9. Oscar
9
Oscar
“ W
hat the fuck is wrong with him?” Paxton demands, dropping down into his armchair in the corner of Sterling’s office. I don’t look up from my laptop, fully aware that our head alpha is going to make himself comfortable, and won’t care that he doesn’t have my attention.
I’m lying on the floor, off to the side of them both. The numbers on my spreadsheet blur slightly from fatigue—the combination of yesterday’s unexpected shopping excursion and another night of broken sleep hasn’t done me any favours.
With my feet on the floor and my legs bent at the knees, it’s a perfect position for my laptop to sit and for me to be able to type properly. The hardwood flooring is solid enough to support my spine, but with just enough give to prevent excessive pressure points.
Sterling chose well. His office is one of the most efficient in the building.
I care about Paxton’s intrusion, though, since it means he’s brought his angry fumes in here with him. Normally, Pax’s scent is grounding and safe—a spicy kick of cinnamon that blends beautifully with the sweetness of his vanilla.
It’s quite addictive, honestly.
But when he’s angry, his scent becomes one of the most disgusting things I’ve ever had to stomach. It practically burns my nose, and creates ulcers in my stomach and lungs.
Selfish man that he is.
My jaw tightens on instinct, my body prepared to counterbalance Paxton’s rage. My scent glands prickle, desperate to push my scent out to force calm.
But there’s nothing to release. I won’t let myself.
Pax’s eyes dart to me, and he exhales sharply, nostrils flaring before a slight crease forms—it’s almost as if he expects something from me that isn’t there.
I’m scent-neutral. Like always, and he should expect that.
I don’t kick up a fuss though, knowing that this is Sterling’s office and not my own.
I’ve already had this lecture about how I don’t get to control communal spaces.
I still disagree.
Sterling’s office tends to be the unofficial meeting room for whenever we’re hiding out from shit—although, thinking about it, it tends to only be me that hides. Paxton usually works, or sometimes has a bitch.
Uri’s always in here just to gossip and eat in between his walking meetings. Stupid concept.
I come here when my office is too cramped, or it’s being fumigated from someone’s scent. I try my best to block anyone from entering, but sometimes, they don’t read the sign on my door.
Or they think it’s a joke.
“Who?” Sterling asks, still typing out a reply to the report he’s just read.
I roll my eyes at Sterling’s lack of contextual awareness, but don’t answer for Paxton. Clearly since I’m sat here, and Pax didn’t direct his words towards me, he was referring to the only other member of our pack.
Who else would Pax care about?
Unsurprisingly, the head alpha huffs. “Uri, obviously. The fucking prick has cancelled all of his meetings today, and then bit my head off when I asked why he needed me to take one for him.”
I snort. “Jealous as fuck. Why can’t I cancel all my meetings?”
Both Sterling and Paxton give me identical looks of disbelief.
“What? I had to endure forty-seven questions today during my presentation, and I guarantee there’s at least six people in that meeting who don’t even have an IQ level of 47.” I crack my knuckles, sneering. “Mr Remington, is there any wiggle room on the budget for this quarter?”
“Was there?” Sterling asks, with a hint of amusement.
“Of fucking course there wasn’t!” I snap. “I had already given him an increase from last quarter, despite the fact that he’s likely going to waste it. I ran the numbers he suggested, and laughed at him. He wasn’t impressed.”
“And who is this ‘he’ that you’re referring to?” Paxton asks.
“I don’t know his name. He’s the Media Buying Director. Wanted more money for a new billboard promo. What the fuck do we even need a billboard for?” I shake my head. “He’s lucky he got an increase after he blew half his budget on a ‘high-visibility’ campaign that tanked? Yeah, not on my fucking watch.”
Paxton’s lips twitch into a smirk. “And did you tell him this?”
“Of course. I made sure he knows I’m watching exactly what he does with his money, and, well, he wasn’t impressed to know that he actually lost the company a hundred and fifty grand because he’s incompetent.”
Sterling laughs. “Fuck me, I can’t wait to read the HR complaint for that one, Oscar.”
I grumble under my breath, but don’t bother to engage. They don’t care about my hatred for the HR department, or the fact that we employee a bunch of cry-babies.
I personally think we’d function a lot better if we weren’t legally required to have HR, and could just make these grown ass idiots weep for every mistake they’ve made.
But since I’m constantly outvoted on the decision to cut their budgets and ignore the reports they send, I don’t bother voicing my opinions on that matter.
I fucking hate budget meetings.
Although… maybe I’d have preferred it if the intriguing Emmeline was in it, today. I checked in on why she was off work after running into her yesterday, and apparently she’s on leave for her heat. Very strange, considering she was clearly not in heat.
She was dripping with scent-neutraliser, and never once asked for my knot. Neither are typical behaviours of an omega in heat.
And you know, she was shopping for food.
Uri and Paxton would probably want me to report it to HR. To let the den of vipers haul the poor girl in for an inquisition.
I checked the numbers—she’s meant to be in heat. Her last leave was three months ago—one hundred and twenty-three days, to be exact. She takes off three days before a heat is due, and three days after, according to her file.
The same file that I probably shouldn’t have accessed and read. But it was helpful in trying to figure her out.
Where she claimed to be an expert on planners… I’m practically an expert on omega’s heats.
The mystery of it all plagues me. If I just had the answers, the obsession I feel with this dark-haired omega would fade, and I can go back to living my life omega-free.
Well… omega-free except Odelia. She doesn’t count. My fingers twitch with the urge to call my sister to check she’s okay. She’s still on her plane, though, and won’t be able to answer.
I force them to be still and regard my head alpha, ultimately shrugging. What he and Uri don’t know won’t hurt them.
Or Emmeline.
“So, what’s Uri done to frustrate you so much?” Sterling asks, redirecting the conversation back to Paxton’s whines. “It can’t be the fact that he’s cancelled his meetings.”
“Well, I mean that is annoying,” Paxton says, crossing his arms in front of his chest. “But no, it’s more the attitude he has and the giant storm cloud hanging over his head for the last week or so.”
“I’ve not noticed,” I say.
Sterling and Paxton both look at me, neither of them hiding their rude as fuck expressions.
“Yeah, yeah, fuck off,” I mutter, shaking my head.
“He’s been in a terrible mood, and I have no idea why. He’s been short with staff too, and people are really starting to notice…” Paxton says, and as he talks, his voice just becomes white noise as I run through my own interactions with Uri over the last week.
“Wait, he hasn’t been willing to let me sleep with him,” I say, interrupting whatever Paxton was whining about. “I came into his bed on Monday last week, and Thursday, and both nights he waited until I was asleep, before leaving.”
Paxton turns to face me, anger bristling at the edges of his demeanour. “Why didn’t you mention that to me?”
I shrug, looking back down at my spreadsheet. I don’t bother responding, and instead start running through the calculations on the latest ad data, to see how things are performing.
A hand presses on my shoulder and I startle, meeting Pax’s concerned brown eyes. He’s kneeling down beside me, not caring that he’s probably creasing the loafers that cost more than my laptop did.
His scent is closer now, stronger, and thick enough to smother my lungs if he doesn’t move away soon. He’s angry, still, and the vanilla is heavier—almost an alpha demand.
Asshole.
As if I’m going to let him command me into doing something I don’t want to do.
“You’re always welcome in my bed, Oscar,” he says, his voice low. “Don’t be forcing yourself to sleep alone, because Uri’s in a bad mood.”
And there we have it. His words aren’t a reassurance, not really. He’s trying to demand I come to him. A reminder that we’re pack is nice, but honestly, it just hurts that much more to know one of ours is pulling away.
I shake my head. “It’s not a big deal. I don’t need a babysitter.”
My scent glands pulse, and a brief hint of my scent pushes through the neutraliser. Fuck. Barely anything, but of course Paxton notices.
His grip tightens, just enough that I feel the scent-marking from his wrist against my cheek. Damn it.
But at least his scent overpowers my own again.
Uri’s distance is a big deal, and we all know it. I’m one of the most… unstable members of our pack, and there’s not much that can be done for it.
I’ve been plagued by nightmares for most of my life, since I first walked in and saw my sister practically dead in her bed.
She wasn’t—dead, that is.
But I was only eight and had no idea that was the case. She was pale, her bed sheets covered in blood, and she didn’t respond when I called for her. Her scent—normally so similar to mine, but sweeter, softer—was tainted with copper.
With something sour I couldn’t identify at that age.
I remember calculating how many minutes passed while I stood there, frozen—exactly one hundred and twenty-seven seconds before I could move again, before I could scream for my parents, for help.
I counted each of my heartbeats while we waited for the ambulance—three hundred and nineteen of them, each one feeling like it might be my last too.
I knew even then that I couldn’t live without my sister. That I wouldn’t be able to move past this loss.
Obviously I understand what the problem is now , but back then… I was terrified, and no matter how much therapy I was forced into—eighty-two sessions over four years—it has done nothing for me, nothing to ease that anxiety.
Instead, the only thing that helps when a nightmare hits, is being near the person I dream is dead. Pack proximity decreases my heart rate by approximately thirty-four percent and my cortisol levels drop by half within twenty minutes of physical contact.
My pack readily offer themselves up. They’re my family, my support network, my literal brothers. They understand, in ways even I don’t.
But being in their bed means I can ensure they’re breathing, that they’re alive, and be there in case anything changes. I can track their pulses, and make sure it’s normal, and make sure their breaths are steady and on track.
The closeness combined with the data keeps my anxiety in check.
Trauma, man, it really shapes a guy up.
“I’ll be speaking to him about this,” Paxton warns me. “We’re a pack, and no matter what, we don’t leave someone to struggle.”
“If you say so. I think it’s a waste of time.”
“How come?” Sterling asks.
I close my laptop, and move so I’m sitting up rather than lying down. I rest against the wall, stretching my legs out across the floor’s subtle inlaid pattern—the concentric circles are meant to aid with focus, but I’ve calculated that they’re barely four percent better than my own carpeted office.
“Oscar?” Sterling prompts, the leather of his seat creaking as he shifts positions. “Why do you think talking with Uri is a waste of time.”
I look down at my hands, not wanting to admit what I found under his pillow.
Or what I did with them.
I couldn’t help myself really. I couldn’t be blamed.
The scent hit me like a fucking punch to the gut. Not just because of how intoxicating it was, but because there was something familiar in it.
Something I should not have recognised on any omega Uri’s fucking. My instincts reacted first, clawing to the surface, before I could even think.
Even now, I can feel the pressure from my scent glands at even just the memory of her scent. A desperation to match it, to soothe, to please.
Fucking hell.
My skin tingles, and my scent glands pull tight, but thankfully my scent doesn’t reach the air. I swallow hard, frustration sitting heavy in my chest.
My sister’s scent has the same edge to it when her heat’s hit, but this one? This was different.
It was richer. Sharper. Nicer.
The woman… the omega… Uri’s omega was in heat when he claimed those scraps of fabric.
Thankfully, I’m interrupted by the door opening, and a familiar black pepper and honey scent washes over me. I relax at the ease and comfort of Uri’s scent, and how both Paxton’s and Sterling’s seem to settle slightly now that we’re all together.
I take big gulps of air, enjoying the combination of all four of our scents together.
But where some of the pressure seems to lift off my chest, the lingering emptiness confuses me. It’s like a quiet itch, an awareness I can’t ignore.
Something is missing. No— someone.
It’s now my mission to find the girl with the lavender and chamomile scent.
The one whose slick-coated panties were hidden under Uri’s pillow.
Because I’m positive she’s our pack’s scent match.
“Why did nobody tell me we were having a pack gathering?” Uri demands, looking around the room with wide eyes. His curly hair is in a state of disarray and his shirt is as rumpled as mine.
“We’re talking about you,” I tell him brightly. “I’ve heard you’re not meant to do that in front of the person you’re talking about.”
Uri’s gaze darkens, as he meets my eyes. There’s something in his face that I can’t determine, not really, and it’s gone before I can examine further.
“What are you talking about?” His tone is ice cold, a growl that belongs to the alpha within.
“Your attitude,” Paxton says, meeting Uri’s challenge head-on.
Asshole .
It’s not like I’m scared, but I am currently feeling a little sensitive, and if they’re both going to get mad, then they’ll suffocate my lungs with their bad vibes. Then Sterling will be forced to try to referee them, which will disturb his scent, and will tip me over the edge.
Is hurtling to my death better than being deprived of oxygen?
“Breathe, Oscar.” Sterling’s big head is in my face, his hands holding my shoulders firmly. “Why don’t you go take a walk?”
“It’s too bright.”
Paxton glances at the windows, and nods. He’s standing a foot or so behind Sterling, and has an identical expression of concern on his face.
Uri’s is full of guilt, which is stupid. It’s not his fault that my brain doesn’t function as well as theirs does.
Though his scent has shifted again, eighty-two percent stronger now. The same protective note I’ve been smelling on him for days clings to him like glue. The edge to it is important, though, because it’s as if he’s protecting someone—or something.
His secret omega, probably.
“We’re not happy with your attitude, Uri,” I say, meeting his warm brown eyes, with an even tone.
His scent spikes—sharp, defensive, and so damn telling—causing my nose to twitch, but I don’t react otherwise. It’s forty-seven percent more bitter than usual, by my estimate.
He’s going to the defensive, and I won’t let myself be drawn in on the alpha posturing he’s going to try. Not my kind of drama.
“I don’t see how my attitude is any of your business,” he snarls.
Sterling rises in a sudden move, turning to stand in front of me. His scent slides into place like a buffer, cutting through Uri’s aggression with a softer approach.
It’s cute, really, how the beta is striving to protect me from the angry alpha.
I’d laugh, if it wasn’t needed.
“Pack performance metrics are down about eighteen percent this week,” I say, because the numbers make far more sense than the emotions do. I can quantify these. My brain understands this kind of reasoning. “Sterling’s had to mediate three arguments between you and Pax, and Paxton’s stress indicators are up.”
Uri’s jaw tightens. “And this is my fault, how?”
“You’re tracking our movements?” Paxton asks, his dark brown eyes lighting up with amusement, his scent softening. “Counting our fights?”
I don’t bother reacting to that. I always count everything—they know this. Instead, I tap my fingers against the floor next to me, watching their reactions.
Uri heaves a sigh, dropping down into his usual chair. Where Paxton’s is slightly bigger than normal sized armchair, Uri’s regular seat is the fabric two seater. His ass takes up a seat and a half, and he doesn’t like to share.
“I’ve been… preoccupied.”
I snort, but when Sterling shifts in his seat, my eyes dart over to him. Another member of my pack hiding something. Another person trying to disguise it.
I wonder if his secret is similar to Uri’s, to mine.
The honesty in our pack has dropped to around seventy-two percent—not quite at the danger stage, but close. It’s a big margin of lies and secrets we’re keeping.
This is the kind of thing that causes tension between us.
The kind of thing that might tear us apart this time, if we let it grow.
“We run a multi-billion-pound marketing firm,” Paxton says dryly. “We’re always preoccupied. But that doesn’t mean we ever give less than our all to the pack—and you have been lately, brother.”
Uri sighs. “You’re right. This isn’t a work thing”—his voice deepens by eight percent, pretty minuscule unless you were looking for it—“so I shouldn’t be letting it affect me here. I’m sorry I’ve been pushing my slack over to you.”
Paxton rolls his eyes. “You know I don’t care about that.”
“I’m salty you got to cancel your meetings but I’m not allowed,” I offer.
Sterling laughs, but it’s Paxton who speaks first. “Oscar, you attend maybe one true meeting a week, and even then it’s with very few staff. I probably attend more meetings in a week than you do a quarter.”
“If it’s a competition, you’re wrong,” I say, shaking my head. “Last quarter I attended twenty-seven meetings. In your highest-performing week you only attended eighteen. And a half, I suppose, if we include the one you left early with food poisoning.”
“Okay, but my job is more than just meetings,” Paxton argues. There’s a smile on his face though and his scent has mellowed by at least sixty percent.
Good. It means the cinnamon isn’t burning my nose anymore.
“I’m not trying to compete here.” I pull my laptop onto my lap, opening it up. “Just stating facts.”
“I thought it was Pax and I you were worried about fighting,” Uri says, waggling his brows.
“Uri, I’ve got a question for you,” Sterling says.
The silence that follows is exactly two-point-three seconds longer than our normal conversational pauses. I continue typing, but my peripheral catches the way Uri adjusts himself, trying to control his reaction.
Interesting.
“What?” Uri asks.
“When reviewing the security files, I’ve noticed you’ve spent a lot of time visiting the creative floor,” Sterling says pointedly.
Another weighted pause.
“We’ve got three major campaigns launching next month and the layout is due soon,” Uri finally says. His voice is steady, but his scent… well, it’s spiked again. “The creative department needs the most oversight.”
“I mean that’s true, but you’ve only spent an average of five minutes there each visit. That’s hardly enough time for any sort of campaign oversight,” I say, going back to typing.
“Oscar.” Paxton’s tone carries a warning, but I’m not sure why. I’m just stating facts. Numbers don’t lie.
Unlike Uri.
“What? It’s not my fault I notice when he leaves.” I frown at my screen, correcting the numbers in the reports that Gemma has sent over.
Her scent isn’t bothersome, but her lack of attention to detail is.
“You shouldn’t be tracking people like that,” Paxton says.
“That’s my job,” Sterling adds, waggling his brows.
“I know, and you’ve made it very easy to keep track of everyone.” I give him a thumbs up and he rolls his eyes. “It’s how I know you’ve been coming into work earlier every day, and that you spend seventeen minutes on floor two.”
Sterling chokes on his coffee, the hot liquid spluttering all over his white dress shirt. “How did you?—”
“And how I know that your security card hasn’t been used to access anything during that time, but the system goes dark.” Sterling’s scent shifts, becoming more acidic—the same change I’ve noted when he’s caught in a lie.
Sure, it’s interesting that he’s using our security systems for his own personal gain, but I’ve had other things to think about lately. Stupid fool though, thinking I wouldn’t notice.
Paxton smirks. “He’s got you there, Sterling.”
“Or how Paxton’s been staying twelve minutes later every night to meet with someone in the parking garage,” I add, unable to bite my tongue.
“Those are pack matters,” Paxton cuts in sharply. His shoulders tense, and his scent shift is far more subtle than Sterling’s—far more cinnamon than usual.
I look up then, studying each of their faces. “Are they? Because your heart rate just increased.”
“Pack matters,” he insists. There’s a hesitation of one-point-seven seconds before he speaks, and his scent shifts again.
“Look, by my calculations, we’re all keeping secrets at roughly the same rate.” I tap my fingers against my keyboard, still undoing Gemma’s mistakes. “That’s a significant increase from our baseline of eight percent.”
Uri’s hands clench into fists, his hands resting on top of his thighs. “Some secrets are necessary.”
“They are,” Paxton agrees.
“Well, in this instance, there’s something happening in the creative department that I’m not aware of.” I look at Uri, then Sterling, before settling on Paxton. “Figure it out, alpha, and you’ll have your answer as to who is affecting our pack.”
I’m glad this isn’t a work related issue, because for some reason, I’m concerned about Emmeline.
About how whatever drama my pack are causing could affect her.
The room temperature drops by what feels like four degrees. Uri’s face goes blank in that way that means he’s suppressing strong emotion.
Sterling’s shoulders tense and he tries to hide his unease by patting down his shirt, and trying to clear up the spilled coffee.
But Paxton... Paxton’s expression shifts from confusion to understanding in approximately 0.8 seconds.
“Oscar,” he says slowly, eyeing up both our other pack members. “what exactly are you hinting at?”
I close my laptop with a soft click.
“I know our pack’s fracturing. I know we’re all hiding things. And I know that somewhere in this building, there’s an omega whose scent is a perfect match for all of ours.”
I stand up, gathering my things, sick of being in this room with the miserable energies from my pack. I’d been looking forward to spending time with them—well, it was them or my contaminated office—but now they’re just bringing me down.
“But most importantly, I know that if we don’t start being honest with each other soon, we’re going to lose everything we’ve built.”
I head for the door, pausing with my hand on the handle, unable to hold in my last dig.
“Also, Uri? You might want to find a better hiding place for certain items. Your pillow’s not as secure as you think it is.”
The spike in his scent—panic, protectiveness, and something darker—follows me out into the hallway. I don’t need to look back to know that Paxton’s already demanding answers, that Sterling’s trying to mediate, that Uri’s probably wondering how much I really know.
Assholes.
I love them more than life itself, but right now, I’m frustrated.
I’ve got enough to worry about with Lia coming home today, and my mysterious investigation into the fake-heating having omega who has my brain working overtime.
I don’t need the extra stress.
The numbers don’t lie. They never have.
And right now, they’re telling me that our pack has less than seventy-two hours before everything changes.
I just hope we’re strong enough to survive it.