3. Ryker
Chapter 3
Ryker
Six months of forced inactivity crawls under my skin like a fever as I pace the waiting room of Puritan Alpha Security. The empty space beside me throbs like a severed nerve, my fingers twitching toward nothing as if trying to grasp something only I can see. I press my palm against my sternum where Jinx’s absence creates a hollow ache, our pack bond stretched so thin I can barely feel the chaotic pulse that defines him. Like trying to hear a whisper in a hurricane.
“Where the hell is Jinx?” The words emerge as a growl that makes the fluorescent lights seem to dim. A passing omega freezes mid-step, eyes widening before he presses himself against the wall, throat exposed involuntarily. The air feels suddenly thick, harder to breathe, as if gravity itself responds to my frustration. I inhale deeply, muscles tensing as I pull the alpha pheromones back into my skin like retracting claws. Control. Always control. “We can’t fuck this up. This is the first assignment we’ve gotten since...”
The words die in my throat, replaced by the memory of blood and rage and six dead alphas.
I drag my fingers through my hair, feeling the strands Jinx’s episodes turned grey. The physical price of holding a fractured pack together. Of failing them all a little more each day.
“Well,” Finn’s calm beta scent cuts through my spiral as he doctors his coffee from the counter machine, “do you want my opinion?”
“No.” The word carries enough alpha command to make most betas bare their throat. Finn just raises an eyebrow.
“Should have brought Theo.”
“No.” Every alpha instinct flares at the thought of our omega outside our territory. Outside my control. “He stays protected. Safe.” The last word tastes like ash and wishful thinking.
Finn just hums, tapping at his phone with that deliberate serenity that makes me want to snap something. Probably my own self-control.
This meeting is a test. Has to be. Why else would they keep us waiting in this antiseptic hellhole where every surface gleams with the kind of clean that makes me think of hospital morgues and crime scenes? Hell, even the coffee tastes like it was filtered through bureaucracy and disappointment.
“Ryker Locke?” A woman in her late twenties leans out of a doorway, dark hair falling in waves to her shoulders. Her scent reaches me before her voice does—clean river stones after rain with notes of paper and ink, distinctly beta but without the usual undercurrent of submission. The kind of scent that enters a room without apology, that claims space without permission.
“That’s me.” My voice comes out like gravel over glass. I clear my throat and attempt a smile, but from Finn’s wince, I know I’m showing too many teeth. Too much alpha. Some days I wonder if I remember how to be anything else.
I probably look like every omega’s nightmare in dark jeans, shirt, and leather jacket. At least the outfit hides the pack marks etched into my skin like a roadmap of my failures. I grab my motorcycle helmet and give her a curt nod.
She raises a brow and kicks open the door. Lavender scent freshener floods out, artificial and cloying. Might as well have blindfolded me and tied my hands. Strategic. Professional. Exactly what I’d do in their position, and I hate them a little for being smart enough to think of it.
“We’re ready for you.”
“Fix your face,” Finn hisses, the muscles around his eyes tightening. “You’re radiating enough aggression to make houseplants wilt.”
My jaw locks tighter, teeth grinding against each other as I deliberately deepen my scowl until I feel the pull of skin between my eyebrows. Some days the only shield I have is this armor of intimidation, this deliberate projection of danger.
This is the face they fucking get.
The small woman—Willow, if I remember right—steps aside. The conference room hits me like a brick wall of competing alpha markers and pack bonds, all of it smothered under that suffocating lavender. Perfect. Because what this day really needed was a chemical headache.
The long table is full except for four empty seats that might as well have Pack Failure written on them in neon. At the head sits Malachi, my boss since the incident stripped us of active status. His mate Aria perches at his right, pastel pink hair knotted on top of her head like some kind of anime character. The rest of his pack surrounds her like a living shield.
Noted. Categorized. Threat assessed. Old habits die harder than most of my enemies.
Ginger, the Omega Guardian’s PR expert, sits near Willow, her tablet already out and fingers flying across the screen—probably doing damage control for whatever chaos this meeting is about to unleash. Smart. They’re going to need it.
I take the seat directly across from Malachi, Finn sliding in at my right with the kind of fluid grace that reminds me why he’s the only one who’s never flinched from my command. He immediately picks up the folder sitting in front of me and begins to thoroughly read through it. Show-off.
Two empty chairs mock me from my left. Chairs that should hold my pack. That should prove we’re still whole. Still functional.
I reach for the pack bonds, mental fingers stretching toward where Jinx should be, only to hit something that feels like crawling through television static with my nerve endings exposed. The connection fizzes and burns, deliberately impenetrable. A muscle in my left eye begins to spasm, a telltale tic that forms whenever he blocks me out like this.
Fucking fantastic.
Some days I swear he does it just to watch that muscle jump beneath my skin, a physical reminder of my diminishing control.
“You got a job for us?” The words come out clipped, harsh. My fingers tap against my thigh—a tell I thought I’d trained myself out of years ago. Then again, I also thought I’d trained my pack better than this, so clearly my track record with self-improvement is shit.
Malachi exchanges a look with his mate before meeting my eyes. “We do,” he says slowly, like he’s explaining things to a particularly dense child.
I’m going to hate every word that comes out of his mouth. I can feel it in my bones, in the way my scent probably goes sharp enough to cut through even the lavender haze.
I lean back, arranging my limbs in a calculated display of disinterest while beneath my skin, muscles coil so tight I can feel individual fibers threatening to snap. The chair creaks slightly as I shift my weight, deliberately taking up more space than necessary, a silent reminder of who I am. My eyes never leave Malachi’s, maintaining the stare until he’s the one who blinks first. Might as well put on a show. “Let’s hear it then.”
Malachi clears his throat, his eyes darting to the empty chairs beside me like they’re personally offending him. Join the club. “Where’s the rest of your pack?”
“On their way.” The lie tastes like copper and desperation, but like hell am I admitting I’ve lost control of my alpha in Malachi’s own fucking territory. Or that I’ve got my omega locked down tight at home where nothing can touch him. Where I can pretend I’m still capable of protecting anyone.
Aria leans forward, her pink hair catching the fluorescent light like some kind of cotton candy nightmare. “This job requires a full pack, Ryker. We can’t risk anything going wrong.”
I bite back a snarl. Because that’s exactly what I need—more reminders of how spectacularly I’m failing at this whole Pack Alpha thing. “My pack can handle anything you throw at us. We’re the best you’ve got.”
“Were the best,” Malachi corrects, his tone gentle but firm like he’s soothing a wounded animal. Like I’m something that needs to be handled with kid gloves and careful words.
The words hit like armor-piercing rounds, each syllable finding its mark. My fingers dig into the table’s edge, wood creaking under alpha strength. Some distant part of me hopes they’ll bill me for the damage. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Finn shifts beside me—a silent warning to check my control. But the rage bubbles up anyway, tangled with a fear I refuse to acknowledge. Six months of being benched, of holding my pack together with teeth and will and prayers to gods I stopped believing in years ago. Six months of watching Jinx fracture and Theo withdraw and wondering when it all went so wrong.
Malachi sighs, running a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair. “Look, Ryker, we know things have been... difficult since the incident with Jinx. We want to help.”
“We don’t need your help,” I snap, even as my pack bonds strain thin enough to see through. Like spider silk in sunlight, beautiful and fragile and one wrong move from snapping entirely.
“You do,” Aria says softly. “That’s why you showed up here today.”
Malachi leans forward, fingers steepled like some corporate villain in a bad movie. I half expect him to start petting a white cat. “There’s been a... situation. We need your pack to handle it.”
I resist the urge to roll my eyes. Everything’s a situation with Malachi. Guy probably calls taking a shit a situation. Has a whole PowerPoint prepared about proper tissue allocation and strategic flush timing.
“What kind of situation?” I grind out. The pack bond pulses empty where Jinx should be, a void that grows with each passing second. My control slips another notch, alpha pheromones probably leaking through despite the lavender assault.
Aria clears her throat, worry pinching her delicate features. “It’s Cayenne.” She licks her lips. “My best friend.”
I look back at Malachi. “A woman?” A sharp laugh escapes me. “We don’t kill women.” Not anymore. Not since... but that’s a darkness better left buried.
“I don’t want you to kill her.” Malachi sighs, and for the first time, I catch genuine concern in his scent through the lavender haze. Well, shit. That can’t be good.
His pack has kept quiet until now, a unified front of silence that speaks volumes about whatever mess we’re about to step in. But Quinn, their tech specialist, leans forward. “There was an incident last night at the Omega Guardian building. Cayenne hacked into Sterling Labs’ database and they retaliated. Hard.”
Finn shifts into analyst mode beside me. “What did she find?”
“Well, that’s for me to know and you to fucking not.”
The voice hits me like a physical blow. Sharp. My head snaps toward the doorway, and?—
Oh, fuck me sideways.
A curvy beauty stands there in unicorn pajamas of all things, red hair spilling wild over her shoulders like flames. Like warnings. Like every bad decision I’ve ever made wrapped up in one package and tied with a you’re fucked bow.
The lavender can’t quite mask it—a scent that hits me like a physical blow. Bright lemon and electric ozone, with something underneath that makes my alpha instincts surge to life. That makes my hands grip the table edge until wood creaks beneath my fingers. Because this? This isn’t just attraction. This is recognition. This is my entire biology screaming mine in a way I haven’t felt since?—
No. Lock it down. Control. Always control.
One perfect eyebrow arches the longer I stare, but I can’t look away. Something about her screams trouble—and not just the unicorn pajamas that somehow manage to look both ridiculous and tempting as sin. No, it’s in the tilt of her chin, the fire in her eyes, the way she takes in the room like she’s cataloging exits and weaknesses.
Just what I need. Another force of chaos to try to contain.
But I need to scent her. Need to know what kind of trouble we’re dealing with. This damn lavender diffuser is blocking everything important, making my alpha instincts more aggressive in their need to assess. To categorize. To understand why every cell in my body just snapped to attention.
“What did you find?” The question cuts through the room, sharp as an order. The kind that usually has betas averting their eyes and omegas baring their necks.
She doesn’t even flinch. If anything, her spine straightens, green eyes flashing with defiance that hits me like a shot of pure adrenaline. Wrong reaction. Very wrong reaction. And why the hell does that turn me on?
“Who the fuck are you?” she snaps, choosing the seat directly across from Aria. The deliberate distance isn’t subtle.
“Cayenne.” Willow interrupts, and I catch a hint of dread in her tone that makes my hackles rise. Makes me wonder just how much chaos this little beta has caused. “This is Alpha Ryker Locke. His pack has been assigned to your protection detail.”
Well, fuck.
All hell breaks loose.
Shouts explode around the table. The redhead leaps to her feet, knocking her chair backward with enough force to dent the wall. A hint of her scent finally breaks through the lavender—spice and fire and pure beta defiance. Of course she smells like trouble.
I sit back, letting the argument wash over me. Angry people make mistakes, and right now I need to learn everything about the beta who’s about to become my pack’s problem. My living, breathing probation officer in unicorn pajamas.
“Absolutely fucking not!” She jabs a finger at Malachi. “I don’t need a pack of alphas hovering over me. I can protect myself.”
My alpha instincts bristle at her tone, but I keep my face neutral. Watch. Wait. Learn. She’s all bravado and sharp edges, but there’s something underneath. Fear, maybe. The kind that makes people reckless.
“Cay,” Aria tries to soothe her friend, “after what happened last night?—”
“What happened last night is that someone tried to kill me because I found proof that Sterling Labs is?—”
“Cayenne!” Quinn’s sharp voice cuts her off. “Not here.”
Interesting. Very interesting. I catalogue every detail. The way Quinn’s eyes dart to the corners where cameras hide. The tension in Malachi’s shoulders. The slight tremor in Cayenne’s hands that she tries to hide by crossing her arms.
She found something big. Something worth killing for. And now she’s my problem to keep alive whether either of us likes it or not.
“I have work to do,” Cayenne growls. “Real work. Important work. I can’t do that with an alpha pack breathing down my neck.”
“You can’t do anything if you’re dead,” Finn points out mildly.
She whirls on him, all fire and fury. It’s... intriguing. Most betas show at least some submission around alphas, but this one acts like she’s never heard of hierarchy. She assumes we’re just another alpha pack, all brute force and dominance.
Let her. Sometimes misconceptions make the best armor.
“You’ve managed just fine on your own so far?” Finn asks, his analytical tone slipping into place as he pushes his glasses up his nose. “Because from the reports I’ve seen, you’ve left quite the digital trail. Maybe we should start by confiscating all your electronics.”
Cayenne’s jaw actually drops. “Excuse the fuck out of you?”
“He has a point,” I say, just to watch her bristle. “Can’t hack yourself into trouble without a computer.”
“I—you—” She sputters, spinning to face Quinn. “Tell them how ridiculous that is.”
Quinn badly disguises his laugh as a cough. “I mean, he’s not entirely wrong about the trail...”
“Oh, that’s rich coming from you.” Cayenne plants her hands on the table, leaning forward. “Who exactly taught you how to ghost your IP address? Because I distinctly remember someone crying over their keyboard at three AM?—”
“That was one time?—”
“Four times. I have screenshots.”
“Which you wouldn’t have if we took your devices,” Willow interjects smoothly. “Quinn can trace the threat if you’d just step back and let him work.”
Cayenne’s laugh is sharp enough to cut. “Let him work? You want me to hand over my equipment to someone who once accidentally encrypted his own coffee maker?”
That’s when I notice it. The shift in the air. The familiar scent that’s been tickling at the edge of my awareness since she walked in.
My eyes snap to the doorway. Jinx leans against the doorframe, fingers drumming that distinct three-tap pattern against his bicep, head tilted at the exact angle that means he’s cataloging weaknesses. The predatory stillness of his posture tells me he’s been there the whole damn time, absorbing everything.
Which means...
I inhale deeply, pushing past the lavender. There it is. Jinx’s scent, all cherry tobacco and gunpowder, clinging to the beta’s skin. Fresh. Intimate. But underneath that... fuck. Her true scent burns through everything else—lemon and ozone and something that calls to parts of me I thought I’d buried years ago. The same something that must have driven Jinx to claim her so quickly.
My hands clench as understanding hits. She’s not just any beta. She’s ours . And Jinx, the unstable bastard, figured it out first.
My alpha instincts roar to life. Not just because my pack member went rogue. Not just because he’s been here the whole time, watching. But because he’s touched her. Recently. Thoroughly.
Jinx’s eyes meet mine across the room. There’s a challenge in them. A darkness. A claim.
Well, fuck.
The room stinks of alpha challenge, cherry tobacco, and beta defiance. I grip the edge of the table, wood creaking under my fingers. My second-in-command, my supposedly unstable alpha, fucked our new assignment in a bathroom like some kind of?—
“Enough.” Malachi’s voice cuts through the tension. “Everyone sit down. Now.”
Jinx slinks into the room, taking the empty chair beside me. Cayenne’s scent grows stronger with his proximity, and my jaw clenches so hard I taste blood. This isn’t just a complication. This is a tactical nightmare wrapped in unicorn pajamas and sprinkled with my alpha’s claiming scent.
“Here’s how this is going to play out.” Malachi’s tone leaves no room for argument. He meets my eyes like he knows exactly what kind of bomb he’s dropping in my lap. “Pack Locke, you have two options. Accept this protection detail, pass our evaluation period, and return to active status. Or refuse and remain on probation indefinitely.”
“You can’t be serious—” Cayenne starts.
“As for you,” Malachi continues, “you’ve lost your choice in the matter.”
“Like hell I have!”
Willow clears her throat. “Actually, Cayenne, you have. As of this morning, your access to the Omega Guardian building has been permanently revoked.”
The color drains from Cayenne’s face. It’s the first crack I’ve seen in her armor, and something in me wants to snarl at everyone in the room for putting that look there. I shove the instinct down. Hard.
“You can’t?—”
“You endangered thirty-seven omegas.” Willow’s voice is soft but final. “The shooters knew exactly where to find you because you used our secure systems to run your hack. You compromised our safety protocols. You brought violence into a sanctuary.” She takes a breath. “You’re out. Effective immediately.”
Ginger clears her throat. “The press is already asking questions. An attack on an omega sanctuary? We need to control this narrative before it spirals.”
“I was trying to help?—”
“By getting our residents killed?” Willow’s voice turns to ice, our friendship fracturing under the weight of betrayal. “You brought armed killers into a sanctuary. Do you understand what could have happened? What almost—” She cuts herself off, hands shaking. “Your things have already been packed. You have nowhere else to go that they can’t find you. So yes, you’re getting protection. And you’re getting it from the only pack crazy enough to take on your mess.”
Silence fills the room like a living thing. I watch Cayenne’s shoulders shake—with rage or fear, I can’t tell. Maybe both. Her fingers curl into fists on the table, knuckles white with tension. She’s backed into a corner, and everything about her screams that she’s about to do something stupid.
“Fine.” The word sounds like it’s been ripped from her throat. “Where exactly am I supposed to go?”
“Pack house,” I say, the words tasting like ash. “Secured location, defensible position, full surveillance.” I lock eyes with Jinx, letting him see every ounce of alpha fury I’m holding back. “Complete protection.”
Jinx’s lips curl into that feral smile I’ve come to dread. The one that usually precedes violence. Or worse—ideas.
“I’ll need my equipment,” Cayenne says, chin lifting in defiance.
“Absolutely not,” Finn and Quinn say in unison.
“Your equipment stays in storage until we determine the threat level,” Malachi says. “Consider yourself on forced vacation.”
A harsh laugh escapes her. “Vacation. Right. Under house arrest with strange alphas. Perfect.”
“Not strange,” Jinx drawls, his first words since entering. “We’ve met.”
I’m going to kill him. Slowly. Creatively. Right after I figure out how to keep this powder keg of a situation from blowing up in all our faces.
“Meeting adjourned,” Malachi announces before I can act on that impulse. “Pack Locke, you’re back on active status, effective immediately. Don’t make me regret this.”
Everyone starts gathering their things. I stay seated, watching Jinx watch Cayenne as she storms out of the room, unicorn pajamas and all. My pack’s future depends on protecting her. On keeping her alive despite her apparent death wish.
And my second just complicated everything by fucking her in a bathroom.
I catch Jinx’s eye again. He doesn’t look away. Doesn’t submit. Just grins that bloodthirsty grin.
“This is going to be fun,” he says.
Yeah. That’s one word for it.
Another would be catastrophic. Or maybe suicidal. But watching the way Jinx’s eyes track Cayenne’s exit, the way her scent lingers in the air between us like a challenge—like destiny—I’m beginning to understand why Malachi chose us.
Her scent clings to the room long after she’s gone, tormenting my senses with what it means. What it could mean. A beta shouldn’t be able to trigger a scent bond. Shouldn’t be able to make my alpha instincts howl with recognition, with need, with the primal certainty that she’s meant to be pack.
But she does. And from the dark hunger in Jinx’s eyes, the way Finn’s shoulders have gone tight with borrowed instinct through our pack bond, I know I’m not the only one who feels it.
Takes crazy to guard crazy. And we’ve got that in spades.
Especially now that we’re all trying to pretend we haven’t just scented our mate in unicorn pajamas.