Chapter 3
chapter
three
We all agreed.
I thought we all agreed.
Monday morning. Eight a.m.
But it’s eight-twenty, and my cup is the only one on the counter.
I stand there, staring at it. Thinking about how this is a perfect metaphor for my whole life.
A sad cup of jizz—sad because I filled it to the brim with my backed-up balls—sitting alone, in the house I bought, on the countertop I chose and had installed. Next to my phone, which has buzzed ten times in four minutes.
The cup is from the clinic I selected. For the specific scent-matching company I researched, applied to, and landed a highly coveted slot with.
All my work. Hours and hours of it.
And all these two jack-offs had to do was?—
Well.
Jack off.
If they can’t even come through for that, then what in God’s name are we even doing?
Noise interrupts my brooding. I know without looking up that it’s my youngest packmate, Damon; because Cassian never makes noise. Despite being a professional hockey goalie who’s built like a brick house.
Damon comes shuffling into the room, wearing nothing but those tight briefs he likes so much. He scratches his sack and presses the heel of his other hand into his left eye socket, grunting.
“Morning, Big Hoss. What’s with the weird moisturizer sample?”
I blink at him, refusing to believe he actually ignores me this thoroughly. My phone starts up again. “It isn’t moisturizer.”
He shrugs, reaching into a cabinet and coming up with a box of chocolate breakfast cereal. Without bothering to find a bowl, he shovels a handful right into his mouth.
“Is it milk?” he chews. “Because I could use some.”
My eye twitches. I roll my lips together, trying my best to remember all of the parenting books I read fifteen years ago, and their tips on how not to absolutely strangle spoiled, useless brats.
Granted, the spoiled useless brat is twenty-six now. And I’ve never really been a parent, just a pack alpha.
But God help me, some days I wonder.
True to form, Cassian appears from somewhere mysterious, fully dressed, without making a single sound. Until he grumbles, “It isn’t milk.”
He sits at the breakfast bar, three feet away from my sample cup, and pulls a paperback out of the interior pocket of his athletic jacket. I watch him, too infuriated by his apathy to even form words.
He’s Cassian, though. Which means he sees everything without even looking at me. His fingers turn a page, the motion deliberately casual. Belying the irritation underscoring his voice. “I told you; I’m not doing that.”
I silence my phone again and repress the urge to strangle him, repeating my most common mantra where dealing with my pack is concerned.
Control, control, control.
Damon’s posture stays loose. He looks at both of us, ice-blue eyes wide. “I have no idea what either of you are talking about.”
Cass and I answer flatly, in unison. “We know.”
Ignoring Damon, I focus on my stepbrother. “We talked about this,” I say, forcing calm I don’t feel. “Jobs, house, omega. You agreed.”
His features don’t even flicker. His eyes continue scrolling across the page in front of him. “I agreed that it made sense. I didn’t agree to do it.”
For fuck’s sake.
Damon’s eyebrows push together. “Omega—?” He drops his gaze to my sample cup. “Ohhhhhhh. Oh, fuck! Was that today?”
I speak through my teeth. “It’s on the calendar, Damon.”
He turns toward the whiteboard pinned on the side of the refrigerator and frowns like he’s never seen it before.
Jesus Christ.
I force an exhale through my nose, willing myself not to have a stroke. “Did you read the calendar?”
Of course he didn’t.
This is probably the first time he’s ever even looked at the damn thing.
His shoulders pop up in a dismissive shrug. “All right. Shit.” He flashes the smile that always seems to get him out of trouble and pulls his phone… out of his underwear? “Just give me five minutes to crack one out. I’ve got, like, six unopened nudes in my IG messages.”
Yeah, I bet.
The worst thing is, for most guys, those messages would be the direct result of Damon’s position as the star forward for the Orlando Timberwolves and the millions that come with it.
But for him?
Not a problem. Damon’s never needed a hockey career or money to get nudes.
And now he has both.
I’d appreciate the irony if my balls weren’t so sore.
I toss him the sealed, empty cup I found sitting on his bathroom counter. “Here. Five minutes.”
He flips his phone, flashing a whole lot of naked skin. With a chuckle, he strides off down the hall. “I’ll only need three!”
I rub my palm over my forehead, muttering, “He really shouldn’t advertise that.”
Cassian turns another page, pointedly ignoring me.
To the untrained eye, it would seem like he has no dog in this hunt. But I know him as well as I know Damon; and he’s invested.
Usually, by this time, he’s on his way to morning skate because, unlike Damon, he hates to be late. If he didn’t want to be around us, he could leave now or go back up to his room. The fact that he’s even sitting here, in the kitchen, means something.
It took me a long time to learn that Cassian says just as much with his actions as most people say with their mouths. More, on occasion. Like me, he rarely does anything random and this is a message, too.
I don’t want to be here, the book in front of his face says.
But I care about what you want, too, his ass in the stool adds.
I sigh. “Cass?—”
He lowers the book, slowly revealing a scowl. The familiar expression stabs my center. I can picture a younger, surlier version of it on a younger, surlier Cassian. Back when we lost our parents—and everything went to hell.
He’s smart enough to play on my guilt by using the same expression now. Because Cassian is easily the smartest guy I know.
I could try to appeal to his conscience. That’s how I got him to agree to this whole thing in the first place. After years and years of refusing to date, I only wore down his stubborn commitment to being a loner with guilt. Specifically, the fact that if he won’t accept an omega, we can’t have one either.
When he couldn’t argue with that point, he agreed to make this one single contribution to the search process.
A plastic cup of jizz.
Hell, I’d settle for a tablespoon at this point.
My thumb mashes my phone again, silencing yet another alert. “Cassian. This is important.”
I can’t explain why. Only that some indistinct sense of need has been prowling under my skin for months, now. And if I don’t find some sort of outlet for it? I’ll go insane.
Besides, this is a foolproof plan. Forever Matched is the most selective scent-matching service in the country. When their algorithm finds us an omega with a high match percentage, I’ll know for a fact that I’ve made the right call for our pack.
Even if Cassian hates me for it.
Our gazes clash—his forest green to my dark brown. I shove a wave of dominance at him, flexing my pack alpha influence.
Don’t make me make you.
With a mutinous glare, Cass sets his book aside. Looking like the entire world is pinned right between his wide shoulders, he lumbers over to the refrigerator and rummages for a moment before producing his cup.
Filled up. Marked with today’s date.
The bastard had it this whole time.
He sets it on the counter without a word, snatching his book to make a silent, fuming exit. Two minutes later, Damon flies back in, sliding on his socks, proudly adding his contribution to the line-up.
“What do we do now?” he asks, watching me stare at the row of cups.
Wewon’t do shit. I will put on rubber gloves, pack up the samples, and take them where they need to go. Because someone has to.
And I’m the one who does the things no one else will do.
“Turn it in,” I say, striding from the room to answer my next phone call. “When they match us, we’ll have our mate. Numbers don’t lie.”