Chapter 10
Bane
The warehouse smells like salt water and diesel fuel.
And rust. Old metal and brine and the faint chemical tang of whatever cleaning solution they use on the concrete floors.
I hate this part of the job.
Hate the cold. The echo of our voices off corrugated steel walls. The way my breath fogs in the air even though it's not that cold, just damp enough to seep into your bones.
Atlas handles strategy. Zero handles enforcement.
And me? I handle logistics. The boring shit.
The spreadsheets and manifests and quality control that keeps this whole operation running.
Making sure shipments arrive on time. Making sure the product is clean.
Making sure no one's skimming off the top.
Making sure we don't end up in a federal prison.
Tonight's shipment came in from Vancouver. Three crates. Two hundred units of black-market suppressants. No prescriptions. No questions asked.
Our buyers love that.
I watch as Franky—one of our guys, a beta in his forties with a beer gut and a receding hairline and hands that are surprisingly steady despite the tremor in his left one—cracks open the first crate and pulls out a sample bottle.
The lid squeals as it pops off. Pills rattle inside like teeth.
"Looks good," he says, shaking it. Holds it up to the overhead light. "Same as always."
"Check the batch numbers," I tell him. "Make sure they match the manifest."
He nods and gets to work. Pulls out a clipboard, runs his finger down a list of numbers.
I lean against the wall and pull out my phone. The screen is too bright in the dimness of the warehouse. I squint, scroll through notifications. Three missed calls from Dad. A text from Atlas about a meeting tomorrow.
Nothing else.
No one else.
Franky holds up one of the pills, squinting at it under the warehouse lights. It's small. White. Innocuous. You'd never know what it does just by looking at it. "Ever think it's weird? How much people pay for these?"
"Supply and demand."
"Yeah, but..." He drops the pill back into the bottle. "I'm a beta. This is just a pill to me. But for you guys? For alphas and omegas?" He shakes his head. His jowls wobble. "Must be something else entirely."
I don't respond.
Because he's right. Betas don't get it. They can't.
They don't know what it's like to feel the pull. The need. His jowls wobble. The way an omega's scent can crawl inside your head and make you forget everything else. Make you dangerous. Make you desperate.
I've never experienced it myself. Never been near an omega in heat. Never felt that absolute, consuming urge to knot and claim and never let go.
But I want to.
God, I want to.
Every alpha does. It's biology. Instinct. The way we're wired. Written into our DNA like a command we can't refuse.
And when you're surrounded by betas all day—people who can't scent, can't understand, can't relate—it gets lonely.
You start to feel like you're the only one who understands what it's like. The hunger. The emptiness. The ache that never quite goes away.
That's why my brothers matter. Atlas and Zero. They get it. They know what it's like to be an alpha in a world that's mostly beta. To feel desires that are primal and overwhelming and impossible to explain to someone who doesn't share them.
We're pack in everything but name. Blood and understanding bound tighter than any formal bond.
It's all I have.
"It’s insane how lucrative the suppressant business is," Franky says, still examining the pills. He's moved on to the second crate now, prying the lid off with a crowbar. "People pay top dollar to control their heats. Or trigger them. Depending on what they need."
"I know."
I've seen the numbers. Suppressants are a multi-billion dollar industry, and we control a significant chunk of the black market on the West Coast. No prescriptions. No waiting periods. No judgmental doctors asking why you need them.
Just money and product and silence.
"You think you'll ever—" He stops. Clears his throat. Looks away, suddenly fascinated by the crate in front of him. "Sorry. None of my business."
"What?"
"Just... you know. Finding your omega. Settling down." He shrugs. "You're twenty-four. That's prime bonding age for alphas."
I look away.
Stare at the concrete floor. At the oil stains and scuff marks and the dark spots that might be old blood.
Finding my omega.
Yeah.
That's the dream, isn't it?
Every alpha wants it. That perfect match.
That one-in-a-million scent that hits you like lightning, rearranges your brain chemistry, makes everything else fade to static.
The omega whose scent calls to you like nothing else.
The one you'd kill for. Die for. The one you knot and bond and keep forever.
The one who looks at you like you're their entire world. Who needs you as much as you need them. Who makes you feel like you're finally, finally whole.
I've thought about it. More than I should.
What it would feel like to have that. To have someone.
An omega who's mine. Who needs me. Who looks at me like I'm the only thing that matters. Who fits against me like they were made for it. Who smells like home.
I'd never let them go.
Never.
I'd burn the world down first.
My phone buzzes.
I glance down.
Dad: Margot's worried about Max. She wants you to reach out. Try to get to know him better.
I stare at the text.
Read it twice. Three times. The words don't change.
You've got to be fucking kidding me.
Max Carter. The outsider. The ghost who haunts our second floor like he's afraid his own shadow might bite.
He's not even related to Margot. Not really. He's some foster kid she adopted out of guilt or pity or whatever it is that makes people take in strays.
And now I'm supposed to what? Play nice? Pretend we're brothers?
Fuck that.
Another text comes through.
Dad: Please. Do this for me.
I grit my teeth. Jaw so tight I can hear the grinding in my skull.
Dad never asks for anything. He built this empire from nothing, raised us after Mom died, kept us fed and clothed and alive when he was drowning in grief, and he never once asked us to compromise.
But now he's asking.
For Margot.
Because she's worried about her precious son.
Because Max Carter—the kid who won't even look us in the eye—is more important than the three sons Dad already has.
I type back: Fine. I'll reach out.
But I'm not happy about it.
Not even close.
Franky looks up from the crate. "Everything okay, boss?"
"Yeah," I say, shoving my phone back in my pocket. The screen goes dark. The text disappears. The obligation doesn't. "Everything's fine."
Liar.
The drive back to the estate takes thirty minutes.
Thirty minutes of dark highways and streetlights that blur into orange streaks. Thirty minutes of my hands gripping the steering wheel hard enough to make my knuckles ache. Thirty minutes of trying to figure out what the fuck I'm supposed to say.
Hey, sorry I told you to stay out of our way. Want to grab coffee?
So, Margot's worried. Let's talk about your feelings.
Why do you look at me like I'm the enemy?
None of it sounds right.
Because the truth is, I don't want to get to know Max Carter.
He's a disruption. A complication. A crack in the foundation of everything we've built. A reminder that our family isn't what it used to be.
Mom died when I was nine. Cancer. Fast and brutal and I barely remember her face now, just the smell of her perfume and the way she used to hum while she cooked. It was just me, Atlas, and Zero after that. The three of us against the world.
Dad tried. He did. But he was drowning in grief and business and keeping everything together.
We raised each other.
Atlas became the parent. Zero became the protector. I became the mediator. We learned how to survive without her. How to be enough for each other.
And now?
Now there's Max.
Margot's son. The chosen one. The one she chose over the life she had before. The one who gets her attention and her love and her worry. The one who gets everything we worked for handed to him on a silver platter without having to earn a goddamn thing.
I don't hate him.
I don't.
I just don't want him here.
But Dad asked.
So I'll try.
I pull into the driveway and park. Kill the engine. Sit in the sudden silence, listening to the tick of cooling metal. The house is dark except for a few lights on the second floor.
Max's room. Probably.
I sit in the car for a long moment, staring up at that window. A rectangle of golden light in a sea of darkness.
How the hell am I supposed to do this?
I don't even have his number. And it's not like I can just ask Dad for it—that would be too obvious. Too forced.
I could catch him in the kitchen. Or the hallway. Strike up a conversation that doesn't sound like it's coming from Margot's worry and Dad's request.
I could ask him about school. About work. About literally anything that doesn't make this feel like an interrogation.
But what would I even say?
Max has been a ghost for the past week. Barely leaves his room except for school and work. And when he does, he looks at us like we're the reason he's miserable.
Hollow-eyed and gaunt and flinching at every sound like he's waiting for the other shoe to drop.
Honestly? I'm fine with that. He wants to be a loner? Great. Stay in your room. Stay out of our way. That was the deal from the start.
But apparently Margot's worried. And when Margot's worried, Dad gets involved. And when Dad gets involved, I get roped into playing nice with the stepbrother who clearly wants nothing to do with us.
The stepbrother who looks at me like I'm the villain in his tragic backstory.
I get out of the car and head inside.
The house is quiet. Too quiet.
I take the stairs to the second floor, and as I pass Max's door, I pause.
The light is still on. I can see it bleeding out from under the door, a thin golden line against dark wood.
There's no light coming from underneath. Either he's asleep or he's not home.
Or he's sitting in the dark, doing whatever it is he does when he locks himself away from the rest of us.
I keep walking.
I'll figure it out tomorrow.
Find some excuse to talk to him that doesn't feel contrived. That doesn't scream our parents are making me do this.
But even as I think it, I know it's going to be awkward as hell.
Because Max Carter doesn't want anything to do with us.
And honestly? The feeling's mutual.
And with that attitude? I can see why he bounced around foster care for so many years before Margot finally took pity on him.
No one wants the kid who won't let them in. Who flinches at kindness and hoards secrets like they're currency. Who looks at you like you're the enemy even when you're trying to help.
I unlock my door and step into my room. Close it behind me. Lean against it.
Tomorrow. I'll deal with this tomorrow.
But for now, I'm too tired to care.