by Lola Rock
The water’s heavy, pressure pushing at my eardrums like the threat of my future, but it’s comfortable down here, hidden away with only my beating heart to keep me company. Sometimes, I think I have espresso for blood, the way I’m constantly jittering, always on high alert, ducking threat after threat.
The water is my cocoon. It’s the only place I feel safe.
When the world quiets to nothing, I start counting heartbeats.
I’m past 150 when my vision starts to go spotty. My throat burns and the familiar we-need-oxygen-idiot panic punches me in the lungs.
But I keep holding.
Holding.
Holding.
Everything black.
Now.
Desperate, I kick to the surface just in time to take a gasping, spluttering breath.
I suck in cold air, treading water as my vision slowly comes back. When I can more or less breathe, I start grinding out another round of laps. Then I dip below the surface again.
And again and again.
I repeat the same batshit circuit until I’m barely kicking up in time, my body so used-up, so exhausted, I have to hang against the wall for a few minutes before I can haul myself out of the water.
I lay gasping on the side of the pool like a fresh-gutted fish.
The burn is glorious.
I was thirteen when I figured out this trick.
My pre-awakening came early. Even then, I kicked my own ass to relieve stress. When I caught the first baby whiff of my omega perfume, I panicked, just ran and kept running, knowing that as soon as I started to mature, I’d be on the auction block.
A toy for alphas who’ll never see me as a real girl.
I ran so hard, so long, and so fast that the pheromones went away.
When my perfume came back, a track workout sent that shit packing.
The next day, I danced for eight hours and my hormones heard the message. We’re not doing this awakening thing.
That’s the whole secret, my whole plan.
All I have to do is keep grinding, exhausting my body so hard it can’t be bothered to pump out the sex hormones that’ll force me to awaken. No packs will notice or want me because I’m defective, and at some point, the OCC will have to write me off as a loss.
Management can’t even put me in rotation because it doesn’t matter if I’m twenty-three or sixty-three. If I’m not awakened, I can’t mate or get pregnant.
I have to be so exhausted I can barely function if I’m ever going to have a future.
That leaves me to deal with the present, and the omegas I can feel bitching me out from all the way across campus.
I avoid going back to the dorms for as long as possible, but at some point, I want to sleep on a bed instead of a diving board.
It’s past midnight when I finally cave. Late enough that all the omegas should be tucked in their cozy little beds.
Knowing it won’t go down like that, I detour through the equipment room and pick the lock on the softball club’s cage. Casually armed with an aluminum bat, I sneak through the shadows to my floor.
No one’s around until I hit the common room that’s lit up for a welcoming party. Rachel and five of her minions jump from the couches to surround me.
They’re younger—the oldest maybe nineteen—but they all tower over me.
Height doesn’t scare me.
I have leverage and a killer hitting arm.
What bothers me is the intensity of their scents.
Rachel’s putting off the strongest stench. Her barely there, pre-awakening perfume smells like expired rose water on a good day. Now it hits like thorns and rotted roses. I wrinkle my nose at the bitterness.
“You’re not dancing that solo,” Rachel says through gritted teeth.
“Neither are you.” I point at her air-casted ankle with my bat.
She growls.
It’s a kitten’s growl, high and shrill. I should laugh and blow her off, but no.
Fucking omega instincts.
My spine snaps like she just slapped me and goose bumps wiggle all the way down to my tailbone. I can feel my lip curling, an answering growl rumbling in my chest.
The other omegas rumble, and the sound sets me off again.
I’m surrounded.
Surrounded and exhausted, because as much as I will protect myself, I don’t want to do this.
It’s all so fucking pointless.
Rachel clenches her fists. “You won’t take them from me.”
Huh? “Take who?”
“Cut the bullshit!” one of the mean girls shouts.
“What’s this about?” I shoot her a glare so acid she backs up a step.
“The Wyvern pack. Who do you think the showcase is for?”
Suddenly Rachel’s hysteria makes at least a little bit of sense.
Wyvern House owns the OCC, among a kajillion other businesses, but their bread-and-butter is black ops merc work. I don’t live so far underneath my self-imposed rock that I don’t know about the Wyvern heirs.
Okay. I don’t know their names, just that they exist. The sons of the four founders of Wyvern House. If a pack of dominant, aggressively hot rich boys is shopping omegas, it’s no wonder Rachel wants to wear me as a skinsuit.
Also, fuck.
This showcase is a total scam.
I consider handing over my bat and letting these girls beat the shit out of me, but they’re going to do that anyway. I might as well get in a few hits.
Stress relief.
And bonus! No solo if they shatter my legs.
“We could just not do this, you know.” I tighten my grip on the bat. “I don’t want your packs.”
“You’re playing the long con. I respect it. But do you think we’re fucking stupid? Every omega wants Wyvern Pack.” Rachel shakes her head, tossing her perfect glossy curls. “Noelle warned me about you.”
To be fair, I try not to look Rachel in the face. That’s why I never noticed the familiar snub nose and the dark brown eyes that match the ones in my nightmares.
I thought it was weird how all mean girls look the same. Apparently it’s not a look they stole from a magazine. It’s genetics.
“You’re sisters.” I swallow hard, lifting my bat. All this time, I thought I was hiding, and Rachel knew I was a threat.
“No shit.” Rachel’s lips curl in a feral grin. “Fuck her up, ladies.”
I swing, pushing back the minions who think I didn’t see them closing in on me.
Amateurs.
It’s five-on-one, but the bat gives me reach. I hit Jovie first, knocking her off her feet so she can’t come at me with her tetanus nails.
I jab one in the stomach, kick another, but they circle closer and closer, and I spent way too many hours dancing and grinding laps. My arms are too weak. I’m too exhausted.
Knowing how this ends, I make one last lunge and slip through their claws just long enough to jab my bat into Rachel’s ribs.
She topples with a sweet oof.
Then Jovie snatches my wrist, Beckah steals my bat, and the girls dart in with sharp nails and sharper snarls. Their touches make my skin crawl like vipers and stinging vines, and their floral, fruity omega scents make me want to choke.
“Hold her,” Rachel says shakily, using her crutch to push back to her feet.
My lizard brain freaks.
I flail as more and more hands pin me down.
Fight. Run. Fight Run.
Rachel steps in front of me with a crutch in one hand and my bat in the other. “Know your place, Darling.”
She swings the bat like a fucking battle axe.
The hit cracks across my face.
Lights.
Out.
I wake up to the smell of antiseptics and the orange blossom fragrance of the frantic beta nurse hovering over me in the infirmary.
“What year is it?” I croak out, hoping I’ve slipped into a coma and am now sixty-five years old and ready for retirement at sea.
“It�
�s—”
“Don’t start.” Evgenia clicks her tongue. “You didn’t miss the showcase.”
I tilt my head to find her when a throb hits so hard I gag. Pain that’d have me heaving if I had anything more than bile in my stomach.
“Stay still,” the nurse commands, steadying my shoulders.
When the agony passes, I don’t try turning again. Evgenia can hear me from wherever. “Looks like your understudy needs an understudy.”
“You’ll be fine. Nothing a little stage makeup can’t cover.”
I’d snort if I weren’t positive it would split my head like a rotten pumpkin. “It hurts to blink. There’s no way I’m dancing.”
“Well…” The nurse hesitates, and my stomach drops.
“Traitor,” I mutter.
“I’m so sorry, Lilah. But your scans don’t show any irreparable damage and Mr. Scorpio insisted, so…”
Scorpio?
I try to remember where I’ve heard that name, but my brain’s all pumpkin pulp and mush. “What about Rachel?”
Evgenia sniffs from her corner. “She’s in solitary with the others who attacked you. Evil girls, hitting you in your beautiful face.”
They could scrape off my face with a butter knife if it got me out of this dance. Just the idea of standing makes me groan.
“I’ll grab you some more pain meds.” The nurse scampers off, and Evgenia steps in, staring down at me with a critical eye.
“You cannot expect me to dance tomorrow.”
“You’re bruised, but I’ve seen you dance through worse.”
I think she means that as a compliment.
And yeah, once upon a time, I wouldn’t let anything stop me from dancing. Things change when you realize every second in the spotlight means another trip to the infirmary. “There’s no way.”
“You’ll find a way.”
“But—”
“I won’t let you throw away this opportunity. You have a chance to land a decent pack.”
Evgenia and I have a waaaay different definition of opportunity. She’s imagining a cushy life for me as some pack’s precious omega princess, but all I see is a future filled with bars and bruises. “I’d call this a trap.”
“Then consider yourself trapped.” She pats my arm in consolation. “And dance your omega ass off anyway.”
Three
ATLAS
The last time we clusterfucked a mission so hard, Finn took three bullets and we damn near lost him. I promised myself.
Never again.
But here we fucking are.
My packmates sit around the conference table while I replay the insane footage that shows every wrong thing that went down tonight.
Hunter scowls, Jett watches with a cold expression that matches the dried blood spray across his face, and Finn—fucking Finn—sits low in his chair, swiveling back and forth and grinning like an addict who just scored a fix.
I can’t blame him.
I blame myself.
I should’ve known he’d go off-book. I should’ve checked in with him before we went out. Made sure he was level.
Now I all I can do is agonize over the tapes and plan so this never happens again. I pause on the drone footage from the moment the first domino tipped.
We were hired to ambush a Redfang Cartel drug pickup in an isolated forest clearing. The plan starts textbook, the four of us camouflaged in perfect position for a quick kill when the Redfangs pull up. Erik Redfang steps out of a black car with his bodyguards, and the suppliers hop out of their van.
It should’ve been easy.
But instead of taking the shot, our sniper jumps out of his tree.
In one fluid motion, he throws his rifle over his shoulder, drives a machete through a cartel soldier’s jugular, and war whoops like a goddamned Highland warrior.
My pack brother, Finn—the copper-headed shit—watches the screen with a twinkle in his eye. “Play the part where I—”
“Shut up.” Hunter claps a hand over Finn’s mouth.
“You fucked this one up,” I tell him flat out. “But so did we all.”
I hit play.
After Finn drops the guy and pulls another knife, going for a second man, Hunter breaks cover. But Hunter doesn’t have knives or even a weapon. No. Hunter dives into the fight unarmed, bare-knuckle-blasting our target’s bodyguard in the face.
“He was reaching for his gun.” Hunter runs fingers through dark, messy hair. “Bonehead move, okay? But Finn was fucked and I didn’t have a shot.”
The scene breaks into more chaos. Jett and I start firing from our positions, our target takes cover in his bulletproof car, and before we can finish dropping bodies, the surviving Redfangs tear away.
We’re still picking off the last drug guys in alternating blasts of gunfire when Finn dives behind the wheel of their van. Jett, who’s supposed to be the level-headed one, grabs shotgun, taking along the tablet that controls our tech.
Finn has too deep a death wish to ever be wheel-man. He plows through a bush, off-roading to follow the Redfangs’ escape.
All the while, my commands crackle over the audio.
Ignored. Unacknowledged.
“Negative. Do not pursue. Hunter needs support. Finn! I repeat, do not pursue. Need backup on the ground.”
“I have him,” Finn insists. “I can run him into a tree before he makes the road.”
Meanwhile, Hunter’s pinned down by three guys, one’s going for his knife, and gunfire has me stuck behind a tree.
My gut roils.
I told myself our bond was fine. The pack is strong. But Exhibit A right here is all the evidence I need.
Our pack is fracturing. “You left us behind.”
The switch flips inside Finn, and in half a second, all his cowboy bravado bleeds to nothing, leaving behind a dead-eyed assassin who drops the room temperature to glacial.
This is the Finn who has more kill counts than any other Wyvern House agent. This is the Finn the stunts and fucking antics keep at bay. This is the Finn who doesn’t give a fuck that I’m his leader and we’ve been pack brothers since diapers.
“You had it under control,” he says flatly.
“And you?” I turn to Jett.
“It was a mistake,” he admits, dropping his gaze. “I was watching the screens instead of the ground. Didn’t want Finn going off solo.”
Reasonable.
Wrong, but reasonable.
This is exactly why we need our tech guy back, but my father has Orion grounded indefinitely.
“We should’ve called Nathan,” Jett says.
“No,” I bark, and my packmates spines’ straighten at the hit of alpha command I didn’t mean to slip. I clear my throat. “Orion’s spot stays open.”
“What if he’s never fit for duty again?” Hunter asks.
“He’ll be fit.” The fact that Hunter could even suggest—could even think—about replacing our brother tells me everything I don’t want to know.
“If—” Jett begins.
“No.” This time, the bark’s on purpose, and the command of their pack leader has my brothers’ jaws snapping shut.
I will not negotiate.
Orion is pack. If we’re not loyal to our own goddamned pack then what are we doing?
Orion didn’t ask to awaken as an omega. He didn’t even ask to be our pack’s omega.
But he is. He’s ours. Our mate.
Mine.
So we can keep his spot for as long as it takes for him to figure out his hormones. When he’s in control, he’ll be back, and the team will be that much stronger.
No fucking way am I giving his slot to Nathan.
The guys know their history. Orion and Nathan are biological brothers, and Nathan takes fucking glee in lording shit over our mate.
I’d rather remove the guy’s teeth with my fingers than trust him to have my back on a job.
Orion’s already going to be upset that we’re struggling.
I’ve disappoin
ted him enough.
I won’t backstab him by cutting him from our squad without so much as a heads up. “Any chatter on containment?”
“The media’s running with the car chase,” Jett says.
“I made the shot,” Finn insists as if he didn’t make the shot after the choppers got there. So instead of an everyday case of road rage, the news is covering a gangland assassination where a masked Finn shoots the spine out of our target in the middle of a bridge before base jumping off the side and disappearing into the water.
God save me from adrenaline junkies.
“Wyvern House will be implicated,” Jett says.
Hunter tsks. “Fucking mess.”
This isn’t a mess.
It’s a goddamned disaster.
As team leader, pack leader, and future leader of every single Wyvern House op and business, I’m the man who has to make it right. “Jett, get your people working on intel. Did the Redfangs recognize it was a Wyvern hit? Hunter. You’re fooling no one with that shitty bandaging. Go patch yourself up. And Finn. Sauna. Find me when you’re ready to talk.”
Hunter grumbles like he thinks long sleeves are enough to hide the slashes. I can smell the blood. A thick, choking reminder of how dangerous tonight’s close call was.
After my packmates leave, I replay the mission footage again and again. If this were any other team, I’d go over it frame-by-frame, pinpointing where the teamwork broke down and what strategies can improve their performance.
Our breakdown isn’t on film.
It’s somewhere else, somewhere deep inside the fabric of our pack, and when I finally pick apart the bloody threads, I know what I’m going to find.
It’s my fault.
Even if it’s not, it is.
I’m the one responsible for keeping us together.
I sit alone for too long, beginning to type up a mission report that makes me want to flip the table. Before I can splinter the conference room furniture, my father walks in.
Scorpio Wyvern drops down in the chair next to me.
His skin’s a shade deeper than mine, hair buzzed military clean. My father’s a big guy. Not bigger than me anymore, but he has this way—this aura. In black camo, he takes up the whole room.
