Chapter 5 Pine
PINE
What the fuck happened back there?
I tighten my grip on the whiskey glass at The Sway, Pine Hollow’s attempt at a posh bar.
Crystal glasses, leather booths, and a bartender who’s worried about his five-star rating.
It’s where people come to pretend living on a mountain makes them high society.
Exactly why my brothers and I met here. No one looks twice.
No one gossips nor cares about our conversation.
Cassian leans back in his chair like he owns it. His leather jacket is tossed over the back, firefighter uniform on full display. The scar through his left brow catches the light as he grins. That cocky smirk has gotten him into more trouble than I can count.
“You want to talk about earlier?” Cassian laughs. “Or are we talking about Jessica looking like she was ready to call the cops? Because I’ll own that. We were surrounding an omega in heat.”
Jett takes a long pull from his beer. He’s wearing one of his vintage band tees, worn thin but stupidly expensive. His brown eyes are darker than usual, focused. Jett isn’t the thinking type, so watching the gears turn is unsettling.
“Sharon’s planning a wedding. We just complicated that in ways she didn’t ask for.”
Cassian runs a hand through his hair, restless like he’s waiting for someone to take a swing. “I’m not losing sleep over this. It was heat. It happened.”
Jett tips back the bottle, slow and deliberate. “Doesn’t make it smart.”
Cassian leans forward, elbows on the table, eyes locked on his brother. “And you standing around thinking real hard didn’t change a damn thing.”
Jett wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, sets the bottle down a little too hard. “Someone had to use a brain.”
Cassian’s about to answer. I slide my empty glass toward the bartender, not looking at either of them.
I take another drink. The whiskey hits rough, and it fits.
“Back up,” I say, cutting through the mess they’re building. “Why are we here? Not at The Sway, but in Pine Hollow.”
Cassian’s smirk slips. Not much, just enough to show the crack underneath.
“Grandpa,” Jett says.
“Exactly.” I set my glass down, slow, controlled.
The bartender glances over, trying to decide if we’re about to become a problem.
Wouldn’t be the first time. “We came here because Ben said Grandpa needed help. He was sick. The land was too much. And Ben had this grand vision of turning it into an AirBnB empire. The Burnside brothers saving the family legacy.”
A couple at the bar laughs too loudly, perfume and spice drifting over. It mixes with the bite of whiskey, cleaning supplies, and the faint omega-sweet of someone in the back. The Sway always smells like polished lies.
“And now?” Cassian asks. His voice isn’t playful anymore.
“Now Grandpa’s in a home, and Ben’s running the place with Penelope like he’s king of the mountain.” I nudge the glass away from me. “Ben, who can’t hold a job and only stays consistent when he’s taking something from someone else.”
“He’s a piece of work,” Jett mutters, picking at the label on his beer.
“He’s a wild horse,” Cassian says. Not angry.
I drag my finger along the rim of my glass. The bar lights catch the ink on my arm, every line and symbol a promise that doesn’t wash off. Permanent. Unlike family agreements. Unlike our so-called legacy.
“The thing about Ben,” I say, keeping my voice even, “is he never does anything without an angle. And it’s always money. When he showed up with Penelope, it took me about a week to figure out what game they were running.”
“She’s a con artist,” Cassian says.
“She’s as much of a con artist as he is.” I swirl what’s left of my whiskey. “They’re balanced. Two predators circling the same territory. Fine. Let them tear each other apart. What’s not fine is using Grandpa’s dementia as a shortcut to ownership.”
Jett’s jaw flexes. That’s his version of shouting.
“So we’re talking about the wedding,” he says. “Ben and Penelope’s wedding.”
“They’re going through with it,” Cassian replies. He drums his fingers on the table, restless energy he can’t burn off. “The question is why.”
At least my brother is on the same page as me. One thing for sure Ben and Penelope do not strike me as the happy in love couple, or they would make more of an effort to sort out their wedding.
“And Sharon,” I say, “is supposed to make it look like a fairytale.”
The attentive bartender slides a new round in front of us.
The new whiskey is smoother than the last, but it still hits sharp.
Cassian watches people at the bar like he’s waiting for the world to give him a reason to fight. “So here’s the question. Does Ben deserve a second chance? I mean, maybe we’re being harsh and he’s actually in love.”
Around us, life keeps moving. A couple trades small touches and shy glances. The chess game in the corner clicks piece to board, piece to board. Somebody laughs at a phone screen.
“No,” Jett says.
“Fuck no,” Cassian adds.
I think on it, because I’m the one who does. Ben knew exactly how to play us. He said Grandpa needed help, and we came running. Family loyalty is a flaw people romanticize.
“He’s not,” I say, “but that’s not the real question.”
Cassian leans in. The firefighter shows in the way his brain starts sorting problems into steps. “Then what is?”
“Sharon thinks she’s planning a wedding for a loving couple.” I tap the rim of the glass. “She’s busy worrying about centerpieces and vendors. Does she know the groom and bride are both predators?”
“She knows enough,” Jett says. “Savannah hired her. So either Savannah knows and doesn’t care, or she knows and thinks cash is worth more than the fallout.”
I nod, slowly.
“Sharon doesn’t know,” Cassian says. Not a question. He’s watched her, read her, picked her apart the way only he can. “She was a mess because the bride’s ghosting her. She has no idea they’re running a con on our grandfather.”
“She’s incredibly hot when she’s a mess,” Jett says, voice lifting at the edges.
Cassian grins, stretching back in his chair like he might fall right out of it. "Did you see her face when she took off her sweater, and her pupils went wide?"
“Her scent shifted,” I add. “Strawberry panic to honey. Heat.”
“She was slipping,” Jett agrees, satisfied. “Mini heat.”
Around us, someone drops a glass. A burst of laughter from the bar. The place smells like lemon cleaner, whiskey, and the faint sweetness only alphas notice. We’re not the only ones who caught it.
“The point,” Cassian says, working it through, “is we kept it contained. She was safe. We—”
“We were about to do something she’d have to live with afterward,” I cut in. “Jessica walked in and saw her omega planner surrounded by three half-dressed alphas. Doesn’t matter what actually happened. The optics are shit.”
Jett rolls the beer bottle between his palms, thinking. “You think Jessica thinks we were taking advantage?”
“I think Jessica saw her boss in a vulnerable state with three alphas who should know better.” I keep my voice low. Someone in the booth behind us is trying to listen.
This is always my role. The brakes. The one with the long view. Sexy, I know.
Cassian tosses back the rest of his whiskey and sets the glass down.
I lean back in my chair, the leather of my jacket creaking as I shift my weight. My own glass sits half-full on the scarred wooden table between us. Jett is standing by the window, one shoulder against the frame, watching the street outside like he's tracking something specific.
"Saw something interesting yesterday," Cassian says. He's picking at the label on the whiskey bottle left on our table. His fingers work at the edge, peeling it slowly. "Ben coming out of his house. Tuesday afternoon, middle of the day."
I wait. Cassian always takes the long way around a point.
"He wasn't alone." Cassian looks up, his gray eyes sharp despite the casual tone. "Two omegas. Both of them looking satisfied, and leaving at the same time."
Jett turns from the window, his expression unchanged but his attention locked. "Penelope was at the hardware store last week. Buying paint samples with some alpha from Timber Ridge. Tall guy, clean cut. They were standing too close for it to be professional."
I pick up my glass and take a slow drink, letting the whiskey burn down my throat while I process this.
"Ben and Penelope have an open relationship," I say, setting the glass down and meeting Cassian's eyes. "Everyone knows that. They've never pretended otherwise. So why the hell are they bothering to get married?"
Cassian stops picking at the label. His jaw tightens, and I can see him working through the same calculation I am. "Because it's not about love."
"It's about access," Jett says from the window. His voice is quiet but certain. "Maybe marriage gives Ben legal standing in Penelope's financial empire."
I push back from the table and stand, needing to move. The chair scrapes against the worn floorboards as I pace toward the bar and back.
“Nah. They are both broke,” Jett says. “They're up to something. This whole wedding is a setup for something bigger."
"Agreed," Cassian says. He's on his feet now too, rolling his shoulders like he's getting ready for a fight. "Ben doesn't do anything that doesn't benefit Ben. And Penelope is too smart to tie herself legally to a man she's actively cheating on unless there's a payoff."
Jett moves away from the window and joins us near the table. He picks up his beer bottle, turns it in his hands, then sets it down without drinking. "So what's the play?"
I stop pacing and face both of them. "We find out exactly what they're planning. We dig into the wedding arrangements, the financial transfers, the timeline. We figure out what they stand to gain and who gets hurt when they make their move."
"And Sharon?" Cassian asks. His voice has gone serious, which is rare enough that it makes me look at him closely.