Chapter 31 – PLAGUE
Chapter
Thirty-One
PLAGUE
Islam a broken lamp into the garbage bag with more force than necessary, watching it shatter further inside the plastic. The crash doesn't satisfy the tension coiled tight in my shoulders, and I exhale slowly through my nose.
Three hours of cleaning up this disaster, and we've barely made a dent in the destruction.
"Careful there, Plague. If looks could kill, that garbage bag would be six feet under." Whiskey's drawl grates on my last nerve as he lounges against the wall, holding a broom but not actually sweeping.
"Are you planning to help, or just provide commentary?" I ask, keeping my voice level despite the irritation simmering beneath my skin.
"I am helping. See?" He makes one token sweep with the broom, pushing glass shards two inches to the left. "Besides, my back fuckin' hurts after Thane threw me into that wall."
"Your back wouldn't hurt if you hadn't tried to break into Wraith's loft," I point out, kneeling to pick up pieces of what was once a coffee table. And I liked that table, too. It was easy to wipe down and didn't have many grooves for crumbs to get into. "What did you think would happen?"
"I didn't think the big guy would go full grizzly bear on us." Whiskey finally starts sweeping properly, though his movements are lazy. "Actually, that's not fair to bears. They're more reasonable."
I give him a flat look. "You tried to force your way into his private space while he has an omega in heat up there."
"An omega who's our pack's scent match." Whiskey's voice drops lower, gaining an edge I recognize all too well. I've heard it during games when he's about to deck someone who's crossed a line. "Don't pretend you're not feeling it, Plague."
The honeysuckle scent still lingers in the air, even down here. Faint but unmistakable, sweet yet sharp, calling to something deep inside me. I've been deliberately breathing through my mouth for the past hour.
"What I'm feeling is that you're not pulling your weight." I straighten up, tossing broken wood into the trash. "And I'd like to finish this century."
Whiskey sets the broom aside and crosses his arms. "You're really not gonna talk about it? About her?"
"What is there to talk about?" I keep my voice clinical, detached. "Wraith found our scent match. Good for him."
"Good for him?" Whiskey repeats, eyebrows shooting up. "That's all you have to say about the omega we've been sharing dreams about?"
"What do you want me to say?" I snap, finally losing my composure.
"That I'm thrilled about this situation?
That I'm delighted we have an omega in heat upstairs with Wraith while we clean up the aftermath of you trying to break into his space like a damn caveman?
That I'm overjoyed we're now going to have Valek—the one who got knocked out by said omega—living here? "
Whiskey stares at me, momentarily speechless. Then his face breaks into a grin. "There he is. I was wondering when you'd drop the ice prince act."
I turn away, focusing on cleaning again. "We need to finish this."
"You didn't answer my question," he persists, stepping closer. "You can't tell me you don't feel it too."
The problem is, I do feel it. The omega's scent calls to me in ways I've never experienced before, lighting up receptors I didn't know existed. But I've spent my entire life keeping my emotions under tight control. I don't lose it the way other alphas do.
"It doesn't matter what I feel," I say finally. "She's with Wraith."
"For now," Whiskey says, something knowing in his tone. "But that's not how it works with a pack scent match, is it?"
I straighten up, fixing him with a hard stare. "Do you even hear yourself? You're talking about her like she's property to be shared."
"That's not what I meant," he backtracks, having the decency to look slightly abashed. "I just meant—"
"I know what you meant." I cut him off, picking up another garbage bag. "Let's just finish cleaning."
"You didn't," Whiskey grumbles, but for once, he drops it. He grabs the broom again and actually puts effort into his sweeping. We work in relative silence for the next half hour, broken only by occasional grunts as we move furniture or Whiskey's growled curses.
The omega's scent grows stronger as night deepens, wafting down from the vents and permeating the air around us. I catch Whiskey lifting his head several times, nostrils flaring, his pupils dilating slightly each time.
"You should go to your room," I finally tell him, noticing the way his movements have become increasingly agitated. "I can finish up here."
"I'm fine," he insists, but his voice has a slight rasp to it.
"You're not fine. The scent is getting to you."
Whiskey laughs. "And it's not getting to you? Mr. Perfect Control?"
"I didn't say that." I tie off the last garbage bag. "But one of us needs to maintain some semblance of rationality."
"Rationality," Whiskey repeats, raking a hand through his already messy hair. "Here we go again. You know, that's rich coming from you. You're not rational, you just overthink everything."
"And you don't think at all," I mutter.
Whiskey steps closer, invading my personal space in that way he always does, like boundaries are suggestions rather than rules. "Oh yeah?"
I step back immediately. "I'm going to shower."
He makes another remark as I leave, but I don't stick around to find out what it was.
I shut the door to my suite harder than necessary, my shoulders tense with strain I refuse to acknowledge. The spacious bedroom offers immediate relief—clean lines, minimal furniture, everything in its place.
No broken glass. No splintered wood. No physical evidence of alpha rage.
And no lingering scent of honeysuckle.
Or so I tell myself.
The shower beckons, promise of hot water and steam to wash away the evening's chaos.
I shed my clothes methodically, folding each piece neatly despite knowing they'll go straight into the hamper.
Control in small things. It's what keeps me sane in a house of alphas who operate on instinct more often than reason.
Especially Whiskey with his impulsive, boundary-pushing presence.
The bathroom is spotless white tile and matte black fixtures.
I turn the hot water on and step inside, letting the scalding heat pound against my tense shoulders.
The cascading water drowns out any sounds from above, but it does nothing to block the phantom scent that seems to have embedded itself in my nasal passages.
Wild honeysuckle. Summer rain. Warmth and sweetness with an edge that makes my blood run hot.
Her.
The omega.
Our omega.
I close my eyes and tilt my face into the spray, trying to focus on the shower itself—water droplets hitting my skin, steam filling my lungs—rather than the memory of that scent.
Or the sounds she made.
Or the knowledge that she's currently being knotted by Wraith while Whiskey, Thane, and I clean up the mess of our collective frustration.
The thought sends an unwelcome spike of heat down my spine. I reach for the shampoo and scrub my scalp with more force than necessary, as if I could physically erase the desires taking root.
It doesn't work, of course.
Nothing ever does.
I've spent years perfecting the art of restraint. Of maintaining the appropriate distance. Of never revealing the current beneath the still surface. It's what makes me effective on the ice.
But this—this omega, this honeysuckle storm that's crashed into our lives—threatens to unravel years of careful discipline.
I rinse the shampoo from my hair, watching it swirl down the drain. If only unwanted thoughts could be so easily washed away.
When I finally step out of the shower, I feel marginally more in control. I dry off roughly before wrapping the towel around my waist. In the mirror, my reflection stares back at me. Damp black hair falling past my shoulders, the jagged scar above my heart flushed from the heat.
Evidence of my own mistakes.
My own failures of control.
I dress in clean black boxer briefs and loose linen pants, leaving my chest bare. The suite is warm enough, and I'm still overheated from the shower. From the omega's scent. From the lingering irritation of Whiskey's provocations.
I settle against the headboard of my bed with the book I've been reading, but the words blur before my eyes.
I realize I've been staring at the same paragraph for five minutes without processing a single sentence.
With a frustrated exhale, I close the book and press my fingertips against my temples.
The headache that's been threatening all evening pulses behind my eyes.
It's just biology, I tell myself. Simple hormonal response to a compatible omega in heat. Nothing more.
Except it is, and pretending otherwise is an exercise in self-deception I have neither the patience nor the inclination to indulge in tonight.
A sudden knock at my door makes me jolt hard enough to wrench my fucking neck.
"Shit," I snarl.
And who the hell could that be?
I inhale deeply. The trace of cinnamon confirms what I already suspect.
Whiskey.
For a moment, I consider ignoring him. Pretending to be asleep. It would be the sensible option. Whatever he wants at—I glance at the clock—three forty-eight in the morning can't possibly be important enough to warrant conversation when we're both keyed up from the omega's pheromones.
But the knock comes again, louder this time. Insistent.
"I know you're awake, pretty boy," Whiskey's voice comes through the door, low enough not to carry through the house but loud enough that I can hear the edge in it. "Open up."
With a controlled exhale that's more of a growl, I set the book aside and slide off the bed. I hesitate with my hand on the knob, mentally preparing for whatever nonsense Whiskey is about to unleash, before opening the door just enough to see him.