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Two
SIX YEARSAGO
QUINN
Eventually, I make my way back into the crowd. The chandeliers bathe the ballroom in rich golden light that shimmers across sequined dresses and crystal tumblers full of amber bourbon.
My mouth waters. I resist the errant urge to snatch one and drown myself in booze in an attempt to forget Dylan’s scent as a waiter passes by with a tray full of drinks. The conversation with him rattled me more than I care to admit.
I chew on my cheek and glance around the decked-out ballroom. No expense was spared for this black-tie affair. Mom and I were never poor, but her new mates arerich, rich. Yachts on the weekend, swanky beachside mansion, and the newest, fastest cars available type of rich.
Needless to say, as the packs meandering through the ballroom slip by in their expensive gowns and suits, I can’t help feeling like an imposter. My dress is nice. A simple violet number with a sweetheart neckline. I had my pick of dresses, and while the ball gowns at the shop were gorgeous, I chose something that allowed a little more movement and wasn’t asexpensive. Recalling the way Dylan’s gaze snared on the bare expanse of thigh, I wish I’d chosen a different dress.
“There you are.” Antionette, mom’s oldest friend, hooks her arm in mine and ushers me toward the stage. “Your mother was getting worried.”
“I needed some fresh air. There are so many people. So many scents.”
She hums in understanding. “An awakening omega often finds being around so many to be overwhelming. They’ll get easier to tolerate as you get older and even better once you find mates of your own.” She sniffs. “I see you’re wearing descenting lotion.”
“You know me.” If I had it my way, I wouldn’t have a scent at all.
Antionette frowns. “That I do, but eventually, you’ll need to let that scent out if you hope to find a pack.”
“Maybe.”
She sighs. “I could kill your dads.”
“Get in line,” I mutter. Normally, any mention of them has me ready to run, but with Antionette, it’s different. She’s like an aunt or a second mom. She’s also an omega, and she’s been helping my mom coach me through my awakening.
“Well, one day soon, you’ll find a pack of your own. No more worrying when you walk into a roomful of alphas who let their nose determine who to rut.”
Have my stepbrothers ever rutted someone?
As the thought hits me, irrational jealousy spikes through my system. “Are ruts really set off by a scent?”
Antionette shakes her head. “More often than not, it’ll be your heat that sends your alphas into a frenzy. But occasionally, an alpha can’t help himself when he scents a needy omega.”
Is that how it happened with my dads when they met their omega?
“Ugh. Sometimes I think I hate alphas.”
“Oh, don’t be like that.” Antionette squeezes my arm, and we stop at the steps that lead up to the raised platform. “Mated alphas are generally strong enough to control themselves, and everyone here already has a mate.”
A crash sounds behind us and we turn. Brady is helping Dylan stand, and Austin is busy righting the table his youngest brother knocked over. Dylan seemed okay when I saw him, but then again, he was leaning against the wall or using me for support half the time. I was too overcome by how good he smelled to realize how buzzed he was. The trio is supposed to be wearing matching tuxes. Dylan’s is still half put on, Brady is wearing the full getup, and Austin is missing his jacket.
Antionette releases an annoyed huff. “Well, everyone but those three, but they’re your stepbrothers”—and here we have a prime example of why they’ll never be accepted as my pack: such a thing isn’t approved by most of our society—“and a riot of trouble.”
“You know why,” I murmur. “Can you really blame them?”
She presses her lips into a thin line, refusing to say anything about the omega who came before my beta mother. My stepbrothers lost their mother in a horrible car crash years ago. One they were all in. I don’t blame them for wanting to get drunk.
“Attention,” Lock, the biggest of mom’s new mates, says into the mic.
Everyone quiets. I turn to face him but catch Brady’s eyes first. Unlike Dylan’s, which simply remind me of the water, Brady’s are turbulent, crashing waves sent to drown me. There are no streaks of light in his irises. They’re dark, mimicking the deepest depths of the ocean most people are too terrified to explore.
There’s something about him, like he has a thousand secrets he’ll never tell; for some reason, I’m suddenly desperate to know them all.
He’s six-foot-two-inches of solid muscle. A law student. Normally tightly controlled, but tonight can’t be easy for him. His hair isn’t quite as dark as Dylan’s, more brunette than black. Strong jaw. Razor-sharp cheekbones. A mouth that promises a breathtaking smile but refuses to ever show it. Brady was built for battle, or maybe the cast of darkness around his aura, something he carries with him like armor, creates the illusion of a warrior preparing to maim and kill whoever he sets his sights on.
