Chapter Twenty
CAINE
This was the last place I wanted to be. A pack event, proposed and organised by my flamboyant brother to demonstrate unity, a solid force, while encouraging motivation.
Dylan wasn’t here.
There was a rift between us. We hadn’t interacted in the two days since the incident in my office, neither of us willing to break the ice first. Brian had been the one to inform me he wasn’t coming, relaying the lacklustre message of Dylan feeling unprepared for a public event so soon after his heat.
That wasn’t the real reason.
“Where’s Dylan?” Aaron asked, sidling up beside me, his vowels drawled unnecessarily. He was without a partner tonight, and he was drinking to compensate.
“Not here,” I said, in no mood to entertain his antics.
He’d already pissed me off with how he’d set up the place.
The lights were glaring, filtering even through my patch.
The music was piercing. Classical, as was the standard, though a violin played marginally out of tune, and the urge to shoot whoever it belonged to billowed in me like fire.
Mercifully, there weren’t enough omegas in proximity to provoke my symptoms—no more than a flurry in my vision and a heaviness in my stomach. It was still an obnoxious fanfare.
Tedious.
Dylan wasn’t here.
“Aw, lover’s tiff?” he cooed, and at my silence he sucked his teeth, patting my back as if comforting a child. My jaw clenched. “Don’t worry, little brother. Do a bit of grovelling, let ’im fuck your face, and it’ll be crackin’. Worked on Torin earlier.”
If I cared even an ounce, I would’ve felt surprised he’d carried on their dalliance.
He typically moved on to his next conquest after the once—especially the ones he only pursued because I’d shown interest first. “Not that I’d ever take relationship advice from you, but what makes you believe it was my fault? ”
He snorted, the sound ending on a hiccup.
“’Cause he’s not here? And you forget that I know you, Caine.
” He punched my shoulder, and my skin was beginning to itch from the unwanted contact.
“I’ve had the displeasure of your company for thirty-five years.
You’re a stubborn ole cunt, and generally a fuckin’ drag to be around—or behind, should I say.
” That last part was grumbled under his breath.
“You can leave.”
“Nah.” He waved dismissively, taking a sip of his drink. Spilling half of it. “You’re hogging the best spot in the room. Best vantage point for all the hotties.”
I needed a drink.
“You’re related to half the people here,” I reminded him.
“Distantly,” he countered. “In some cases. Is she my cousin? I don’t recall.”
He pointed unstably at a familiar tall and tattooed beta at the far side of the room. The one he’d seen only this morning. Give me strength. “That’s Tobias.”
He squinted, dipping forward and swaying on his feet. “Oh, shit, yeah,” he slurred. “Huh. Never seen him with his hair down. He’s kinda sexy, isn’t he?”
“He’s your cousin.”
He shrugged. “Second cousin, and we’re betas, so we can’t breed together.”
As if that were the concern. “He has a mate.”
He perked up, his eyes widening. “Wren! Is she here?”
She was the beta standing beside Tobias. “Yes.”
“Three-way,” he sang, raising his glass of champagne in salute.
Curious eyes panned to our position. To the spectacle. “Behave yourself.”
“Alright, Dad,” he scoffed, and I bristled. “Just ’cause you’re in a huff doesn’t mean I have to suffer. Not my fault you and your omega had an argument.”
“You’ve never suffered a day in your life.”
His head whipped around, a scowl knitting his brows. “How can you even—”
A subtle hush fell over the crowd. On high alert, my gaze flicked toward the door to scope out the commotion. My breath remained firmly locked in my lungs.
Dylan.
He wore a three-piece burgundy suit, perfectly fitted, accentuating his narrow shoulders and trim waist. His hair was pinned back, the blue hidden, his piercings removed.
Dark eyelashes fanned in a manipulated curl, thicker, and his lips glistened with a glossy sheen.
My focus zeroed in on his neck. Long and pale, adorned with the necklace I’d gifted him for his birthday: teardrop rubies, dripping like blood down to his collarbones—my recent, purpling marks peeked through the silver chains.
He was resplendent.
My pulse stuttered.
His eyes drifted to me, and he advanced, his shoulders squared, his chin lifted high. He was aware of being perceived, of how tempting he looked. I derived great satisfaction from the knowledge he was mine, and how everyone in here knew it.
“You came,” I said.
He nodded, glancing around the room. “Wasn’t going to, but thought it was for the best to keep up appearances,” he remarked. “And I heard there was food.”
It was tasteless, lacking vibrancy. “You didn’t have to.”
Facing me again, he smiled. It was faint, but there. A ceasefire. “I know.”
Tension eased in my frame, and for once his scent wasn’t the cause.
Aaron barked a triumphant sound, directly into my fucking ear.
“Thank God! I was gonna send Rae to carry you here over her shoulder.” I angled out of reach before he could pet my arm, though he persisted, smacking my back again instead.
“Maybe you can cheer him up a bit, yeah? Take him to the toilets and blow him or some shit.”
A growl rumbled in my chest.
“Holy shit!” He held up his hands, lurching backward—closer to Dylan, which irked me more. “How do you cope, Dyl? He’s such an intolerant son-of-a—”
“Leave our mother out of it,” I cut in, and he screwed up his face. Mocking me.
Dylan’s nose twitched as if a pungent odour tickled it. My brother’s aftershave, no doubt. He was doused in it. “He’s not all bad. Just needs a bit more house training.”
Aaron laughed, wagging his finger. “I knew I liked you.” He faced me. “How did you land this one, huh?” He reached out again, another fucking fist bump inbound.
I was ready to rip his arm clean off.
Discreetly, Dylan situated himself at my side before it landed or blood was shed, disguising the obvious—to me—intervention by peering into Aaron’s glass.
“I think you could do with a top up,” he pointed out, tone casual, and my brother tipped his flute to his eyes, realising it was indeed empty. Much to his dismay.
“Fuck, you’re right,” he huffed. “I’ll be back.”
“Don’t rush.”
He raised his middle finger at me before vanishing in the direction of the bar.
“Would you like one?” I inquired after a long moment of studying the side of Dylan’s face, interpreting his action. He snapped out of staring intently at the gaudy ice sculpture in the corner of the ballroom. It was a dragonfly on a leaf. Inspiring.
“Uh, a drink?”
I hummed.
He shrugged. “Suppose I could have one or two since I’m not nursing Minnie tonight.” He smiled again, and I caught the eye of the server in the distance.
She was in front of us in seconds. “Alpha Devereux?”
“Tom Collins,” I instructed. “No cherry garnish. Add a slice of ginger instead.”
“Right away, sir.” She bowed, before striding toward the bar.
Dylan cocked his brow. “You ordered for me.”
“It’s sweet,” I said, tearing my gaze from him. His discerning look. “You’ll like it.”
“No cherry?”
“Maraschino. You don’t enjoy them because they are—”
“Artificial,” he muttered, before ducking his head.
I noted a flush rising on his cheeks from the corner of my eye.
The server returned moments later, brandishing a tray with Dylan’s cocktail in a tall glass, and my usual in a tumbler. She passed Dylan his drink first with a polite smile and nod, before offering mine. “Would you like anything else, sir?”
“No,” I said simply, taking a sip of whisky, relishing the smoky heat in my throat. She retreated to her post at the edge of the room. Within my line of sight.
“You didn’t even have to ask for a drink,” Dylan commented with a light scoff, bringing his glass to his glossed lips. I watched his throat flex on a gulp.
“Your verdict?”
“It’s like lemonade,” he announced. “But with a kick.”
“Hm, I assumed it would please you,” I teased. “Lemon reminds you of Minseo, as it is her favourite. Ginger is yours, and incidentally, they pair well.”
He blinked. “Yeah, they do.”
His gaze dropped to my drink, narrowing slightly, before he reached out for it.
I handed it over to him, curiously, my bottom lip tingling as he set his against the crescent print I’d left behind in the crystal.
His eyes widened as the liquid poured onto his tongue, yet he swallowed with little reaction to the burning sensation. Or the taste.
He just tilted his head, humming in discovery. “Whisky works with both.”
I know.
The rest of the evening was a blur. I paid no heed to anyone, except Dylan.
My gaze locked on him as he greeted my cousins, on the firm line of his shoulders, on the jewels framing his throat, unbitten, unmarked.
His legs—they were strong when they’d wrapped around me, drawing me closer.
His lithe fingers, their bloody trails still branded into my skin.
Possessiveness flared in my gut if anyone dared to look at him too keenly, and I memorised their faces to add to my shit list.
It was almost eleven when the music slowed to an even more mind-numbing rhythm, bonded pairs coasting onto the dance floor for a performative waltz.
It was stiff, not a hair out of place. No expression or interest, just an uptight display for the crowd.
Proof they were all conforming to the traditional mating arrangement.
More falsehoods.
“Come ooon . . .” My brother’s goading voice rang out from beside me. He was nudging Dylan’s side. “You gotta dance with your Alpha at least once in your life. As the host, I demand it! Show off your bond. You’re the big dogs, it’s expected.”
“I’ve never—”