Chapter 30 – THANE
Chapter
Thirty
THANE
"So..." Whiskey says, dragging out the word as he holds up a broken lamp base. "Think we can hot glue this, or should we just chuck it in the 'fucked beyond repair' pile?"
I glance up from where I'm sweeping shattered glass into a dustpan, fixing him with a flat stare. "What do you think?"
Whiskey shrugs his massive shoulders and tosses the lamp base into the cardboard box we've designated for things too destroyed to salvage. The ceramic shatters further on impact, because of course it does.
"Gentle," Plague chides from across the room, where he's methodically righting furniture and sorting debris into neat piles.
Despite having just been in a knock-down brawl, he somehow looks immaculate again.
His long black hair is pulled back in a perfect low ponytail, and he's changed into a fresh black turtleneck that probably costs more than most people's entire wardrobes.
"Gentle went out the window about the same time Wraith put your head through the drywall," Whiskey retorts.
"He missed," Plague says primly.
"By like an inch."
"An inch is the difference between a hospital visit and a minor inconvenience."
I tune out their bickering, focusing instead on the mess that used to be our living room.
The damage is extensive. One couch is salvageable, but the other is completely wrecked, its frame snapped and cushions slashed open.
The coffee table is in splinters. There's a Whiskey-shaped dent in one wall and several holes the size of Wraith's fist in another.
Glass crunches underfoot no matter how much I sweep.
And from upstairs, faintly but unmistakably, comes a rhythmic thumping.
I feel my eye twitch.
Whiskey's head tilts, a shit-eating grin spreading across his face as he catches the sound. "Is that—"
"Don't," I warn, pointing the broom at him like a gun.
"But they're—"
"I know what they're doing."
"Our boy's getting some!" Whiskey's grin widens, his eyes gleaming with unholy amusement. "Who'd have thought feral beast bro would be the first to—"
"Can we please," I say through gritted teeth, "focus on cleaning this disaster zone?"
Plague looks up from organizing broken picture frames, his pale eyes darting toward the ceiling as another, louder thump and growl echoes from above. "I have to say, I'm surprised a normal bed frame would be structurally sound enough to withstand—"
"Do you both," I snap, cutting him off, "want to die tonight? Is that what's happening here?"
"Just making observations," Plague says mildly, but even he can't hide the slight quirk at the corner of his mouth.
I jam my hand in my pocket, fish out the remote I yanked out of the wall a few minutes ago, and aim it at the TV. The screen flickers to life, and I crank the volume up to max level. A hockey game blares through the speakers, the announcer's voice booming through the room.
"—AND JENKINS WITH THE SAVE OF THE SEASON! ABSOLUTELY INCREDIBLE REFLEXES FROM THE BLUE JACKETS' NETMINDER—"
"Holy shit," Whiskey yells, clapping his hands over his ears. "Are you trying to make us deaf?"
I point upward and give him a flat look.
The message is clear.
Yes. I'd rather go deaf than listen to my brother fucking our omega senseless.
Plague rolls his eyes but resumes sorting through the wreckage.
"At least put on something romantic, bro," Whiskey says, shoving the remains of our coffee table into a trash bag that's already tearing on the side. "You're gonna ruin their ambience."
I shoot him a look. "Isn't this bothering you? Did you not just get the pack house turned upside down because you decided to break into the loft?"
Whiskey shrugs. "I mean, I'm obviously pretty fucking jealous, but your reaction to this shit is funny enough it's helping me put it aside."
I growl at him, but I put on thunderstorm sounds instead.
For a few minutes, we work in relative peace, the roaring TV drowning out most of the sounds from upstairs. But we all hear it anyway—a deep, feral snarl followed by a high, feminine cry.
I close my eyes, counting to ten in my head. When I open them, both Plague and Whiskey are staring at the ceiling with identical expressions of shock.
"I didn't know he could make that sound," Plague says, his clinical tone betrayed by the slight widening of his eyes.
"Apparently," Whiskey says dryly, "there's a lot we don't know about him."
Another loud growl upstairs that drowns out the thunder, and I slam the dustpan down harder than necessary, sending a spray of glass shards across the floor I just swept.
"Fuck," I mutter, bending down to clean it up again.
Whiskey's watching the ceiling with his head cocked to one side like a confused golden retriever, mouth slightly open. "You know, for a guy who can't talk, bro's got game. Who'd have thought?"
"Nobody thought that," I snap, though that's not entirely true. "Nobody was thinking about Wraith's sex life until you opened your mouth."
"I kind of have," says Whiskey. "You should see the shit some of the fangirls say about him in the chats."
"You really shouldn't be looking us up online," Plague says to him.
Whiskey raises his eyebrows at Plague. "What have you seen that has you so mentally scarred?"
"Plenty," Plague grits out.
My phone rings in my pocket, the generic tone cutting through the thunderstorm sounds still blasting from the TV. I fish it out, glancing at the screen.
Coach.
Perfect. The last fucking thing I need.
I lower the TV volume slightly—it isn't fucking helping anyway—as I swipe to answer. "Coach," I greet, forcing my voice into something resembling professional calm. "What's up?"
"Belmont." Coach's gruff voice comes through tinny and stressed. "We need to talk about Valek."
I close my eyes for a moment, mentally preparing for whatever fresh hell this conversation will bring. "What about him?"
"The doctors are releasing him tomorrow morning. Management's decided he should recover at the pack house where you can all keep an eye on him."
I freeze, staring at the couch that's currently split in half. "I'm sorry, what?"
"Valek. Pack house. Tomorrow," Coach repeats slowly, as if I'm a particularly dense child.
"Management wants to make sure he feels welcome after the.
.. incident. Show some team unity. Do you have any fucking idea how close management came to suspending your brother?
Alphas brawl, but Wraith's feral bullshit has everyone on edge as it is. "
"Coach, I don't think—"
"It's not up for debate, Belmont," he cuts me off. "The suits are bitching about potential legal issues if we don't bend over backwards for him. You know how many goddamn strings they pulled to get a player of his caliber in the first place."
Another loud thump and cry from upstairs, this one so loud it actually shakes dust from the ceiling. I look up in horror, praying Coach didn't hear it.
"Was that a fucking earthquake?" Coach asks.
"Renovations," I lie, shooting Whiskey a death glare as he doubles over silently laughing. "We're... doing some work on the house."
"Well, finish it by tomorrow at noon. Valek needs a calm environment to recuperate in."
I look around at the demolition zone that used to be our living room. The smashed TV lying face-down on the floor. The stuffing from couch cushions still gently floating through the air beneath the spinning ceiling fans like apocalyptic snow. The holes punched in the drywall.
A calm environment.
Fucking hilarious.
And now we have our scent match here, too. The scent match who's the very reason our newest winger and Wraith beat the shit out of each other in the first place.
"Coach, this really isn't a good time," I say, desperation creeping into my voice. "The house is a mess, and—"
"Then fix it," Coach says, like it's that simple. "Hire cleaners. Call a contractor. I don't care how you do it, just make it happen."
"But—"
"Belmont." His voice drops lower, into the danger zone. "This isn't a request. Make. It. Happen."
The line goes dead.
I stare at my phone for a long moment, then look up at Whiskey and Plague, who've stopped cleaning to watch me.
"Let me guess," Plague says, his expression schooled into neutrality. "We're getting company."
"Valek," I confirm, shoving my phone back in my pocket. "Tomorrow."
Whiskey's grin vanishes. "You've gotta be fucking kidding me."
"Wish I was." I gesture at the wreckage around us. "We're supposed to have this place ready for him to 'recuperate in a calm environment.'"
As if on cue, a particularly loud growl and cry echo from above.
"Super calm," Whiskey mutters. "Very zen. Total spa vibes."
"This is a nightmare," I groan, sinking onto the half of the couch that's still standing. "Valek already suspects there's an omega here. If he comes tomorrow and catches her scent..."
"Or hears them," Whiskey adds helpfully. "Because holy shit, they are loud."
I shoot him a look that could melt steel. "Yes, thank you for that observation."
"Just saying, your bro might not get out much, but damn, he's making up for lost—"
"Okay, enough," I snap, cutting him off. "We need to figure this out. Plague, can you get contractors here first thing in the morning?"
Plague nods, already pulling out his phone. "I know someone who owes me a favor."
"Of course you do," I mutter, not even wanting to know what kind of favor someone owes Plague. "Whiskey, we need to get this place cleaned up enough that it's not a literal death trap."
Whiskey salutes sloppily. "Aye aye, Captain."
"And for the love of god, someone needs to tell Wraith that Valek is coming tomorrow and that he needs to... to..." I gesture vaguely at the ceiling, where the thumping has momentarily stopped.
"Finish fucking our omega senseless?" Whiskey suggests with a straight face.
I hurl a couch cushion at his head. He catches it, laughing.
"I'll inform Wraith of the situation," Plague offers. "Once they're... finished."
"And how exactly do you plan to know when they're done?" I ask, immediately regretting the question.
Plague taps his nose. "The scent profile will change. Post-coital pheromones—"
"I'm begging you to stop talking," I interrupt, holding up a hand.
"You asked," he says with a shrug.
"My mistake." I stand up, surveying the disaster zone one more time. "I need to make some calls, see if I can get some new furniture delivered before Valek gets here."
"Good luck with that," Whiskey snorts. "Most places don't offer 'alpha rage replacement furniture' this late at night."
"Then we'll make furniture out of fucking milk crates," I growl, rubbing my temples as I feel the last of my patience evaporating. "I don't care what we have to do, but we need this place looking semi-normal by tomorrow at noon. Got it?"
They both nod, but before either can respond verbally, a cry echoes from upstairs that makes us all freeze.
"Wraith!"
The omega—our omega—screaming my brother's name.
For a moment, none of us move. The air between the three of us feels like it was just electrified.
My body responds instinctively to her cries, to the honeysuckle scent that's suddenly blooming in my nose despite the distance.
Blood rushes south, and I have to fight the urge to march upstairs and break into the damn loft myself.
Even though I just tackled Whiskey over it.
My head is suddenly pounding, the dull throb behind my eyes intensifying. This day has been too much. Way too fucking much. And I need to get out of here before I lose what little composure I have left.
"I'm going to bed," I announce abruptly, already heading for the stairs. "Early day tomorrow."
"It's early, isn't it?" Plague asks.
Whiskey groans, looking around at the mess surrounding us. "We still have work to do."
"Yes, because you tried to get into the loft. And I have a migraine," I growl, not bothering to look back at them. "Getting punched in the head multiple times tends to do that."
I can feel their gazes on my back as I climb the stairs, but I don't care. Let them think what they want. I just need to be alone, away from the chaos and the constant reminders of everything that's spiraling out of my control.
All I can do is hope tomorrow is a fresh start that brings some semblance of normalcy. But deep down, I know better. Normal left the building the moment that honeysuckle scent entered our lives.
Shit's only going to get weirder from here.