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A metallic scent sets the tone for how tonight’s about to go.
From the middle of a sludgy blood puddle, a beta in a waistcoat just like mine stares dead-eyed at the crown molding.
His dress shirt rocks a red flower, centered by the hilt of the hunting knife buried between his ribs.
“Go on.” Gustav nudges me with the barrel of his rifle. “Unless you wanna be the second body dropped tonight.”
I’ve got a better place for him to stick that weapon, but I’m not green enough to blow my cover this soon. I step over the dead dude’s limp arm, focused on the mission.
Find the girl.
And hey. There’s something we must have in common.
Being completely fucking numb to casual violence.
“What’s the situation?” Bishop asks in my ear.
I cluck for silence.
Not a good time.
Redfangs are posted every few steps, even in the servant corridors. They follow my steps, fucking waiting for me to make a mistake.
Bish and Jin have tragically underestimated enemy numbers at this fucked-up party, but the danger fuels my focus.
I can do this thing.
I pass the last pair of throat-tatted guardsmen, stepping into a kitchen that’s weirdly quiet for such an important night.
Nobody’s cooking.
Three penguins hunker at the service station, rock-paper-scissoring for who has to carry out the next tray.
The waiters whip to me, wide eyes suddenly glowing.
“New guy.” The one with the crooked bow-tie shoves a case of cigars into my hands. “You’re on smoke duty. No arguing.”
“Fine.” I take the case as a chance to scope out the packs—maybe even glimpse their guest of honor.
One step out, wall-to-wall cigar smoke and alpha pheromones have my feet dragging like my loafers are already sunk in cement.
Street alphas smell earthy. Uncomplicated.
These packs smell fucking expensive.
Pheromones like top-shelf liquor, glass-bottle cologne, and blood money.
The air pulls tight and close, either because the lounge is dim as a nesting cave, or most of these guys are already five lines deep in the fancy dishes of coke at their tables.
I muzzle a rumble.
After years of wiping Jericho’s ass, I know how to keep my head down and my nose clean of rich boy business.
Just wish it didn’t feel so natural playing the help.
A pack owns each corner of the lounge. Four or five alphas with a packleader, each running their cluster of leather sofas like it’s their own avenue back home.
There’s a bar set up on one side, with a corpse-stiff beta tending the liquor and two conspicuously empty seats placed at the center of the action.
