8. Lawrence
Ilean my hip against the marble island in the kitchen.
A cold bottle of beer sweats in my hand.
We just finished a grueling three-hour ice practice.
Our muscles ache. The playoffs start next week, but the mood in the mansion feels like a funeral.
The tension in the air tastes thick enough to choke on.
The silence stretches, broken by the hum of the large stainless steel refrigerator.
Three days have passed since Olive kicked Finn out of her apartment's parking lot. Three agonizing days of radio silence squeezed between brutal drills on the ice.
The front door opens and shuts.
Finn walks into the kitchen. He drops his hockey duffel by the door with a loud thud.
He looks like a stray dog caught in a rainstorm.
His broad shoulders slump forward. His auburn hair points in every direction from his hands dragging through it.
He tosses his car keys onto the counter with a loud clatter. The metal rings against the stone.
Malcolm turns away from the refrigerator. "Any luck?"
Finn grabs a stool and sinks onto the leather cushion. "Nothing. I drove past her old apartment complex again after practice. Another tenant moved in. She vanished. We have no idea where she went."
Victor paces the length of the kitchen floor. He wears a dark scowl. His icy eyes flash with frustration. "She has no job. She has no money. An unbonded Omega wandering the city alone makes her a target. We need to find her."
"We tried." Finn buries his face in his large hands. "I spooked her in the parking lot. She rubbed blocker paste right under her nose. The stuff smelled like concentrated menthol. It burned my eyes from five feet away. She refuses to accept what she is. She looked ready to fight me to the death."
I take a slow sip of my beer. The bitter hops coat my tongue.
Victor stops pacing. He slams his fist against the marble counter. The sound echoes in the large room. "She needs a knot. Fighting a heat destroys the immune system. Those suppressants will rot her stomach. We have to track her down and bring her home."
Malcolm crosses his arms over his chest. He projects a calm, grounding cedar scent to settle the room. "Backing an unbonded Omega into a corner just traumatizes her. We need a strategy."
My phone buzzes in the pocket of my jeans.
I set my beer bottle down on the island. The glass clinks against the stone. Pulling the device out, I glance at the screen. A text message from the private investigator flashes on the display.
I tap the message open. "We have a location."
All three Alphas freeze. Their eyes snap to my face.
"The investigator found her." I scroll through the text, digesting the information. "She stays at a house in the suburbs. The property belongs to a Beta couple. The P.I. tracked the license plate on her compact car to the driveway."
Finn lets out a ragged breath. "Is she safe?"
"She has a roof over her head." I lock my phone and slide it back into my pocket.
"But hiring a private investigator crosses a line.
It screams stalker. It raises a giant red flag.
If she finds out we hired a professional to hunt her down after she told us to leave her alone, she will never speak to us again. "
Victor scowls. "We had to make sure she was safe. It's a necessary evil."
I watch the three of them spiral. They let their instincts drive the bus. Victor wants to use raw Alpha dominance to claim her. He thinks throwing his weight around solves the problem. He views her stubbornness as a challenge to crush. He wants to conquer her defenses.
Finn went the opposite route three days ago. He showed up with an apology and a broken heart. He offered himself on a silver platter, hoping guilt and sad eyes would override her anger. He wanted her to take pity on him.
Both approaches failed.
Olive presents a unique puzzle. I watched her stand in that hospital hallway.
She crossed her arms and glared at Victor like he was a stain on her shoe.
She protected a sick kid from a pack of Alphas without blinking.
A woman who slathers menthol paste under her nose to fight off a presentation heat possesses a fierce, stubborn streak.
She values her control. We stripped that control away from her. We burned her world to the ground.
A woman like that won't submit to a caveman routine. She won't fall for a pity party either. She views Alphas as a threat to her survival.
She needs my charm
I run a hand over my jaw, feeling the light scruff on my golden skin.
Talking to women comes easy to me. I know how to read body language.
I know how to smooth over rough edges and make people feel comfortable.
I spent my entire adult life mastering the art of persuasion.
I charm reporters during hostile press conferences.
I charm sponsors into million-dollar deals.
I charmed Omegas into my bed. I act as the shield for this pack, spinning our mistakes into gold.
Olive needs a logical argument wrapped in a charismatic package.
"You guys need to step back." I look around the kitchen, catching each of their eyes. "Both of your approaches spooked her. Victor pissed her off in the hospital. Finn overwhelmed her in the parking lot. You treat her like a bomb waiting to go off."
Victor glares at me. "What do you suggest, Lawrence? We sit around and wait for her to date some Beta in the suburbs?"
"I suggest you let me handle it." I offer a relaxed, easy smile. "She hates the macho Alpha routine. She hates losing her independence. So we offer her independence. We offer her a logical solution to her current housing crisis. We leave the mating instincts out of it."
Malcolm narrows his dark eyes. "You plan to sweet-talk her into moving in."
"I plan to present a flawless argument." I pick my beer back up. "I have the address of the suburban house. I'll stake out the neighborhood. I'll find a quiet moment to bump into her at a store or a coffee shop. No pressure. No demands. Just a friendly conversation."
Finn looks skeptical. "She blocked her nose with menthol paste. She won't let you get close."
"She blocked you." I point a finger at him. "You showed up vibrating with desperate need. You triggered her defensive walls. I'll show up like a regular guy buying a latte. I know how to disarm a stubborn woman."
Victor scoffs, crossing his arms. "You think a bright smile and a free coffee will erase the fact that we got her fired?"
"No." I shake my head. "But it will get her to listen. And once she listens, I can convince her that living in our guest wing beats sleeping in some cramped suburban house."
Malcolm nods. He sees the advantage. "Keep us updated. Don't push her."
"I never push." I flash my signature grin. "I let them come to me."
I sit behind the steering wheel of my sleek silver sports car. The tinted windows offer a perfect view of the quiet suburban street.
The private investigator nailed the location. The house looks depressing. Faded beige siding, an overgrown lawn, and a chaotic mess of plastic toys litter the front porch. The neighborhood screams cramped desperation. Olive must hate every single second of living in that tiny box.
I check the Rolex on my wrist. Two o'clock in the afternoon. The neighborhood feels like a ghost town. The kids sit in school. The parents are at work.
The front door of the house opens.
Olive steps out onto the cracked concrete walkway. She wears a pair of faded denim jeans and an oversized gray sweater. Her dark bob looks messy, tucked behind her ears. She looks exhausted. Dark circles shadow her beautiful brown eyes.
She walks down the driveway and heads down the sidewalk. She moves with a stiff, tense posture.
I wait for her to gain some distance before I turn the engine off.
I reach into the backseat and grab my duffel bag.
Pulling my slacks and cashmere sweater off, I change into a pair of fitted black joggers and a tight, moisture-wicking athletic shirt.
The dark fabric highlights my golden skin and broad shoulders.
I lace up my running shoes. I keep my posture loose and relaxed.
I want to look like I own the world but lack a single care in it.
I step out of the car and lock the doors.
Following her route from a distance, I track her away from the main road. She turns into a small, empty neighborhood park at the end of the cul-de-sac. A faded plastic playground sits on a bed of woodchips.
Perfect. An unbonded Omega dealing with intense suppressant nausea avoids crowded places. She needs fresh air and silence.
I start a steady jog up the paved path toward the park.
Olive sits on a weathered wooden bench under an oak tree.
She wraps her arms around her ribs. She stares at the empty playground with a blank, hollow expression.
She lacks the blue hospital mask and the menthol paste today.
The suppressants must hold the Heat back enough for her to risk a walk outside.
I jog right past her. I keep my gaze forward, pretending I miss seeing her.
As I pass the bench, I let a tiny trace of my scent slip out. Just enough for the breeze to catch the crisp citrus and black pepper.
I finish a loop around the small playground. Coming back up the path, I slow my pace to a walk. I wipe a bead of sweat from my forehead, playing the part of the exhausted athlete.
I stop a few feet away from the bench. I feign surprise.
"Olive?" I keep my voice smooth and casual.
Olive jolts. Her head snaps in my direction. Her brown eyes go wide with a spike of panic.
She pushes herself back against the wooden slats of the bench. "You."
I flash my brightest, most disarming smile. I hold my hands up, showing her I carry no weapons and pose no threat. "It's me, Lawrence. I promise I left the rest of the team at home."
"How did you find me?" She grips the edge of the bench. Her knuckles turn white. "Did you track me down?"