Chapter 6
Jasper
Idon't like change, never have. I've spent the last three years carefully arranging my life into something that makes sense. This house. My business. My pack—even if Theo and Wells would roll their eyes at me.
And now there's Rowan.
It pisses me off.
Theo's already at the table, scrolling through his phone while shoveling cereal into his mouth. Wells's making his pretentious pour-over coffee, his shirt neatly pressed, his hair already styled, because he's the kind of person who's never met a morning he couldn't optimize.
They both look up when I enter, but Rowan doesn't. She continues stretching for the mug, her shirt riding up to reveal a sliver of light brown skin. I clear my throat. Loudly.
She turns, mug finally in hand, and meets my eyes with a directness that sets my teeth on edge. No ducking her head, no looking away first. Just steady eye contact, like we're equals here.
"Morning," she says, her voice still rough with sleep.
I grunt in response.
"Use your words, Jasper," Theo chides without looking up from his phone. "We've talked about this."
"Morning," I mutter, brushing past Rowan to get to the coffee. I can feel her watching me, like a physical touch on the back of my neck. "You're up early."
"New day," she says, stepping aside to let me access the coffee maker. She's at least smart enough not to get between an alpha and his caffeine. "Thought I'd get an early start."
"Hmm." I pour myself a mug, then remember something. "House rules."
She raises an eyebrow. "I read the laminated sheet in the bathroom, if that's what you mean."
"Beyond that," I say, turning to face her fully. "No drama. No bringing your problems home. No flirting with any of us. No special demands."
Wells looks up from his fancy coffee setup. "Jasper—"
"It's fine," Rowan says, waving him off. Her mouth curves into a smile that doesn't reach her eyes. "I solemnly swear not to flutter my eyelashes, cry publicly, or ask for the moon on a leash. Will that work for you, or should I sign something in blood?"
Theo snorts into his cereal. Even Wells's lips twitch.
I narrow my eyes. "This isn't a joke."
"Of course not," she agrees, her tone suggesting the exact opposite. "Deadly serious. No drama. No flirting. No..." She pauses, tilting her head. "What was the other thing? Oh right, no special demands. Like asking to use the coffee maker, which I now see is clearly labeled 'Jasper's Precious.'"
Theo is openly grinning now. "She's got you there, Jas."
"Shut up," I growl, but there's no real heat in it. I'm too busy noticing something else—Rowan's scent. It's... different today. Still muted by blockers, still not quite alpha or beta or omega, but with an undercurrent of something warm and spiced, like cinnamon or cloves.
I shake the thought away. It's just my imagination, or maybe she used different soap. It doesn't matter.
"What Jasper is trying to say," Wells interjects, finally deigning to join the conversation, "is that we've had a relatively peaceful household routine until now, and he'd like to maintain that."
"What Jasper is trying to say," Theo counters, "is that he's a grumpy asshole in the mornings, and you should ignore him until he's had at least two cups of coffee."
Rowan's smile shifts to something more genuine as she looks at Theo. "Noted."
I don't like the way they're smiling at each other. I don't like her standing in our kitchen like she belongs here. I don't like any of this.
"I need to fix the sink today," I announce, changing the subject. "The disposal's been making that grinding noise again."
"Can it wait until tomorrow?" Wells asks. "I have that video call with the mayor's office in Haverford at eleven, and—"
"It'll be loud," I interrupt, already knowing where this is going. "I can do it now or I can do it during your call. Your choice."
Wells gives me a look that says he knows exactly what I'm doing, but he just sighs. "Fine. Do it now."
"Thought so." I open the cabinet under the sink, pulling out my toolbox with perhaps more force than necessary. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Rowan watching me, that little crease between her eyebrows deepening.
"You might want to take your morning elsewhere," Wells tells her, his tone gentler than the one he uses with me and Theo. "Once Jasper starts banging around under there, you won't be able to hear yourself think."
"It's fine," she says, settling at the kitchen table with her laptop. "I've had roommates before. I can tune it out."
I clench my jaw. So that's how it's going to be.
"You'll be sorry," Theo says in a singsong voice as he rises from the table. "Last time he fixed the sink, it sounded like he was murdering it with a hammer."
"Sometimes violence is the answer," I mutter, laying out my tools on the kitchen floor.
Theo claps a hand on my shoulder as he passes. "Stop being an asshole," he says quietly, just for me. "She's not the enemy."
I shrug him off, not responding. He doesn't get it. Neither does Wells. They haven't been burned like I have. They don't understand what happens when you let down your guard.
For the next hour, I work under the sink, disassembling the garbage disposal to figure out what's causing the noise.
It's methodical work, the kind that usually calms me.
But today, I'm hyperaware of every movement in the kitchen—the soft tapping of Rowan's fingers on her keyboard, the occasional sigh when she sees something she doesn't like, the way she gets up every twenty minutes to pace a small circuit around the kitchen.
She's restless. So am I.
"Can you hand me the Phillips head?" I ask from under the sink, extending my hand blindly.
There's a pause, then I feel the screwdriver being placed in my palm. Her fingers brush against mine, just for a second, but it's enough to make my skin prickle with awareness.
"Thanks," I grunt.
"You're welcome," she says primly, and I can practically hear the fake smile in her voice.
By the third tool I ask for, I realize she's deliberately handing me the wrong ones. I ask for pliers; she gives me a wrench. I ask for the socket set; she gives me a hammer.
"Are you doing this on purpose?" I finally snap, sliding out from under the sink to glare at her.
She blinks at me with false innocence. "Doing what?"
"Giving me the wrong tools."
"Oh," she says, widening her eyes. "I'm so sorry. I'm not really familiar with tool terminology. I thought you said 'rent check.'"
Theo, who's wandered back into the kitchen for a snack, disguises a laugh as a cough. "She's got you there, Jas."
I glare at him. "Whose side are you on?"
"The side of whoever's funnier," he says cheerfully, biting into an apple. "Currently, that's Rowan."
She gives him a little mock salute, and I resist the urge to growl. Instead, I slide back under the sink, determined to finish this job and get the hell out of this kitchen before I say something I regret.
But Rowan's not done with me yet. Every time I set a tool down, it mysteriously migrates just out of my reach. The wrench that was by my right hip is suddenly six inches away. The screwdriver I put next to my elbow has somehow moved to the other side of my toolbox.
It's subtle. Irritating. And explicitly designed to get under my skin.
When I finally finish reassembling the garbage disposal and slide out from under the sink, I find Rowan innocently typing at her laptop, as if she hasn't spent the last hour engaging in psychological warfare.
"All fixed," I announce, standing up and wiping my hands on a rag. "Try not to put anything stupid down there."
"Define stupid," she says without looking up.
"Anything that's not food or water," I reply, bending to collect my tools. "No fruit stickers, no plastic, no—"
"Corpses of my enemies?" she suggests.
I straighten, narrowing my eyes at her. "Are you always this difficult?"
Now she looks up, holding my gaze. "Only when someone's being unnecessarily hostile toward me for no apparent reason."
We stare at each other for a long moment, neither willing to back down.
This close, I can see flecks of gold in her brown eyes, the faint freckles across her nose, and—damn it—catch another whiff of that new note in her scent.
It's subtle but unmistakable, something warm and inviting beneath the blockers.
Something that makes my nose twitch with the urge to get closer, to investigate.
Which is exactly why I need to get away from her.
"I have reasons," I mutter, breaking eye contact first. I hate that I'm the one who looks away, but the alternative is standing here scenting her like some hormonal teenager, and that's not happening.
"I'm sure they're fascinating," she says drily. "Next time you're feeling chatty, you'll have to share them with the class."
Wells, who's been silently observing this exchange from the doorway, finally intervenes.
"Rowan, a piece of advice? Pushing Jasper's buttons is... not always the wisest course of action."
She turns to him, eyebrow raised. "Why? Is he going to alpha rage out on me? Because I've seen scarier things at a petting zoo."
Theo-- who is still hanging around and not stopping Rowan from torturing me-- chokes on his apple.
"No," Wells says calmly. "But he is your landlord, essentially. And while I'd personally find it entertaining to watch you two snipe at each other for the next couple months, it might make for a tense living situation."
She considers this, then nods once. "Fair point." She turns back to me. "I'll stop moving your tools if you stop treating me like I'm about to burn the house down."
It's a reasonable offer. I should take it. Instead, I find myself saying, "I'll believe you're not a fire hazard when you prove it."
Theo groans. "And on that mature note, I'm going to work. Try not to kill each other while I'm gone."
He grabs his keys and heads out, leaving me alone with Rowan and Wells. Wells gives me a look that clearly says "behave" before retreating to his home office for his video call.
I finish packing up my tools in silence, feeling Rowan's eyes on me the whole time. When I finally look up, she's watching me with an expression I can't quite read—not hostility, not exactly, but something more complex.
"What?" I ask, rougher than I intended.
"Nothing," she says, looking back at her laptop. "Just trying to figure you out."
"Don't bother," I advise, standing up with my toolbox. "I'm not that complicated."
"See, that's where you're wrong," she says, still not looking at me. "People who work that hard to be off-putting are usually the most complicated of all."
I don't have a response to that. So I do what I do best—I leave.
But as I head to the garage, I can't shake the memory of her eyes on me, or the way her scent seemed to shift and sweeten when she was challenging me.
Something tells me the next few months are going to be a lot more complicated than any of us anticipated.
Damn it.