family matter,” he says. “You are not required.”
“I am,” Pace answers without hesitation. “He’s mine.”
“Like hell he is,” Father growls. He snaps his fingers atme, the sharp crack making me jump. “Get your ass over here, boy.” The sound cracks through the room. “Now!”
