Chapter 8
ANITA
Izip up the backpack, sling it over my shoulder, and check my reflection one more time in the mirror in my apartment.
Ash Monroe stares back at me. “You can do this,” I tell my reflection firmly. “You’re doing this for your listeners. You’re doing this to prove that the problem isn’t us. It’s the system designed to keep Omegas down.”
My reflection doesn’t look convinced, but I square my shoulders anyway.
I take a deep breath, adjust the backpack, and head out into the cold evening air.
The walk to the restaurant takes fifteen minutes, and thankfully it’s not snowing. I spend every second of it rehearsing masculine body language. Long strides. Loose hips. Shoulders back. Head up. Don’t fidget. Don’t sway. Move like you own the sidewalk.
By the time I reach Fusions, I’m almost convinced I can pull this off.
Almost.
The restaurant is exactly the kind of place that would thrive in a town like Mistberry Cove.
It’s trendy without being pretentious, welcoming without being generic.
The exterior is painted a deep teal with gold accents around the windows and door, modern but warm, with soft lighting spilling out onto the street.
I push through the door, and the interior takes my breath away.
Exposed brick walls are decorated with paper lanterns in reds and golds, hanging at different heights to create visual interest. Abstract art pieces mix traditional Asian calligraphy with modern geometric shapes.
Wooden tables combine with sleek metal chairs and somehow don’t clash.
The bar area along one wall has a stunning bamboo backdrop with bottles lit from below, creating a soft amber glow.
The smell is incredible. Ginger, garlic, sesame oil, and something sweet and spicy that has my mouth watering instantly.
And then I spot them.
Back corner. Long table with benches on either side. Four massive Alphas taking up way too much space, their broad shoulders and commanding presence making the table look smaller than it is.
And no one else.
No family. No partners. No friends. No other employees or acquaintances.
Just them.
I narrow my eyes in their direction because they wanted to see Anita. That’s what this is really about. This customary dinner for new employees and their families, it’s an excuse. They want to meet her.
Part of me flutters at the thought, a stupid, treacherous warmth blooming in my chest. These gorgeous, successful men are interested in meeting me. In getting to know me. They’ve been asking about me, thinking about me.
Then I remind myself that pretty faces don’t equal good values. I could never be with Alphas who don’t respect Omegas the way we deserve.
So I need to stay focused on why I’m here.
Investigation. Truth. Evidence.
A group of other customers slips inside the restaurant, and I use them as cover to make a beeline for the bathrooms before anyone can spot me.
The hallway is tucked to the side, narrow and dimly lit, with restroom signs pointing the way. And there, perfectly positioned just outside the bathroom doors in a corner, is a large decorative trash can. One of those nice ones that restaurants use, made of dark wood with a metal liner.
Perfect.
I glance around quickly. A server rushes past toward the kitchen. A couple walks by, heading to their table, absorbed in conversation.
No one is watching.
I squeeze my backpack behind the trash can, pushing it as far back against the wall as it’ll go. The space is tight but workable. The bag disappears into shadow.
Then I step back and assess from different angles.
Can’t see it from the hallway. Can’t see it from the bathroom entrance. Good.
“I got this,” I whisper.
I turn around and walk directly into a solid wall of muscle and warmth.
Groaning, I stumble back, looking up. And up. And up.
Slater stares down at me, deep eyes dancing with amusement, black hair wind-messy.
He’s wearing a gray Henley that fits him perfectly, showing off the breadth of his shoulders and chest, paired with a cargo jacket and those scuffed boots.
He smells like smoked cedar, sea salt, and coffee, and it’s addictive.
My knees wobble slightly with each inhale I take.
Why does he have to smell so good? I want to move in closer, take a deeper breath, because something about his scent will undo me.
“You linger around bathrooms a lot,” he says, voice that same deep rumble I’m drowning in. There’s a teasing edge to it now, playful in a way that completely transforms his usually grumpy expression.
That same voice I’ve heard in the bath, in bed, on the ferry, whispering filthy, slow-burn promises until I couldn’t take it anymore.
My thighs press together instinctively.
I force a laugh, trying to channel anything masculine. I give him a fake punch to the arm, the kind of thing I’ve seen guys do in bad sitcoms. My fist taps muscle so solid it may as well be granite. He doesn’t even blink. Just grins wider.
“You’re such a joker,” I manage, tone tight. Casual. Bro-ish. Definitely not on the verge of melting.
“Not joking. Legitimate observation.” His grin shifts into something softer.
“You okay? You look a little pale.”
Nope. Not okay. My body is betraying me. Because now, unbidden, a line from one of his audiobooks loops through my head as I stare at that perfect, strong face.
You’re going to come for me, sweetheart. Just like that. Good girl.
My pulse stumbles. I’m suddenly way too aware of my skin, my scent, the flush creeping up my neck.
“Fine. Great,” I blurt, a little too loud. “Just, uh, nervous. First work dinner and all that.” I try to breathe, but then his voice—that voice—again from the story: I want you spread out and ruined, just for me.
God. I listened to that scene three times last week.
He nods like he believes me. “So you’re all sitting in the back, then? Saw you as I came in,” I say, grasping for neutral ground.
“Yeah. Come on.” He gestures for me to follow.
I do. On shaky legs, doing my best to walk like I’m not about to combust.
Because every time he opens that perfect, narrator mouth of his, my body forgets everything except the aching reminder that Joe Hamilton—Slater—is here, live and unfiltered, and he sounds exactly like my favorite fantasy.
Once at the table, it’s even more intimidating up close.
Mason sits on the left side, looking effortlessly gorgeous in a cream shirt. His sandy-blond hair is neatly combed back, short beard trimmed. Those golden-brown eyes track my approach.
Next to him sits Dylan, whose long hair is down tonight, past his shoulders.
The shaved lines at his temples are sharp and clean, adding an aggressive edge to his otherwise friendly face.
He’s wearing a flannel shirt in dark-green-and-black plaid, rolled at the sleeves to show off tattooed forearms, and he’s grinning widely as I approach, green eyes bright with welcome.
Across from them is Jasper, blond hair falling to his shoulders in waves, his ice-blue eyes intense. He’s in all black, shirt and jeans, with his arms crossed over his broad chest.
And Slater slides into the seat next to Jasper, completing the group, his larger frame making even Jasper look slightly smaller by comparison.
They scoot over on the bench, making room for me next to Slater.
I sit, trying to take up space like a guy would. Legs spread wide. Elbows on the table. Shoulders back.
The bench is warm from their body heat. I’m surrounded by their scents, the delicious aromas—it’s overwhelming.
“Where’s your sister?” Mason asks immediately, studying me from across the table.
“Oh, she’s coming soon. Just got delayed with something.” I wave a hand dismissively, channeling casual guy energy. “Work stuff. She’ll be here. Anyway, thought this was a family event,” I say, glancing around the table pointedly. “You didn’t bring anyone? Siblings? Parents? Friends?”
Dylan grins, and it transforms his whole face from handsome to absolutely devastating. “We are family, man. This is it. The four of us.”
“We don’t have family nearby,” Mason adds, his voice softer. There’s something sad underneath the words. “Just each other. But that’s enough.”
Jasper nods. “Pack is family. Blood doesn’t always matter.”
Slater just grunts in agreement, but there’s warmth in his expression as he looks at the other three.
Something in my chest tightens painfully at that. The way they look at each other, the easy affection and absolute trust. They really are a pack. It’s beautiful and heartbreaking at the same time.
“So how did you all meet?” I ask, leaning forward with genuine curiosity. “If you don’t mind me asking. It’s just… you all seem really close. Like you’ve known each other forever.”
They exchange glances. “I grew up here,” Mason starts.
“Mistberry, born and raised. My mom was an Omega, single, raising me on her own after her pack…” He pauses, swallowing hard.
“They passed. One by one over the years, including my father. Accidents, illness, bad luck. She lost all three of her Alphas before I was ten years old.”
My heart clenches painfully. I can’t even imagine that kind of loss. Watching your whole world crumble, person by person.
“She never bonded again,” Mason continues.
“Said her heart was too full of them to make room for anyone else. But she made sure I knew what a real pack looked like. She wanted me to find that someday. When she passed about eight years ago, I inherited my uncle’s charter business.
It was barely running, on its last legs, held together by duct tape. ”
“That’s when I showed up,” Slater adds, and I’m very aware of his words. He’s staring at the table like the wood grain is suddenly fascinating. “I was in a pack in the city. High profile and successful. Corporate types, all money and image, until it imploded spectacularly.”
“Oh?”