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I scarf them down, then make a plate of sushi and mess up the spread so that the guards who clear the table think Serafina went to town on her faves.
Then I carry my plate to the bathroom and flush the evidence, returning the sliced fish to their home in the sea.
At least one of us can be free.
I can fake it through the night.
But if this mission lasts beyond tomorrow morning?
I’ll be the one sliced, diced, and served to the Redfangs on a board.
Being alone blows goat balls.
Our home-suite-home at The Barrington is soaked to the studs in my brothers’ scents, but when I can’t see them, hear them, feel them, and know they’re not going to disappear, my insides are so empty my heart falls down my ribs.
We’ve always been a pack, but no matter how tight we’re twined, we aren’t bonded.
Not blood-official.
Jin says bonding isn’t a priority when we’re hustling to shake the Triad off our ass.
I say, body-swap me and see how fast you crack.
If the pack were bonded, I wouldn’t be rolled into a burrito on the futon, deep-sniffing my packleader’s blanket like a creeper with a fistful of broken-in panties.
Jin is working and Reese is grabbing pizza, but Bish isn’t even gone, gone.
Just locked me out of his bedroom so he could make calls in peace.
Silence is the worst.
Reminds me of the funeral.
Watching Dad’s casket sink in the earth, nothing but that numb, silent hum drilling my ears because he’s lost and gone forever.
I need noise and touch and the guys’ scents to fill the needy holes that warn I can lose them just how I lost Dad.
Just how I lost Solly.
I fill the silence and my mouth-hole with barbecue chips, crunching away the seconds until Bish breaks me free of the torture.
The second his door unlocks, I flying-squirrel-launch into a hug, clinging like a neglected string-bean omega instead of a quarter-ton alpha dominant enough to bark a cattle train off the rails.
Why bark when you can hug?
Bish stiffens. “If there’s chip dust on your fucking fingers—”
“Licked them clean.” I love licking.
Fingers. Dicks. Mmf.
If it fits in my mouth?
Just stick that shit in.
Bish drops his head on my shoulder.
He’d never ask for a hug, but he needs me—needs the pack—maybe even more than I need him.
