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His eyes narrow into slits as he holds my gaze. Swallowing my fluttering pulse, I force myself to look away, but instead of focusing on the stage, my attention flies to Austin.
The middle brother hooks his arm under Dylan’s and chuckles as he stumbles under the brunt of Dylan’s weight. Twin dimples nestle into Austin’s face, stealing my breath for a moment. As if sensing my attention, his eyes lift to meet mine. Where Dylan’s and Brady’s are dark, Austin’s are a sky blue. His lips kick into a warm smile, dimples fully appearing, and he nods his head, acknowledging my presence. A swath of onyx hair teases his forehead. He’s an inch shorter than Brady, but with a similar build. Strong thighs. Broad shoulders. Soul-stealing beauty. With his suit jacket nowhere to be found, the white button-down shirt is tight enough to show the promise of a solid torso and ripped arms.
“Good, all of our children are here,” Lock says with a laugh, but there’s a strain to it. “Boys, will you join us on the stage? And Quinn, where is she?”
Antionette slides her arm out of mine and nudges me forward. I place my shaky palm on the rail of the stairs, quicklyjoining our parents on stage before my stepbrothers can get too close.
It takes a painful minute for them to swagger their way onto the stage. No one calls them on being drunk, and I pretend not to feel the hot lash of Brady’s gaze drilling into me. He stops beside me, close enough that our arms brush. My stomach clenches and I grind my teeth, hating the full-body shudder that rolls over me. Brady’s scent, rich cedarwood, is so heady, spiced, and full of that aggressive attention, a lump forms in my throat.
God, save me from that aroma.
Trenton, the second of my mom’s new mates, takes the mic from Lock and launches into a story of when the alphas first met my mother, capturing the attention of the audience and distracting them from the very obviously buzzed trio at my side.
Dylan pushes away from Austin, bumping into Brady in the process and forcing the two of us together. His side brushes mine, and my already unsteady ankles wobble in my heels. Wrapping his arm around me, Brady presses his fingers and palm into my hip, as hot as a brand and as claiming as a mark on my soul. His grip pulses until he’s sure we’re both steady, and for a moment, I get a glimpse of what it’s like to be held by him. All that could be but never can be.
I can’t breathe.
I can’t do anything but think about how right his touch feels. How wrong it really is.
And then it’s gone, ripped away in a cruel rush of coldness that sinks into my skin, chasing away whatever warmth his body brought in those fleeting seconds.
“Sorry,” Brady grunts and glares at Dylan. “Get yourself together. You only had two glasses.”
Dylan’s smile is a little dopey but still as charming as ever. “With no dinner, dear brother,” he whispers back.
Mom glances over, and I bite my cheek as a line forms between her eyebrows. Tonight, of all nights, can’t go wrong. She’s dealt with so much already.
“Idiot,” Austin grouses.
“Will you please be quiet?” Their gazes swing to me, and my legs quiver under the weight of the attention, but I force them to stay steady. “This night isn’t about you.” My chest tight and cheeks hot, I look at each of them in turn. “If you planned on ruining it, you should have stayed on the balcony.”
“The omega has claws.” A dark chuckle chases Brady’s words. “You heard her, get your shit together.”
I hadn’t expected any support, but as the three fall silent and stand as steady as they can with stomachs swimming with bubbly, I find myself thankful Brady had enough sense to listen.
Maybe it won’t be so bad to have stepbrothers, I think.
That is, until Brady leans over and whispers, “Don’t ever tell me what to do again,Quinn.” My name is like sin on his tongue, lovely enough to distract me from the undercurrent of annoyance outlining every word.
Then it sinks in.
Regardless of our new titles, we’ll never be family.
“How are you doing, sweetie?”Mom bumps her hip with mine. The smile on her face is so big, so pure, it’s hard to believe, at one point in time, she refused to get out of bed or eat. Thankfully, that year from hell is far behind us.
“Good. You look really happy.”
With a sigh, she wraps her arm around me. “That’s because I am, Quinn.” She rests her head on my shoulder, and we stare out at the ballroom floor. It’s the type of celebration with a stringquartet and people waltzing or doing some other type of formal dance.
“Are you?” she asks.
“Am I what?” I glance at her.
“Happy.”
Am I? Not really, but I don’t know that I’ve experienced that feeling since my dads left. First, it was fighting to get my mom back, and then when she was finally out of the darkest depths of her depression, I was too worried about something setting her off to enjoy middle school. And now I’m stuck with my scent matches as my stepbrothers.
“I think so,” I lie because I hate making her worry more than I hate lying to her.
