Page 5 of Sold to Three Alpha Kings

“He’s late. Again.” Chris says, his voice a low whisper.

“Pleasure to see you too.” My tone is laced with sarcasm.

He glances at me. And although he doesn’t respond with words, his gaze tells me he acknowledges my presence. We sit in silence as the minutes tick by, and I can feel Chris’s irritated pheromones like ice in the air.

“Don’t worry. He’ll be here,” I say.

“When?” His tone is dripping with a hint of displeasure. “After I’ve run out of patience?” A pause. “This is the kind of thing he does that gets under my skin. He knows how much I hate it when he’s late. Yet, he’s always late.”

“Well, I guess we’ll just have to wait for him.”

“I’ve been waiting for over an hour,” he says, shooting a stern glare at me. “You should be condemning this behavior, not condoning it.”

I lower my head and pinch the bridge of my nose, tired of being trapped in the middle of their banter. They do this all the time—put me in a tight spot, each one expecting me to take their side.

I’m sick of it—genuinely, bone-deep tired of them never getting along. Because of their stupid duel, I spent the whole of last night trying to draft an apology to the Ferrow elders on their behalf.

“If the bastard’s not here in the next ten minutes, I swear I’ll…”

That instant, the doors swing open like they’ve been kicked, which they probably have.

Wayne strolls in with his usual unbothered swagger, a fresh scrape healing along his jaw. His black hair is still damp like he came straight from bathing, his green eyes sweeping across the hall.

His gaze shifts between Chris and me, a small knowing smirk lining one corner of his mouth. “Why the long faces?”

Chris’s fingers curl into his fists, and his brows knit together.

“Look, I don’t have time to waste.” Wayne’s boots scuff against the polished floor as he makes his way toward us. “Where are the Elders? Let’s get this over and done with.” He noisily pushes his chair back and sits down.

“Your insouciance never ceases to amaze me,” Chris says. “An hour late, and still the first one complaining.”

“Insouciance?” Wayne chuckles mockingly. “That’s a pretty big word; you sure you know what it means?”

Chris’s expression darkens and his jaw locks. “It seems you’re eager to feel my fist on your face again.”

“Don’t get too cocky, you got lucky.”

I refuse to intervene and stop this little exchange from escalating into a full-blown fist fight. I probably should. But I don’t think I have the mental strength to hold them back.

Besides, I’ve learned that the fastest way through these meetings is to let the opening volley burn itself out before the elders even walk in.

Elder Corvin walks in through the doors—cane first, robes trailing, face set in the particular grimness he reserves for us. Chris and Wayne have already run out of the easy insults and settled into simmering.

“You’re all here. Good,” Corvin says, his voice laced with both irritation and patience.

“Before you say anything, just know that he started it.” Wayne nods toward Chris.

“Of course you’ll blame it all on me,” comes the reply. “What do I expect from a man who never takes accountability for his actions?”

“You’re one to talk. You struck me. Or did you forget?”

“The two of you tore apart the western square in front of forty witnesses, six of them children.” Corvin’s firm voice silences them. “I’m certain you both are proud of yourselves.”

A moment of fleeting silence.

“None of that would’ve happened if Winterborne hadn’t insulted my hunting party’s discipline in front of my own men—”

“You just can’t take accountability, can you?”