Chapter 2
Sully - six months ago
"Asher!" I growl, banging on his bedroom door. "Get your ass out here!"
"I'll wait," Enzo says, tucking his hands into his pockets, leaning against the wall after emerging from his bedroom two doors down. He's impeccably dressed and seemingly unaffected by our heartbroken brother. I know better, though; he's just as concerned as the rest of us, but unless you knew Enzo very well, you'd miss his tells. On the outside he seems cold, robotic, like he's observing human emotions and behaviors with a detached type of curiosity.
But the very fact that he's here, watching, waiting for Asher to get his ass out of bed means he cares.
I nod, then head downstairs to the first floor. We have an acquisitions meeting with the Bradfords in an hour, and it'll take us nearly half that time just to get to the office.
Unfortunately, the Bradfords have been trying to introduce us to their daughter Imogen, who just moved to Arrow Cove after graduating from the OFA of Southern California. The moment they mentioned their omega daughter during a video call last week, Asher lost it.
After spending nearly a month wading through the river, searching the woods for the omega he claims was our scent-match, one we barely saw, let alone scented, he shut down. Saying we were worried is an understatement. As time passed, he rejoined us at work, resumed his role as Head of Advertising at Constantine Industries, and started to act like himself again. But I should have known better. He hasn't moved on. He's been pretending.
We're always invited to OFA events, but we've kept the invitations from him, knowing Asher was nowhere near ready to entertain finding another omega. He clings to the idea of that mysterious woman on the ledge.
We haven't forced him to face the reality that even if she was our scent-match, even if she was ours, she's long gone.
A year ago, we were desperate to find an omega that fit with our pack, more than ready to move on to the next
Chapter of our lives. Now? Now we're… lost. Like we're still out there, wading in that river.
If the girl on the bridge indeed was our scent-match, the idea makes my alpha insane with worry and rage, and I didn't even meet her. I can't imagine what Asher feels. The mere thought of her existence on that bridge is painful, but to have scented her? Seen her? Then lost her?
Beyond that, Asher blames himself for her fall. His bark may have made her lose her balance, her control, and for that, he'll never forgive himself, or give up trying to find her.
So the Bradfords casually, excitedly bringing up their omega daughter reignited his downward spiral.
"Hey, he up?" Theo asks over the rim of his cereal bowl as I enter the kitchen. The man is thirty-two years old and eats like a fucking teenager. Greta, our housekeeper, smacks him upside the head with a newspaper.
"Eat with your mouth closed," she scolds.
"Come on Greta, you love to see my mouth in action."
She giggles, smacking him again, but the blush remains. Doesn't matter that she's more than twice his age, worked for us for a decade, for my family even longer. Theo's ability to reduce any woman to giggles and blushing is unrivaled.
His charm and charisma are lethal—it serves us well when we're trying to absorb a smaller company holding onto their assets with an iron grip. Send Theo in, and the company's ours for takeover; all previous obstacles obsolete. Still, it's annoying at the breakfast table.
"Enzo's up there with him," I reply. "Thank you, Greta," I take the plate full of eggs, toast, and bacon. We often eat in the kitchen despite having a dining room that could easily seat twenty. Eating most meals at the breakfast bar has always made us feel closer and more down to earth.
All four of us grew up in very wealthy packs in the High Hills, and, aside from Enzo, our families employed the use of their giant dining rooms, eating at long, large tables while barely communicating. We all swore we'd never live like that. Enzo, born to a female alpha, an omega man, and two beta men, a rare and unlikely pairing, had a slightly more humble upbringing.
"It's not like we're entertaining the idea of meeting this girl," Theo gripes. "Right?"
"Right. I think just the mention of meeting another omega…"
Theo grunts, slurping another bite.
"Greta's right, man. Where did you learn table manners, anyway?"
He shoots his flirty smirk my way. Why, I have no idea, but my childish packmate helps keep shit light around here, considering how dark it's been for a while.
We finish eating, and eventually, Enzo and Asher find their way into the kitchen. Asher heads straight for the ten-thousand-dollar espresso machine that no one can figure out how to use except Theo, whose bourgeois tastes demanded we purchase it, and Greta, who complained for weeks that she had to take a class just to figure out how to operate the damn thing.
Fortunately for Asher, the coffee is already made, and as he grabs a cup, I debate giving him shit for not showering. He smells like whiskey and despair, paired with his natural pine, woodsy scent; he belongs in a cabin in the woods, not the office.
He's unshaven, unclean, and in no fucking way prepared for a meeting. Enzo takes the seat beside me, having already eaten breakfast. He likely ate, worked out in our gym, ran through the trails in the woods behind our house, showered, and traded stocks, making us another million, all before the rest of us woke for the day.
"Ash, either get upstairs and shower or take the fucking week off." After the first month of his downward spiral, I learned that tough love is the only thing that breaks through. It reminds him we're alphas and that he needs to get his shit together.
He grunts, biting into an apple, taking his coffee mug with him back up the stairs. Whether that means he's going to shower or crawl back into bed, I've no idea.
We're leaving in twenty minutes, with or without him.
Greta, the saint, picks up after us. Just as we're leaving for work and the garage door closes behind us, the backdoor to the SUV opens, and a clean-shaven Asher climbs in. He says nothing as the four of us head downtown.
I take the shortcut, avoiding the covered bridge, and we make it to the offices of Constantine Industries just in time.
We meet Bowen and Jeffrey Bradford, two alpha members of the Bradford pack, in our conference room. We shake hands while they give obligatory compliments on the view.
The offices all boast massive windows overlooking the sprawling city of Arrow Cove. To the north and west, the mountains climb high, cradling the city, creating a beautiful backdrop against the sky, especially when the sun is setting, from nearly any point of view in the cove—a bragging point for the residents of the High Hills and the OFA facilities since both reside up the mountain.
From up here on the thirtieth floor, you can see the river running through downtown. Six bridges imbue the city with impressive architecture, connecting everything; Arrow Cove is huge, rivaling New York in population while managing a small-town feel. The only area of the city that's a little more removed and not visible from our office is the south side—South Loop, to the locals—accessible through the sixth bridge. It's underprivileged and underfunded, and we do what we can, pairing with the OFA for charity events and the like to help support them, though I can't say I've spent any time there.
The Bradfords are new to Arrow Cove, their pack settling in the High Hills neighborhood. We've seen them at restaurants and other networking events. Both in the tech industry, we run in the same circles, and even though we're purchasing their company, it's a fair deal, so it's no surprise when they ask us to lunch once all our business concludes.
One glance around the room tells me my brothers don't care much either way. Enzo will likely work through lunch, never looking up from his phone. Theo will charm the servers, and Asher will brood. Judging by Asher's clean albeit disheveled appearance—tie askew, bags under his eyes—I should probably send him home.
Instead, I accept the invitation, and we all walk together to a restaurant only a block from our building. This place usually requires a reservation, but we dine often enough that even with the extra guests, we'll be seated quickly.
When the Bradfords previously mentioned their daughter, I politely declined, telling them our pack was currently taking a break from finding an omega—the public became aware of the incident on the bridge, with sensational headlines about Asher Constantine attempting to rescue a wayward omega and the tragic loss of such a valued member of our society, even if no one knew who the girl was or what happened to her. We never shared the specific details and potential scent-match of said omega; instead, we asked for privacy and space from further speculation.
So I'd assumed the Bradfords let the topic go, but holding the restaurant door open for Bowen, we're mid-conversation when the ripe, unbonded scent of an omega hits me. A young blonde woman with red-painted lips smiles brightly beside her mother, and we're introduced to Imogen Bradford, who will apparently be joining us for lunch this afternoon.
My steps nearly falter, but I catch myself and shift in front of Asher's line of sight.
"Bowen, I thought I made it clear we weren't interested in your match-making." I'm irritated; the words are more of a growl through gritted teeth. Fortunately, Imogen and her mother are already several steps ahead, led by the host toward our table.
Bowen claps me on the shoulder like we're old pals. He may have fifteen or so years on me, but I don't appreciate the casual familiarity. Should have declined lunch, I sigh inwardly.
"Don't worry, my boy. My wife and Imogen were in the area shopping. This isn't a set-up. We simply mentioned we were getting lunch and they should join us since they were so close by."
I don't believe him for a second, but plaster a fake smile on regardless as I approach the table. Mrs. Bradford sits next to Imogen, with Bowen and Jeffrey taking places by their wife, leaving an empty seat beside Imogen.
Christ, what a pain in the ass. I take the seat beside her to avoid further confrontation. Enzo and Theo take their seats, but Asher pauses, glaring at the poor girl as soon as he notices her. Her sweet smile falters like she's done something wrong.
She's the perfect image of an omega. Her eyes downcast in submission, lips trembling with worry that she's upset him. Asher's woodsy scent takes a bitter edge, and we can all tell how pissed he is.
"Are you fucking kidding me?" He shouts, fisting his hands at his sides, not caring that we're in a room full of high-society who love to gossip. The reflection of a phone screen catches my attention, and I turn to glare at an older woman at the table beside us who not-so-discreetly tries to catch us Constantines doing something headline-worthy.
When I bare my teeth, the woman wobbles and drops her phone in her lap, but it's likely too late. Whatever happens now will end up in the Arrow Cove Daily Rag.
"Asher, this isn't a setup," I assure him, even though I know it's a lie. It doesn't matter either way. The girl smells nice, but she's shaking like a leaf. Enzo would eat her alive, and that's even if Asher wasn't about to have a complete fucking meltdown.
Bowen tries to appease him, while the omegas scents grow sour in fear. None of us are surprised when Asher growls in rage, tells us all to go fuck ourselves and storms out of the restaurant. It takes a second for everyone to settle again.
Theo grins at Imogen, "Don't worry darling, that wasn't about you."
"He's angry I'm here. Maybe I should leave?" Her voice is hesitant and meek.
Bowen and Jeffrey are leaning heads toward one another in deep discussion, a ruse to make us think they aren't paying attention, hoping we'll connect, despite how Asher just acted.
"Don't even think about it. Otherwise, you'll leave me with these overgrown alphas. They'll talk of nothing but work, and I'll be bored to tears with no rescue in sight. Why don't you come sit next to me and we can chat, hmm?"
"Theo," I warn, but he ignores me. I should be grateful he's diffusing the situation.
Imogen hesitates but eventually gets up and settles into the chair between me and Theo, leaving an empty seat between me and her family, giving us the illusion of privacy. Phones throughout the room are snatching pictures of us looking cozy. Just great.
We order lunch and Imogen is a practiced debutante. She keeps her hands folded in her lap, smiles demurely, and giggles when appropriate at Theo's idiotic jokes. Though the girl is charming, Theo's leading her on. He's not even remotely interested in her, even if we were entertaining the idea of another omega. She's too… soft.
Enzo's not said a word, typing away on his phone, and no one pays him any mind. Imogen eats her green salad with a fork and a knife, taking small, perfectly formed bites.
It's all so trite I wish I'd stormed out with Asher. Which reminds me, "Enzo, can you text Ash, see if he's alright?" Enzo nods without looking up.
"I do hope he's okay; I didn't mean to cause a fuss."
"Theo's right, that wasn't about you." I pick up my wine glass, giving up the pretense of professionalism; the day has already gone to shit, so I polish it off, signaling to the server for another.
"I'm not sure I believe you. He took one look at me and…" Pink colors her cheeks in embarrassment.
"We're not looking for an omega right now, that's all. It's a long story." I don't know how long she's been in town or if she's heard some of the rumors circulating about us, but her next words confirm it.
"I've read some of the news articles. The Daily Rag said you found your omega, but she died?" Imogen clutches the diamond necklace draped across her dainty flesh. "That's so tragic. I couldn't imagine." Tears well in the corner of her eyes, and it's so un-ironic and earnest, I can't help but indulge the poor girl.
"As I said, it's a long story; don't believe everything you read in there."
The Rag speculated the omega we lost on the river bank was ours, given Asher's rapid descent into despair, but the three of us carried on publicly, even if we, too, felt the hurt through our pack bonds. We confirmed and denied nothing, and I don't intend to start with Imogen Bradford.
"I'm sure the Rag will post something about us courting you in tomorrow's edition; it's just how high society works. We're well-known and single; people love to create a story from a photograph. And you, my dear, are the picture of beauty, an absolute vision, so people will talk." Theo winks, popping an olive into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully, while Imogen glances around the room, for the first time realizing how on display we are.
"Oh! Oh my, I didn't even think… I'm so sorry. Truly, my father just asked if we'd join him for lunch and told us to be around the Constantine Towers at two o'clock. I'd not have come if I'd known he was setting us up. Certainly not without your knowledge, especially if you'd already told him you weren't interested."
As Imogen speaks, her voice grows sharper. She's not as flighty as she appears, clearly reading between the lines of her parents' failed attempts. She presses her lips together, and damn if she doesn't look even a little bit pissed.
It's nice to see, to be honest. As the years pass, the OFA pushes the omegas to act more and more like dolls, props for the alphas to display or use. Maybe that's why we've had such a hard time finding a match; they suit us less and less each year. Of course, we attend all the events when required as a sponsor of the OFA and as one of the wealthiest and most eligible packs in Arrow Cove.
But watching Imogen transform, arriving with the guise of perfection, now showing us a little hint of fire, reminds me there's more to her, to the others, than we give them credit for. The omegas leaving the academy are more docile and submissive than each year's previous.
"It's alright, we can handle it; we're used to the charade. What about you? Do they fear you'll reach spinsterhood without their intervention?" Theo jests.
She snorts with her giggle, then slaps her hand over her mouth, eyes wide. Cooly, she straightens her shoulders, pretending to shed the human skin, replacing it with the practiced OFA cloak. "Yes, unfortunately, my parents are concerned I've not shown interest in any packs. I think they're getting desperate."
Theo barks a laugh. Horrified, she backtracks, "Not that you're a desperate choice! Oh my. No, I'm sorry, I meant bringing me here. We lived in SoCal; I went to school there. I turned down every pack they tried to match me with, both my parents and the academy. Nothing ever felt quite right. So, we moved. They dragged me across the country, thinking the Arrow Cove OFA was my best chance, being the largest facility." She sounds sad.
"It's not what you want?"
Her smile is wistful, and for a moment, she shows authentic vulnerability—not the fake one, the demure omega submissiveness, but her honest longing for something more. "I want a scent-match."
Theo and I catch eyes. His smile dims, and I finish the next glass of wine. Neither of us bother reminding her how rare scent-matches are, that she's better off choosing her pack. We're too lost in our grief because, for a moment, we could pretend Asher was the one overreacting. But the reality is that we may have our own scent-match out there, and if she's alive and didn't drown in that river, then we have to live with the knowledge that we may never see her again.