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When the alphas aren’t snarling at their competition, they’re licking their lips, glancing at the empty spaces and waiting for the show.
Waiting for her.
I drop my shoulders even lower, full-on submissive before I approach. Bish and Jin breathe sharply in my ears.
The first pack speaks Japanese.
All business, in suits fancier than my catering disguise. Stone sober, they haven’t touched their powdery party favors.
A bougie place card gives their name.
Kitagawa Pack.
They ignore me and my cigar box, so I suck my teeth and continue my lap as smoke bitch.
The Al Sharins cluster their packleader’s laptop. I spot banking screens and keep moving before they notice my eyes wandering.
My sixth sense rattles when I cross into Bourg Pack’s territory.
The Bourg crew should be too low-level for an invite to a party with big dogs like the Redfangs.
They’re back-alley hitmen.
Dime a dozen or a dollar for the whole crew—Jericho must get bulk pricing.
But the assholes have glowed up.
Whether Rod Bourg sucked the right dick or straight-up killed his competition, he can’t wait to flex his newfound power on my unlucky ass.
He summons me with a finger-flick.
I’m tall enough that I have to duck to offer the cigars.
In no rush to pick the perfect stogie, he rolls one between his fingers, keeping me bent in half. “You seen the omega?”
“No, Sir,” I answer, beta-soft.
“You smell her?” He drags along the cigar like he’s working that nose hair up the girl’s inner thigh.
“No, Sir.” My beard hides the blood vessels popping off in my cheeks.
I don’t go around sniffing omegas like some sick fuck.
“Rod Bourg,” Jin growls, adding the name to our pack’s kill list.
Reminded this isn’t about me, I put my anger on ice.
“Bet that pussy smells so fucking lush.” Rod licks the cigar.
Bishop snarls.
I zip my disgust, but no omega deserves that skeevy bullshit.
Seen all I need of these packs.
I’m about to back away when the air shifts.
Instincts wilding, I dodge just fast enough to keep my fingers from being pinned to the bookshelves by a flying blade.
