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“Just don’t rock the boat.”
Me?
I’m the motherfucking captain of the S.S. Do Not Disturb. It’s a stealth ship, slipping silently over the waves, bothering no one, and hopefully someday soon, fading into the mist, never to be seen again.
I guess if I wanted fated mates, I’d cross oceans to make them mine.
But Wyvern Pack belongs to Orion and always will.
I’m just sailing through.
***
Eighteen
LILAH
Wyvern House HQ is built for intimidation. Atlas drives us to the huge facility outside the city where we pass through multiple gates, checkpoints, and a retinal scanner just to land a parking spot.
Atlas avoids looking at me, but I can feel his constant awareness like an extra layer of security. Not that this place needs any help with all its barbed wire and cameras.
When Atlas climbs out of the truck, I scramble to unbuckle and follow. Trailing behind, I can’t miss the way his heavy boots and black pants show off his muscular legs and ass.
I need to be slapped.
We walk through a guardhouse where a super deferential beta reverently greets Atlas as sir. He offers me a guest pass with both hands and a bow, never once making eye contact out of blatant deference that puts me on defcon levels of alert.
I pin the badge to my sweatshirt, feeling out of place and spooked. I didn’t dress for a military hearing, let alone someplace where people would treat me as a respected pack’s omega.
I feel like a fake. A liar.
And I want to punch myself in the face, because some deep, dark part of me is like a dried-up little bean sprout leaning toward the light, loving the change in status. As if we’re owed this kind of treatment.
Except I’m not.
And never will be.
After passing a door with a fingerprint scanner, we pop into an atrium that smells like plastic, sweat, and a whole lot of alpha. I catch a hint of chlorine and ache to dive below the water and hide where I can’t smell or hear anything but the too-fast pounding of my heart.
Atlas doesn’t care if I can keep up with his giant legs. The halls are packed with trainees in Wyvern House gear who stare so hard, I feel like the lost little bunny who hopped into a wolf hunt.
If I were Orion, Atlas would warn them the fuck off, growling, holding me close, and soaking me with his scent so every single alpha knew exactly who I belonged to.
Instead, he’s hanging me out to dry.
My shiv works miracles against uppity teen omegas, but these dudes are straight-up mercenaries, trained and built for murder.
I have no chance if one of them wants to claim me and Atlas is all help yourself, bro.
So I scurry behind him, not sure which of us I hate the most.
When the scent of the pool is long gone, and all I can smell is alpha, I catch a familiar whiff of iron. Atlas walks through the double-doors to a massive office suite where a pretty beta secretary pops up from her desk in the plush lounge.
“The founders are waiting for you in the first sitting room, Mr. Wyvern.” She tips her head to Atlas.
I follow him, bracing for impact.
Wishing I could hide behind Atlas’s shoulders—because there’d be plenty of space back there if I were the kind of omega he wanted to protect—I step into the sitting room.
