I suck in a breath and try to push myself up, but the blackness closes in.
My arms give out. My nose smacks something hard.
Pain flashes—sharp, bright.
Then nothing.
Morning
Knox
Steam clingsto the bathroom mirror, softening the edges of my reflection. I wipe a strip clear with the side of my hand, lean in, and check the line of my beard. A few stray hairs stick out along the edges.
I lift the trimmer, angle it just right, and buzz along my jaw. The sound is sharp in the small space, blending with the quiet hum of the fan overhead. A few dark hairs fall to the sink below, curling like tiny question marks.
Black beard. Black hair. Black brows. And covered in scars. Dakota says I look like a demonic Viking. I’m not sure if that’s a compliment or not, but he always smiles when he says it, so I figure it can’t be all bad.
I finish the last edge, then set the trimmer down and check myself in the mirror. My stomach isn’t what it used to be—just a hint softer than I’d like. I rub a hand over it and huff a laugh. Too many late-night beers and ribeyes. I should give them up, but they make life worth living.
I smooth the edge of my beard, make sure it’s even, then flex my pecs once out of habit. They bounce—barely—and I shake my head, grinning at my own stupidity.
Running my fingers through my damp hair, I slick it back then let it fall loose again —long, dark, and a little wild.
Time to get moving.
I tug on a clean pair of shorts, then stroll out into the hallway. My bare feet creak against the uneven floorboards.
The house is… well lived in.
At least that’s the polite way to say it.
It’s small—three rooms, one bathroom, and a flimsy wall separating the living room and kitchen. There isn’t even a proper door, just a half-wall that juts out like someone’s lazy attempt at dividing the space. You round it, and you’re in the kitchen whether you want to be or not.
All the walls are an off-white that probably used to be brighter, and the floors are scuffed and dented in some places. This place has had one too many hard winters.
But it’s ours.
A stack of mail litters the side table by the front door—mostly junk, half of it unopened. Someone left a set of keys tangled up in a phone charger. A pile of clean clothes is stacked on the arm of the couch, still warm from the dryer, waiting for someone to fold them. No one will. Another pile on the worn couch is halfway to becoming a fort, thanks to Dakota’s “creative organization system.”
We tease him all the time. Betas are supposed to be tidy and meticulous, but I swear he’s just as messy as any alpha I’ve met, if not worse….well, almost any other alpha I’ve met.
Tadeo’s the exception. That alpha’s so damn clean it’s almost unsettling. The man folds his socks, organizes hisunderwear by color, and wipes down his desk like he’s prepping for inspection. But he keeps it contained—his room, his space. He never complains about the chaos outside it. He lets the rest of us live loud, letting the house breathe and sprawl and pile up around us.
Some days I wish he’d let those habits trickle out in the living room or kitchen, but it would probably drive me nuts, so it’s best not to say anything.
Instead, I tell myself—again—that I need to straighten things up. Just an hour. Toss some laundry in drawers. Clear off the kitchen table. Maybe vacuum.
…Maybe tomorrow.
Right now, I’m starving.
And it’s Tadeo’s turn to make breakfast.
God help us all.
I brace myself for whatever chaos he’s cooked up this time—literally or otherwise.
“What the fuck are you doing?” I ask Alex as I step into the kitchen.
