The Storm
Mack
My mouth falls open as Nico turns the truck up the drive, allowing us to finally see the Van Houten house…well, mansion.
Even in the dark I can see stone the whole way up, windows about as tall as a man, and a fountain out front lit blue with water pouring off some naked marble babies…or maybe they’re angels. I can’t tell.
"Sweet Lord," I say, angling my head down, trying to count the number of floors. It’s difficult to see everything from the back seat of the truck, but I can see enough. "You grew up here?"
Lyra lets out a heavy sigh next to me. "Unfortunately."
Owen reaches over and places his hand on the omega’s knee, but he keeps his eyes locked on the dark lawn outside his window.
I wish it were still light out. I’d love to see how far this property line goes.
Lyra groans low in her throat as she looks at a long line of expensive cars parked along the front of the house. "Oh, you have got to be kidding me."
"What is it?" I ask, turning my hat over in my lap.
"There's a party." Adrian says from the passenger seat, and I hear his nerves running under it. His jaw's tight, one hand gripping his own knee.
I feel so bad for the alpha, but I'm also glad it's him and not me introducing himself to Lyra’s parents. I would not be able to hold my opinion of these people back for even one second.
"It must be their annual fundraiser." Lyra sits up straighter, staring out at the cars like they've personally wronged her. "I forgot they were doing this tonight." She places her hand over her exposed cleavage, and I can practically hear her heart beating against her ribcage.
"What’s it for?" Owen asks as he pushes his glasses back up his nose.
Lyra goes quiet.
She's still staring out the window at all those cars, but she's not really seeing them anymore. Her black-painted nails pull at the hem of that dress, and she sucks in a deep breath before she answers.
"The Monogamist Alliance."
Up front, Adrian turns clean around in the passenger seat, looking back at her over his shoulder. "You're kidding."
Lyra drops her eyes to her lap and says nothing.
I immediately smell the sharp scent of distress rolling off her, filling the whole cab. I quickly place my hand on hers, and squeeze gently.
"Hey now." I angle my head down, trying to see her eyes. "It's okay, darlin'."
"He's right." Owen leans into her from the other side, his shoulder pressing against hers. "It's okay."
"We've been hiding our pack for years, Lyra." Nico catches her eyes in the rearview mirror, calm and steady. "One party of monogamists isn't going to rattle us. We know how to move through a room like this."
"Hell, I do it every day at work." Owen laughs.
That does something to the omega, and I feel her hand loosen a little in mine, the sour edge in her scent pulling back a notch.
I lean down and press one kiss to her bare shoulder, letting my mouth linger there against her warm skin.
Then I drop my voice, just for her.
"Besides," I murmur against her ear, "if it gets to be too much, me and Owen can pull you into a nearby closet and really scandalize these fuckers."
Lyra snorts and one hand moves up to cover her mouth. More of her distress burns off by that laugh, and for half a second, she's just a girl giggling in the back of a truck.
Nico stops the truck, and a red-vested kid raps his knuckles against the driver's side window.
And just like that, the moment's over.
I straighten up off Lyra’s shoulder and put a respectable inch of space between us. Lyra smooths her face back into something composed, tucking her laugh away where it came from.
We all slip into the parts we came here to play.
Nico rolls the window down. "Evening."
"Evening, sir." The valet's already opening the door. "I'll take good care of it."
I bite back a grin, because our dirty work truck sitting in a line of cars worth more than my life is about the funniest thing I've seen all week.
Bracing myself, I step out of the truck and settle my hat on my head.
Showtime.
The front doors are tall enough to drive that truck through, and standing in front of them is a tiny beta with dark brown hair in a high ponytail. She’s wearing a sleek black pantsuit and has a clipboard hugged to her chest. She's checking names off a list as folks go in.
Her head comes up when she sees us. Her dark eyes zero in on my hat first, and she frowns.
"Oh, um." She looks down at her clipboard with a mixture of confusion and maybe even fear.
"What’s the name?" Then her gaze falls on our omega and her whole face cracks wide open. "Lyra?" She says our omega’s name like she can’t believe she’s alive.
"Hey, Calla." Lyra's voice is so soft.
This must be a friend.
The beta—Calla—lifts her free hand, reaching out like she’s going for a hug, then she stops. She curls it back against the clipboard and holds it there, her knuckles gone white. She clearly wants to grab hold of Lyra so bad it's written all over her, but she doesn't let herself do it.
It’s kinda sad.
"You look good," Calla smiles as she takes in Lyra’s face, then that glorious dress. "Your mother will die when she sees you in that dress."
"That's what I'm hoping." Lyra giggles, but her dark eyes have gone a little glassy.
My heart breaks for the both of them, standing a foot apart and not letting themselves close it.
A car rolls up the drive behind us, engine purring low and expensive, and a door swings open.
"Careful with it." Some alpha unfolds out of the driver's seat, tossing his keys at the valet without looking. "That's a custom finish. You put one scratch on it, and it comes out of your paycheck for the next ten years."
The valet murmurs something apologetic. The alpha's already walking up the drive, straightening his cuffs like the kid isn't worth a second glance.
Lyra clears her throat and pulls her manners back on like a coat.
"Calla, this is Adrian Bennett." She turns slightly toward Adrian. The alpha nods at Calla as he sets a hand at the small of Lyra’s back. "My mate."
Calla's eyes snap to Adrian, then to the mark riding high on Lyra's throat. Then something moves through the beta’s face. Relief, maybe. Or fear?
Hell, I can’t tell.
"And this is his family," Lyra goes on. "Mack. Owen. And Owen's husband, Nico."
Calla nods at each of us in turn, polite and smooth, still hugging that clipboard tight. "It's nice to meet you all."
"Ma'am," I say, and touch my brim.
She almost smiles at that. Almost.
Then Calla leans in toward Lyra, dropping her voice so low I nearly miss it under the music leaking out through the doors.
"Are you okay?" Calla's eyes search the omega’s face, fast, clearly worried. "Are you hurt? Or…" She trails off as she glances up at Adrian’s massive frame.
Adrian catches the look on Calla's face, and I feel him tense next to me. But he doesn't say a word in his own defense. He just draws his hand back off Lyra, and lets her answer for herself.
"Oh, no." Lyra quickly shakes her head, making all that long hair fall across her shoulders. "I'm okay," she whispers. "I promise. I'm really good."
Calla holds her eyes a moment longer, weighing it. Then she nods, like she's decided to believe her. "Just let me know if you need anything," Calla smiles at Lyra before looking one last time at Adrian.
I decide right then that I like this one.
Anybody who looks at our girl like that, like her being safe actually matters, is alright by me.
Calla straightens and steps aside to let us through.
"Everyone is in the ballroom," she says, back to business, then she hesitates. "Your father might still be in his office. He was in there earlier with a few people."
"Then I'll be sure to give the office a very wide berth," Lyra says with a smile.
The corner of Calla's mouth finally gives. "That would probably be wise." Then she turns to the asshole with the expensive car. "Good evening, Mr. Calloway."
We step forward, and into a house that was never meant for living in.
The ceiling goes up and up, four, maybe five stories.
It’s all pale plaster and gold trim running along the edges of it.
The floor is marble, veined gray and white, polished to a shine that throws our reflections back up at us.
Everything's cold and bright and quiet, our footsteps clicking along like we're walking through a bank after hours.
We pass a small room off to one side, and I slow down to look.
I can see oil paintings in heavy gold frames. A little writing desk with legs so thin I'd be scared to set a coffee cup on it. Then there’s an armless, white sofa lining the back wall. It’s one of those pieces that's more decoration than furniture.
I frown at it as we go by, trying to imagine someone just lounging on it in their underwear, but I can’t do it.
What’s the point of a couch you can't be a slob on?
At the end of the hall, Lyra leads us to the right, and the whole space opens up into a room that's got no business existing inside a house.
It’s a ballroom.
Like an honest-to-god ballroom, with a ceiling dripping with crystal.
There's a string quartet in the corner and about a million people in black ties and sparkly dresses holding champagne flutes that catch the light. A low tide of polite laughter rolls over the whole thing.
Beside me, Lyra freezes, and Adrian goes quiet.
Heads start to turn as we make our way inside. It's slow at first, one and then another. A few of them stare at Lyra, and I watch two women lean their heads together. They whisper behind their champagne, eyes cutting back to my omega, then away again.
But most of them look at me.
They take in my hat first. Then the jeans. Then those eyes drag all the way down to my boots and back up. I watch the exact moment each one of them decides I don't belong in their pretty room, and I fucking love it.
I puff my chest out and let them look.
Lord, it's easy to rile up a rich prick.