Twenty-One – Alijah
Twenty-One
Alijah
T he men in my pack had more than their fair share of eccentricities.
Take Owen, for example. Friday morning, I bumped into him on my way to work, standing frozen in the hallway outside unit 601. His face was scrunched up like the door had offended him somehow. He wasn’t stretching before a run or waiting for the elevator. Just standing there, scowling into his coffee.
Sure, the hallway smelled a bit boozy, but hardly enough to warrant a full-on grudge match with a door. We hadn’t even met our neighbors yet, and judging someone based on pheromone leftovers was rude. Maybe their scent had a lovely fruit-related top note—like a tropical drink, promising a fun time with good company.
Not just bitter almonds and sticky alcohol residue.
One unusual morning was fine. But two weird mornings in a row? That was unprecedented behavior from Owen.
He sat across from me at the dining table, reading the financial news on his tablet between sips of the subpar mud he swore was coffee and bites of plain wheat toast. Neatly pressed and ready for business as ever, though his version of Saturday casual meant skipping the necktie and vest.
“Everything going smoothly for the housewarming?” he asked, not looking up from the screen.
“Absolutely,” I replied, my mouth half full of chocolate muffin. Not the most refined table manners, but I didn’t want to keep Owen waiting. “ Tabitha’s assistant confirmed her availability yesterday, so the date’s set. Still working on the menu, but I’m leaning toward an appetizer buffet. Lots of articles say finger food is perfect for mingling and chatting. And I’ve convinced Joaquin not to grill a mountain of hot dogs.”
Owen nodded in acknowledgment rather than agreement, then reached for his wallet. The card he slid across the table wasn’t a mere piece of plastic—it was a pack credit card, a symbol of our combined financial stability. A mythical beast for a beta who grew up in foster care.
“Use this. Essentials only.”
“Got it.” I picked up the card with surreal reverence.
It would have been one thing if it had come from Joaquin. My mate was a giver, always ensuring I had what I needed and wanted. When we first started dating, he spent a lot of time explaining the distinction between the two, reminding me that it was okay to want another drink or buy a new pair of shoes without waiting for a sale.
Not everything in life had to be about necessity.
Rich coming from someone who mainly wore free shirts from the ballet. But eventually, I realized that Joaquin wanted better things for me than for himself—and far more than I’d ever allowed myself to want before.
But Owen was different.
Last week, he suggested we switch to generic paper products to save money, and he only bought boxers in bulk and on sale. I was still recovering from the shock of him buying the loft after being perfectly content sleeping in a windowless office nook without a closet for almost a decade.
Being entrusted with a pack credit card meant I’d have to watch our collective pennies.
And then Owen surprised me again.
“Any info about the neighbors?”
The words were too stiff to be spontaneous. Since when did Owen Redmond bother caring about strangers?
“I haven’t seen anyone,” I said, breaking off a piece of muffin. “But Joaquin says he saw a blonde woman getting in the elevator the other day. What about you? Did you meet them?”
Owen shook his head. “No.”
Before I could press further, the front door opened, and Wyatt walked in, dripping with sweat after his morning workout and reeking of slippery, wet shrubbery. The other frequent oddity of late.
“Morning,” he mumbled, already heading for the stairs.
“Hey—wait a second!” I called after him. “Have you met the neighbors?”
Wyatt froze mid-step, shoulders hunching in a way that made my curiosity spike. “Uh… Why?”
“Just wondering,” I said with a shrug, trying to play it cool. Not an easy feat with Owen leaning forward, resting his forearms on the table, studying his brother with unchecked intensity.
Wyatt ran a hand through his sweaty hair and looked out the windows—an evasive action that didn’t match his detailed response. “It’s a pair of sisters. The one with reddish hair leaves for work about the same time I get back from the gym every morning, and the blonde’s a night owl who works from home and keeps odd hours.”
“Scent signatures?” Owen asked.
“Mint for the blonde.” Wyatt rubbed the back of his neck just as his pheromones reached the dining room, adding a discordant note of bitter sap to the lingering taste of chocolate on my tongue. “The other’s floral. A really nice one.”
Owen looked skeptical. “Are you sure?”
“Hey, you asked.” Wyatt jogged up the stairs, vanishing into a cloud of bitter boxwood.
Owen observed his brother intensely, like Wyatt was an abnormal lab specimen prone to mutation.
Not that my expression was any better. Mornings were hell—boxwood-scented hell.
The thought prompted an immediate pang of guilt. Wyatt had been under a lot of stress lately, moving across the country on short notice and starting a demanding but fantastic position. Something I’d never be brave enough to do.
Joaquin had assured me it was normal for alphas to have the occasional pheromone hiccup. Wyatt wasn’t choosing to be a noxious cloud. He couldn’t help it.
“I bought him a fresh bottle of scent-canceling spray,” I said quietly. “But he’s already using one. He keeps saying he isn’t anywhere near going into rut. Do you think that’s true? I mean, Wyatt knows his own cycle, but I’m worried. Should we have him talk to Cal?”
Owen tapped a finger against the side of his plate—once, twice. Good. He agreed with the idea.
“I’ll see if he can make a house call.”
“Thanks. I’d hate for Wyatt to get in trouble at work.”
A third tap of his finger gave me pause. Was that a singular tap, which indicated Owen was considering something—or the dreaded third tap, meaning duck and take cover ?
“About the housewarming.” Owen stood, straightened his glasses, and then brazenly contradicted himself. “Pick up whatever we need. Extra glasses. Throw pillows. The finishing touches.”
What was going on with Owen? It was almost like he’d suddenly decided we needed to impress someone during the housewarming party. But who—Tabitha?
Before I could ask, Owen left the room with his dishes.
Still wondering what Owen considered “finishing touches” and feeling cautiously hopeful on Wyatt’s behalf, I headed upstairs to get ready for the day. A rare Saturday free of football or work obligations—a day just for me to head out and play. With a pack credit card.
Sprawled face down on our bed, Joaquin was dead to the world, the tattooed expanse of his tan back on full display. Why hadn’t our bond given me deep sleep superpowers, too?
My mate had been the biggest question mark lately, which was quite an achievement considering the Redmonds’ combined irks and quirks. I kept catching him watching gymnastics videos on his phone…
Videos of Morgan.
He even convinced me to watch her entire Olympic competition the other night, cuddled together on the gray chaise with drinks and snacks. It wasn’t our weirdest date night, but it was pretty close. Not that I didn’t love watching her compete and win.
But Joaquin’s sudden interest in gymnastics was just plain weird.
His answers seemed truthful enough when I asked what he was up to. That he was trying to learn more about the sport to understand Morgan and Wyatt better.
Then, he’d flash that sly but sincere smile of his, the one that made me believe his promises of security and pleasure, never pain—and change the subject.
I still didn’t know what happened between him and Morgan the other day when I missed our lunch date. He wouldn’t tell me what they talked about or why his end of the bond sparked like a live wire for eight whole minutes, an overwhelming distraction during the crux of an important planning meeting.
At least I knew how my food truck barbeque appeared in the staff refrigerator. The thought of my name written across the lid in Morgan’s lilting penmanship still gave me butterflies. I was a little too enamored with the idea of my mate and my crush teaming up to keep me well-fed with brisket.
Joaquin knew how I felt about Morgan. He’d known for weeks. Never mentioned it, except for flashing my bonding mark at her and insinuating she was my favorite colleague. But he still knew. So why wouldn’t he answer my questions?
No, I was getting wound up again.
When I thought of my anxiety as a hyperactive hamster running endlessly on a wheel inside my brain, it made my constant stream of worries and doubts feel less intrusive. That’s just how I was wired. I’d take my meds, and eventually, the anxiety hamster would wear itself out, leaving me comfortably numb, and everything would be fine.
Maybe then I could finally accept my life with Joaquin at its center—the happiest I’d ever been—was really my new normal.
I wouldn’t wake up in my old studio apartment, with its tissue-thin walls and secondhand furniture, struggling to keep my head above water between student loan debt, the cost of gas, and ever-climbing rent. Entirely alone.
The man sound asleep in our newly purchased king-sized bed was my man. Mine to tease, mine to treasure. This was our life. Our reality. It was safe, solid, and very real.
Freshly showered, I slipped on jeans and a careworn sweater, then padded to Joaquin’s side of the bed, trailing my fingers through his unruly hair. A bleary eye cracked open, followed by a slow grin. He wrapped a long arm around my leg, tugging me close enough to nuzzle.
“Heading out?”
“Yeah. Owen gave me a pack credit card, so I’m going shopping before he regains his sanity.”
Working at the tight muscles at the base of his neck, I earned an appreciative grunt. He’d spent a string of late nights preparing for the ballet’s upcoming fall fundraising gala on top of their next show, and it was taking its toll.
He was heading back to the theatre in a few hours for another day of hanging and adjusting lights, but for now, he was entirely at the mercy of my tender, loving care.
“I’ll go with you next time,” he mumbled, voice thick with sleep. “Easier to plan stuff now the move’s over.”
“But the holidays—”
“Could light that nutcracker shit in my sleep.”
“That’s what you said last year.”
“Design’s already done, babe. Copy and paste. Minimal effort.” A noisy yawn morphed into a wicked laugh. “Unless they finally decide to let the royal rat pack win instead of repeating the same creepy uncle bullshit—”
I dug my thumb into the stubborn knot, prompting a sharp yelp that quickly faded into a grumble.
“You’re right, you’re right,” he said, giving my leg a placating squeeze. “It’s a masterpiece. Glittery pink gumdrop perfection.”
Joaquin pressed a kiss to my denim-clad thigh. He knew I had a soft spot for The Nutcracker .
“But I’m still going to block off some time on my calendar. We’ll do the whole shopping thing. Hot chocolate, gift wrap. Whatever you want. Promise.”
I caressed the length of his neck once more for good measure. “Thanks, babe.”
After kissing Joaquin on the temple and taking a moment to savor the peppery thrill of his scent, I raced down the stairs. The longer I stayed in the loft, the higher the risk of boxwood contamination.
Owen’s crisp voice called after me. “Don’t forget the finishing touches.”
***
I watched our collective pennies, all right—watched them fly straight out of our account, traded away for a trunkful of impulse splurges.
By the time I returned to Tolliver Yards, the back of my SUV was overflowing, and I was a frazzled knot of uncertainty. Did any of the throw pillows actually go together? Did the faux orchid arrangement scream cheap? The rope artwork that had seemed perfect in the store now looked small and depressingly beige.
I hooked bag after bag of soft furnishings and decorative objects onto my arm before realizing I still had a back seat full of groceries. Unloading was going to take several trips. Should I throw the home goods back in the trunk and prioritize getting the milk and ice cream upstairs first?
Doubt took hold.
What was I trying to prove? Why had I proposed a housewarming party in the first place? I was totally out of my element. My hosting experience was limited to boxed wine and popcorn on movie nights. I was your guy if you needed someone to pick the least tragic bedspread from the clearance section. But decorating an entire luxury penthouse loft? Forget it.
I didn’t know how to make fancy party food. What if I gave everyone food poisoning? What if I embarrassed Owen and Wyatt in front of their aunt ?
My anxiety hamster was back on its wheel, running full force toward a panic attack.
Oh god, what if I embarrassed myself in front of Morgan? What if she hated all the throw pillows—did omegas even like throw pillows, or was that just a rumor? What if—
“Do you need help?”
A calm voice interrupted my freak-out, soothing balm for my sudden bout of nerves. Gentle, but in complete control. Like an actual adult.
I turned to see a young woman standing a few parking spaces away. Honey-blonde French braids framed her delicate, doll-like features, and she wore a purple vintage-style pea coat and a pair of black and white Oxfords with chunky soles.
“I’ve got a collapsible cart you could use.” She pressed a button on her key fob, popping the trunk of her electric blue hatchback.
“Thank you,” I managed to say, though it sounded more like a wheeze. “That would be amazing. Life-saving, even.”
An even younger man with shoulder-length auburn hair climbed out of the passenger seat, wearing an oversized flannel shirt and jeans.
“I can help, too!” he said as he came bounding over, enthusiastically grabbing a few bags. “I’m Rory. That’s Kelsey, my sister. She lives here. I’m just crashing for the weekend.”
“I’m Alijah. Thanks again for coming to my rescue.”
As Kelsey rolled the cart over—one of those fancy utility ones, long and sturdy with solid fabric sides—their strong sibling resemblance became clear. They were about five-eight, with the same round green eyes, full cheeks, freckles, and charmingly upturned noses.
Kelsey loaded the cart with practiced ease, placing heavier items on the bottom and soft furnishings on top. Her angelic beauty and fuller figure fit the omega stereotype, but her mint scent told a different story—sweet and simple, entirely natural. Like a freshly plucked leaf, not artificially vibrant in the toothpaste way. Completely beta.
But was it the same mint Wyatt had mentioned?
“Redecorating?” Rory asked, commandeering the cart as we headed toward the elevator.
His scent was like a premium fudge brownie, rich with chocolate and caramelized sugar. Too decadent to be anything other than an omega.
I followed with the faux orchid tucked awkwardly in the crook of my arm while Kelsey trailed a step behind, carrying a few reusable bags that appeared to be filled with artisan soap.
“Sort of,” I replied. “We only moved in a few weeks ago. Still trying to furnish the place. ”
Kelsey’s gaze shifted to my pillow selection, looking slightly puzzled by the mishmash of styles and fabrics. I’d grabbed whatever looked nice without sparing a single thought for cohesion—and it showed. But that’s what Joaquin was for. A lighting designer was still a designer. I’d return anything he vetoed.
“Are these all for the same space?” she asked, tone gentle despite her pinched brows.
“No, not really.” I held the elevator door for Rory and the cart, keeping my hand in place until Kelsey stepped inside. “For the loft in general, I guess. We’re a little short on—on finishing touches.”
“What floor?” Rory asked as he swiped his sister’s access card with practiced ease, his hand poised above the control panel.
“Six.”
“Oh?” His face lit up with an impish grin as he exchanged a look with Kelsey—one that felt oddly loaded. “You two are neighbors!”
“I live in 601.” Kelsey offered a small but welcoming smile.
“With one of our other sisters. They’ve lived here for years,” Rory said, pressing the button for the sixth floor.
I wondered if that sister was the one who smelled like sweet booze. No, wait—Wyatt said it was floral. Could it be both, something like elderflower liqueur?
Not that I knew what elderflower liqueur smelled like.
“The guy who used to live in your unit is our bonus brother. Glad to finally know who wound up with the place.” Rory tapped an excited rhythm on the cart handle. “Did you keep the piano? Please tell me you kept the piano.”
I suddenly understood what Joaquin meant when he described my conversational style as a whirlwind.
“Yes, we still have the piano. And the giant chaise, too. Moved it upstairs.”
“That’s an excellent piece,” Kelsey said with muted approval. “I helped pick it out. Some of your pillow choices are the perfect complement for the upholstery.”
“Oh, do you like to decorate?” I asked as we reached our destination, holding the elevator door for them again.
“She’s a total pro.” Rory skipped out of the elevator, dragging the cart along in spurts and jolts. “Has an online store and finds the most amazing goodies. All my friends get their nesting supplies from her.”
I regarded my new neighbor with something akin to awe. Was this encounter the answer to my decorating novice prayers? Maybe I could ask Kelsey to give the place a once-over before the housewarming party—or at least help me figure out which pillows to return.
After unlocking the door, I turned to retrieve my bags from the cart in the hallway. Rory, however, breezed past me, making a beeline for the dining room. He started unloading bags onto the table, moving with the confidence of someone far too familiar with the unit layout.
Kelsey lingered in the foyer, her eyes resting on the new sectional sofa. Upholstered in a cool gray microsuede, the shade was an almost perfect match for the curtains. Her gaze swept over the mismatched accent furniture and the nearly empty built-in bookshelves.
“It’s coming together,” she said.
“But looks entirely different, I imagine,” I said, scratching the side of my neck, overly aware of how far our loft still had to go before it felt like a home.
“Well…” She hesitated, searching for the right words. Very polite ones, no doubt.
“Different is good!” Rory cut in, peering around the fireplace with a rascally grin. “There’s taste, and then there’s taste —and Jacobi has taste in spades. It finally looks like real people live here instead of being trapped inside a maximalist furniture showroom.”
Kelsey shot him a reproachful look, though her lips twitched with reluctant amusement. As she entered the living room, her critical gaze assessed each item.
“Focus on black and blue in here. Green works, too,” she said, her guidance full of quiet confidence. “Save the brighter colors for other rooms. I doubt you’ll need those shiny purple pillows, though. Might want to return them.”
How had she picked out the two pillows I was most nervous about?
“Is she magic?” I whispered to Rory on his way out.
He laughed, brushing his hair away from his face, the warm sugar in his scent spiking with amusement. “Pretty much. But that’s why we love her.”
***
A minor miracle occurred as I placed a framed photograph on the living room bookshelf—one of mine, the harbor at dusk, the sea and sky awash in moody blues. For the first time, the place looked… Nice.
A blend of modern and vintage, it reflected our varied tastes, as if we’d curated the collection together as a pack over time. Even today’s impulsive purchases seemed intentional, thanks to the limited color palette suggested by Kelsey. While many shelves were still bare, begging for several dozen more books and decorative objects, it would suffice for the time being.
The front door opened, and a fresh wave of boxwood announced Wyatt’s arrival, punctuated by the thud of his gym bag hitting the floor. The first pack mate to return home from their weekend workday.
He paused by the entryway table to admire the new artwork. Thick cream rope woven into a repeating geometric pattern and mounted on a wooden frame. I loved how inviting it felt while subtly alluding to Northport’s nautical vibes.
“Place looks great, Alijah. Really great.” He stepped into the living room, just as Kelsey had done earlier—and froze. The pupils of his ice-blue eyes constricted to pinpoints. “Who was here?”
“Our neighbor, Kelsey,” I said, uncertain how to interpret his reaction. “And her brother, too. They helped me bring everything up from the car.”
Something akin to dread flashed in his eyes. “Ethan?”
“No, Rory. At least, I’m pretty sure he said his name was Rory.” Confusion gathered strength within me. “Who’s Ethan?”
“Never mind.” Wyatt snagged his bag and retreated upstairs, leaving me with more questions than answers—all of them knocked clean out of my head by a suffocating wave of sweat-soaked boxwood, now laced with an unmistakable undertone of stress.
What was wrong with him?
I tried not to gag as my phone buzzed on the coffee table. Repeated texts from Joaquin demanded attention, asking why the bond had suddenly gone haywire after several hours of domestic bliss.
Wyatt stinks.
Oh. Thought it was something serious.
It’s really, really bad this time.
Could always hang an air freshener around his neck.
I was halfway through typing a message to tell my mate off when he sent another, even crueler text.
No, wait. His neck’s too thick. Would snap right off .
That’s mean.
Want to kick him out?
Mean!
Only for you, babe.
As much as I loved Joaquin, rough edges and all, sometimes he was a little too much. Even for me.
I tossed my phone aside and grabbed the pheromone neutralizer, spraying down the entrance and living room with vigor. I nearly sprayed Owen square in the face as he unexpectedly appeared in the doorway of his suite. Had he been in there the entire afternoon without my realizing it?
“Sorry, Owen! Didn’t see you—I mean, I saw you, it’s j-just you surprised me. Didn’t know you were home, so—”
He held up a finger to silence me, cutting off my babbling midstream. “Did you get their last name?”
“W-who?”
If it was possible to sigh telepathically, Owen managed it. “The neighbors.”
“Oh.” I blinked, feeling like an idiot. “No, I didn’t think to ask. Sorry.”
“No need to apologize.” His mouth settled into an intimidating frown as his gaze swept across the room. “Get rid of the thing on the back of the couch. The rest can stay.”
“Oh—oh?” I turned toward the couch, wondering what he disliked about the blue faux fur blanket. Was it the color? The texture? The placement? Or something else entirely, a flaw only Owen could perceive? “S-sure, no problem. Consider it gone.”
Taking a slow deliberate breath, his frown deepened. He aimed his formidable disapproval toward the second level for a tense moment, then wordlessly withdrew into his suite, closing the double doors in my face.
Weird. That was the only word for it. My pack was weird—Wyatt included.
But they were my pack of peculiar alphas.
How did I get so lucky?