Chapter 17
Red
"Open the door!" I shout, banging my fist on the massive wooden door. It's all ornate and shit, with decorative metal pieces. Rich people always overdo shit. A steel door would have done the same fucking thing, keeping out the undesirables while still letting me get through to someone in this house. It's a good thing I still have their gate code. I keep expecting them to change it. Not that I barge in unannounced very often.
A pompous, floppy-haired asshole answers the door. "Red, so glad you're here. Thank you for stopping by. Please, don't hesitate to let the gate sweep your busted truck—"
I shove past Theo, who laughs, shutting the door behind us.
"Where is she?"
"Now I know you're not talking about my mate in this kind of mood."
"I swear to christ, I'm going to break your face one of these days, Theo."
"I don't think your sister would appreciate that, but you're welcome to try. In fact, why don't we just slip downstairs—"
"Into something more comfortable?" Ophelia snorts, interrupting us, plowing into me from the side, and wrapping me in an unexpected hug. "Now, since you two are done with your toxic male posturing, why don't you come in for tea?"
"Tea? Who even are you?"
She giggles, taking me by the hand, dragging me into the kitchen. I give Theo a smug look, who just shrugs back. I suppose between the two of us, he's less committed to the posturing. Theo's too easy going to put up much of a fight.
"Why are you so giddy?" I eye her suspiciously as she hands me a cup. I take a sip, then nearly spit it out. "And who told you this was tea?"
Her eyebrows lift high. "Greta! She gave me a whole set!"
Theo stares down at Ophelia adoringly. "Cupcake, did Greta instruct you to add that much sugar to the tea, or was it just supposed to steep in water?"
She frowns at him and steals my cup back. Shrugging, she says, "Fine. More for me. Anyway, how are you, big brooothhherr?" She smiles wide, with her teeth, and it's a little unsettling.
"What's with you?"
She drops her smile down to normal size. "Nothing. Apparently. What's with you?"
Her tone suggests she already knows what happened between us and Imogen. It's the only thing that explains her jittery excitement. Since it's also why I'm here, I just come out with it. "Why didn't you tell me you were friends with Imogen?"
She frowns. "Why would I tell you that? Do you call me every time you make a new friend? What are we, ten?"
"Good point, Cupcake." Theo kisses her cheek, and I want to punch him in the face.
"Whatever. Look, she's… I don't know if she told you, but… Look, don't be a dick. I just need to know how to find her. I don't even have her number. She quit the club. I was gonna talk to her next time I saw her, try and explain… shit, I don't know. It doesn't matter. Do you know where she's staying? I swung by C-Block, but the apartment's empty."
"Yeah, she moved out."
"Why?" I shout, feeling desperate. For something, anything. A scrap. A morsel.
Since she left after her heat, these past few days have been torture. I feel fucking awful about how things ended. I don't even care that she's engaged. We don't have the kind of money Stevens Pack, or her family does. But we can provide for her. We can try. We discussed it as a pack and want to see if she'll give us a chance.
We expected Iggy to fly off the handle after she left, but he was calm. He's never calm. Cass was the unhinged one, actually. After she left and we all realized, pretty quickly, that we wouldn't go down without a fight, Iggy just… settled. Determined. We'd track her down and try to court her. They're already discussing courting gifts. Iggy's been cleaning out the empty storage room on the third floor, trying to figure out what goes in a nest.
We don't know what the fuck we're doing, but it doesn't mean we won't try. We just need her to give us a chance.
"Well, she had some things she had to deal with."
"Do you know where I can find her?"
Ophelia pretends to think about it, sipping her sickly sweet tea, wincing when she realizes how disgusting it is. If I asked her right now how it tasted, she'd say it was perfect, just the way she likes it. Such a pain in the ass.
"I may know where she is."
"Tell me, Phe. I won't go in all guns blazing. I just… I need to know she's okay. We didn't leave things great the other day, and I'm…" Worried about her. Missing her. "I just need to see her."
She softens, tilting her head sympathetically. "Red… I don't think it's a good idea. Girl code and all."
"I'm your brother," I growl.
"No, you're not," she smirks, like a petulant child.
I growl. "Phe… for fuck's sake." I swallow my pride. "I'm begging you."
She sighs. "Okay, look. I'll tell you where she is, but you cannot go before seven pm. That's the only way I'll tell you."
"Seven. Sure, fine."
She grumbles, "Arggh… I don't know if this is the right thing to do. But she did tell me she was going to talk to you tonight. Just give her till seven, that's when she told me she'd be leaving. You can catch her on her way out."
She texts an address for some country club in the Hills. "You can say thank you!" she yells after me while I'm already out the door.
I get in my beat-up red truck and haul ass down their long driveway, nearly clipping the gate. For some reason, Constantine Pack chose to settle away from the High Hills neighborhood, where the rest of the wealthy and elite high-society members of Arrow Cove reside. Breaking the mold has its perks, but not when I need to be on the other side of town.
Getting to the country club takes way too long, and I barely register the time on my drive. I'll just sit in my truck and wait since I'm too early. My alpha is impatient and desperate, the clawing need pushing me further, faster; he's pissed that we have to wait. I don't know what's come over me. I've never been like this before, but I just need to see her. To apologize. To beg her to give us a chance.
When I pull into the parking lot, past the tennis courts and fancy cars, I'm relieved and surprised there's no gate. No way anyone would let me in otherwise.
I park toward the back of the parking lot with a clear view of the entrance. Two hours pass of anxious waiting, checking my phone for no reason at all, listening to music, then deciding it all sounds shitty, and turning it off. I should have gotten her phone number. I text Ophelia asking for it but she never replies.
Then it dawns on me, and I'm such a fucking dumbass, I can get her number from the club. I dial the number from memory, and Zach picks up on the third ring.
"Queenie's Strip Club. You wear 'em, we tear 'em."
"Wait. What?"
Zach chuckles loudly into the receiver. That isn't how we answer the phone, but I don't give him shit for it because there's Imogen, walking gracefully beside four men who look like fucking carbon copies of each other. She's so beautiful. In feathered angel wings, dancing like she's got something to prove, or like this, in her nice clothes and perfect posture. She's always so beautiful.
"Yo! Red? You need somethi—" I hang up on Zach. I told Ophelia I'd wait till seven, but there's no way I can.
I need her to give me a chance. Maybe I can catch her before she's seated with those assholes. I'll take her somewhere nice and feed her. She'll realize she's into us, too, and wants to give us a chance. Even if we don't have a lot of money. Even if we're not as fancy as these dicks. Maybe she'll still want us.
Right. That's a good plan. Phe will forgive me. Climbing out of the truck, I duck and weave through the cars, hoping I don't get clocked by security. Shit, I should have worn something nicer. I'm wearing black jeans, a black t-shirt with rips near the collar, and my leather jacket Imogen stole from me for her nest.
She stole our clothes, I remind myself proudly. Not theirs. She doesn't even want them. She shared her heat with us.
I'm about to pull open the door and plow through the place, but spot some rent-a-cops hovering near the front desk. They're discussing something with the receptionist. I steal glances, losing time, but eventually, they all point to something down the hall, and the receptionist leads the two guards away.
Taking my chance, I slip inside, then try to act like I belong, even though I clearly don't, ignoring the judgemental looks from club members, all clad in some variation of a tucked-in collared shirt, expensive watch, and khaki pants.
Following the signs for the restaurant, assuming that's where they're headed, I pause at the entrance and lean back against the wall, trying to be less obvious. What the hell am I doing?
She might see me, compare me to all of this, and decide we aren't enough. But she works at Queenie's, stripping. There's more to her than the trappings of this high-society shit. I've gotta believe she'll give us a chance.
I just realized how odd it is that she works at Queenie's, despite having all of this. It makes me want to know her secrets and dark, hidden parts.
She's easy to spot. Her shoulders are tense and stiff. She's not wearing her red lipstick, no dark makeup at all. She's got a bow in her hair, which is pulled back in a perfect bun, no stray hairs out of place. So different from the Imogen I've watched at the club, that I spent days with during her heat.
Still, I can't tear my eyes away, and she must feel me looking at her because her small, serene smile purses slightly, eyes widening when she notices me. Even from here, I can see the slight flare of her nostrils. She seems mad. Shit.
The mayor and his cronies don't seem to be paying her any attention, which is a crime in itself. Still, I watch her carefully lift herself from her seat, making some excuse, likely to use the bathroom or something, and slip toward the edge of the room. I turn back and head down the hall to wait.
A few moments later, impatiently waiting, I catch the faintest scent of cherries. It's small, growing stronger. My mouth waters. My teeth burn.
I turn, and with every practiced step she takes toward me, the scent grows stronger. Chills break out over my skin. Everything around me shatters, all sounds disappear with a powerful pulse, the stillness of a nuclear winter descends, and everything else fades away. Other people don't exist. Each step closer, the light of my life invades every pore, and I lose all sense of reality. Right and wrong, us and them, before and after. Nothing exists. Only Imogen.
My beautiful Imogen. My scent-match. My fucking mate.
"Are you crying?" She whisper-shouts.
"What?" And just like that, everything rushes back. Chatter, footsteps, beeps, phones ringing. We're in public at a fucking country club, and I just found my scent-match. What even is life?
I'm not crying, but yeah, my eyes got a little watery. God, she smells so good. Goddamn mouthwatering. Cherry Pie. Warm, sweet, sticky, tasty, cherry fucking pie.
My teeth feel heavy, and maybe it's because I've already gotten to know her, I've already been inside her, but shit, my alpha's ready to bite.
"How could you not tell me?"
She's confused for a moment, then realizes I can scent her. All of her.
Her perfume, oh god, her perfume. My pheromones, my alpha wanting to claim her, linger between us, and it turns her on. She wants it, too.
"Red," she pleads before casting a quick glance over her shoulder.
Then I remember—"You're on a fucking date!" I snap.
"Would you please keep your voice down?" She whisper-shouts again, grabbing my wrist and dragging me further down the hall.
"Imogen—what the fuck? I'm at a loss here. We're… I mean, a few days ago, I thought we might be something. And then we found out about Stevens, and you just left, knowing we were your mates? What the hell?"
Scent-matches are incredibly rare. The only ones I know are Phe and her pack. But I have learned it's not something that can be denied. It's visceral. Inevitable.
"I… I can explain. But I tried to tell you!"
"Tell us what? That you're still getting married even though we're fated mates? How's that gonna work?" I'm pissed, now, that she could dismiss us so easily. "Is it the money thing again? Really?" The weight of shame presses down, that we're not good enough, that we're mated to someone who even cares about shit like that.
"No, you arrogant jerk!" She slaps a hand over her mouth, surprised at her outburst. That's when I really take her in.
"Why do you look like a trumped-up doll, anyway? You look like you could pass for sixteen. It's freakin' me out."
She rolls her eyes, and it's kind of fun watching her perfect fa?ade slowly crumble. It's happening more frequently. I noticed it a little before, too, at the club. She catches herself yelling, eye-rolling, snorting in annoyance, and every time, she straightens her shoulders, and her expression smooths over, slipping her mask back on.
Like now.
Pressing her lips together, she tugs the satin bow out of her hair. That's a little better. I mean, she can wear whatever she wants. But she looks uncomfortable and kind of like a little girl. Which makes me even more suspicious of Stevens Pack, considering how old they are.
I snag the material from her and bring it to my face, breathing it in. God damn, this woman. Cherries! I'm so happy.
"I tried to tell you the other day I'm not marrying them. But I am engaged. It's a long story. I was going to tell you about our scent-match soon; I just needed to… fix something. And tell them there's no wedding. But I can't do that just yet."
"Why not?" I cross my arms across my chest, still clutching her ribbon.
"It's a long story."
"I have time."
"I don't," she whispers, lowering her head submissively. "Please, Red. I'll explain everything, I promise. But not here. Not right now. I need you to go."
She's scared or something. My alpha itches beneath my skin. We'll protect our mate.
"Are they doing something to you? Do they have something over you? Is that what this is?"
"Red, oh my gosh, I'm going to murder you. Please, listen to me. I can't do this right now. If you respect me at all, you'll turn around and walk away. Please," she begs.
Of course, I respect her. And I'd feel like a fucking dick if I forced her to listen or explain, like every other alpha in her life probably does.
I nod, "Okay, Imogen. I'll go. But please—"
"Yes, I'll come over soon—"
"Tonight."
She glances nervously behind her, then back at me. "Tonight," she agrees before turning on her heels and hurrying back down the hall. I don't like this, her walking away from me toward another pack. But I'm not an idiot. Obviously, there's something going on.
I have to trust her. I'm not starting our courtship out with me betraying that, so with every ounce of effort, I turn and head back to my truck, ignoring the "Sir? Sir!" from the receptionist, wondering how he let the degenerate past the golden gates.
Sitting in my truck, I wait a few minutes before starting the drive, wondering how the fuck I'm going to break the news to Iggy and Cass. They're going to lose their shit.
When I remember Ophelia's cryptic giddiness, I realize she must have known all along. Laughing, light in a way I've never felt, I spend the whole drive back to South Loop in dumbstruck silence. I might have pulled Imogen's satin ribbon out a few times, too.