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“We’re going to jump through this hoop and pass the dads’ test. That’s all. We’ll prove that our pack can handle its shit.”
Jett relaxes the tiniest fraction.
“It shouldn’t be like this,” Hunter mumbles.
I hope we’re not feeling the same thing—the pull that shouldn’t exist, the draw toward whatever’s inside that building that has me fighting the instinct to turn and barrel the fuck through the crowd.
“Stay together,” I instruct. “We look, then we leave.” I lead inside and the guys flank me. Every step feels like a betrayal, but obligation keeps me moving forward.
I’ll do anything to keep the pack together.
Even this.
The OCC complex is massive, and so is the main auditorium. Their security guys tense when they spot us rolling up with our not-so-concealed weapons. Hunter flashes an ID that sends them hopping back and spluttering.
They know who we are.
We step inside, and the crowded lobby goes quiet.
They all know who we are.
“In and out,” I remind the guys.
An usher takes us to our seats in a private box that overlooks the theater. The ceiling’s painted with clouds, but we may as well be in hell.
“My father’s here,” Jett mutters.
And there’s the demon.
Hikaru Wyvern lords over the show from the box across from us. He looks like an emperor, gazing coldly down at the kingdom he controls. He’s my father’s pack brother, technically my uncle, but nothing says family when his gaze pierces us.
“Ignore him.” I keep Jett close. No matter how chill he looks on the outside, long dark hair tied back, his tailored suit fresh, I can feel him coming apart at the seams. I pull out his pocket square and force it to his nose. “Breathe into that.”
“This is barbaric,” he says, voice muffled through the cloth.
“I know.” I can barely manage in the choking cloud of omega scents, so of course he’s losing his shit.
We’re too visible in the box, the crowd in the seats below peeking up, whispering the Wyverns, the Wyverns. As much as I want to tear out of here, we can’t make a bad impression.
Scorpio taught me that lesson with his belt.
My manners reflect on him. My behavior reflects on him. Everything I do reflects on him.
And everything we do reflects on Wyvern House.
The smallest insult to our reputation could destroy the business and ruin the hundreds of lives, the families who depend on our work. The people we can save where the military and police fail.
Wyvern House first.
But my instincts are torn.
Half of me says protect the pack. Take Jett home and get Orion in my arms. We don’t need this bullshit.
Instead, I sit in my chair, taut and furious, buzzing from strange pheromones.
Fucking finally, the lights go down and the music rises. The program starts with dances from toddling ballerinas who only know they’re omega from their blood tests, then the pre-teens in pre-awakening stage, and the older teen and twenty-something omegas who’re hitting their perfume.
And hitting us with their perfume.
