Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
Cole
Iwake up annoyed, which is weird because I’m usually a morning person.
Like, aggressively cheerful. The kind of guy who bounds out of bed ready to make terrible puns and convince everyone the day is full of possibilities. Dax calls me a golden retriever in human form, and he’s not entirely wrong.
But this morning? This morning, I want to tell the whole world to fuck off.
The couch cushions feel lumpy in places that weren’t lumpy yesterday. My makeshift pillow setup has somehow migrated halfway across my face during the night. The blanket is tangled around my legs like it’s trying to suffocate me.
And I’m hot. Like, way too hot for a room with AC.
I kick off the blanket and immediately regret kicking it so hard when my foot connects with the coffee table.
“Son of a—” I bite off the curse, sitting up and glaring at the furniture.
The living room is still dim, the amber emergency lights casting long shadows while the shutters block out most of the daylight, leaving only thin gray cracks of morning light filtering through. The storm is still raging outside, and the whole house has this closed-in, oppressive feeling.
Across the room, Malik is already awake on his couch, staring at his phone with an intensity that suggests he’s either solving world hunger or about to throw the phone through a wall.
“Morning,” I say, aiming for my usual cheerfulness and landing somewhere around ‘passably civil.’
He grunts without looking up.
Okay then.
“Headache?” I ask.
“Suppressants,” he mutters. “Hangover from the double dose. You?”
“Feels like a freight train hit me.”
Jalen’s still asleep on the floor, curled up on his side with his bandaged hand tucked against his chest. Dax’s space is empty. He’s probably already up and doing whatever Dax does at the crack of dawn.
I stand up and immediately want to sit back down because my entire body feels wrong. My T-shirt feels scratchy. Even my gym shorts are annoying me.
Since when is cotton irritating?
“Coffee,” I mutter, heading toward the kitchen area. “I need coffee.”
The kitchen is a disaster from last night. The whole space smells like Sierra, sweet and warm and making my head fuzzy.
I shake it off and head for the coffeemaker, only to find it empty.
No coffee brewed. No coffee even started.
We always have coffee going by this time. It’s an unspoken pack rule. First one up starts the coffee. Which is usually me, but I figured Dax would have handled it since he beat me to waking up.
“Where’s the coffee?” I call out to the room in general.
“Nobody made it yet,” Malik says, still not looking up from his screen.
“Why not?”
“Because nobody felt like it.”
That’s such a non-answer that I actually turn to stare at him. “You good, man?”
“Fine,” he says shortly. “Just trying to figure out how long this storm will be around.”
He doesn’t look fine. His shoulders are tense, his jaw tight. And is it just me, or is he gripping that phone like he’s considering snapping it in half?
Whatever. Not my problem. Coffee is my problem.
I grab the coffee canister and immediately fumble it. The lid pops off, and grounds spill across the counter.
“Fuck!”
The cursing wakes Jalen, who sits up looking confused and rumpled. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Just being an idiot.” I’m scooping coffee grounds back into the canister with my hands like a civilized person. Some of it’s definitely contaminated with whatever else was on this counter. Whatever. It’s fine.
Jalen grunts and stands up, then immediately sits back down. “Whoa.”
“You okay?”
“Yeah, just... head rush. Stood up too fast.”
He doesn’t look okay. The warmth has drained from his skin, leaving it with a grayish cast, and he keeps clenching and unclenching his good hand like he’s working out some kind of cramp.
“Your hand bothering you?” I ask, trying to focus on getting the coffee maker set up and not on the fact that everyone in this house seems off today.
“It’s fine.”
That’s the second time someone’s said something’s fine when it clearly isn’t. Jalen’s a man of few words, so I’m used to reading his moods in other ways. Right now, he won’t meet my eyes. His shoulders are rigid. He’s shut down completely.
I get the coffee maker going and lean against the counter to wait. But there’s a buzzing underneath my skin. Like I need to go for a run or lift something heavy or punch a wall.
The storm makes the run thing impossible, and we don’t have a home gym here, so I guess wall-punching is my only option.
Great.
Dax emerges from the hallway, and I immediately notice he looks as irritated as I feel. His jaw is set, his movements are sharp, and when he sees the state of the kitchen, he actually growls.
“What happened here?”
“Coffee incident,” I say. “I’m handling it.”
“Doesn’t look handled.”
“Well, maybe you should have made coffee when you got up instead of whatever the hell you were doing.”
His eyes narrow. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.”
“I was checking the storm shutters to make sure we’re not about to get flooded, asshole. What were you doing? Besides making a mess?”
“Hey!” I snap. “I’m trying to make coffee for everyone, so maybe show a little gratitude—”
“Gratitude? For spilling coffee grounds everywhere and—”
“Both of you stop,” Malik interrupts, his voice tight. “Just... stop. It’s too early for this.”
Dax and I glare at each other for a moment longer, then he turns away with a frustrated sound, and I go back to aggressively waiting for the coffee to finish brewing.
What is wrong with us today?
We’re not like this. Yeah, Dax and I bicker sometimes, but it’s usually playful. Good-natured. This feels different. Sharper. Like we’re all one wrong word away from actually fighting.
The coffee finally finishes, and I pour myself a cup with hands that are slightly shaky. Take a sip.
It tastes like a hot mess.
“This coffee sucks,” I announce.
“You made it,” Malik points out without looking up.
“Yeah, well, maybe the beans are bad.”
“They’re the same beans we used yesterday.”
“Then maybe I don’t like them anymore.”
I sound like a petulant child, and I know it, but I can’t seem to stop myself.
Dax pours himself a cup, takes one sip, and makes a face. “This is terrible.”
“Then make your own next time!”
“Maybe I will!”
“Great!”
“Fine!”
We’re yelling about coffee. Actual adults, yelling about coffee.
Jalen stands up again, more carefully this time, and heads for the bathroom. “I can’t deal with this right now,” he mutters.
Which leaves me, Dax, and Malik in tense silence, with the storm raging outside, and the faint scent of honeycomb and cherry syrup drifting through the house like some kind of sweet torture.
I take another sip of my terrible coffee and try to figure out why everything feels so wrong today.
My body is restless. My temper is short. Every little thing is annoying me in ways that normally wouldn’t even register.
And underneath it all, there’s this constant pull. This awareness of a certain omega just down the hall, in her nest, in heat, and every instinct I have is screaming at me to go to her, check on her, make sure she’s okay.
Which is insane. She’s fine. She was fine last night when Malik walked her back to her room. She’s probably sleeping peacefully in her nest right now, comfortable and safe.
She doesn’t need me barging in like some kind of—
“You’re doing it too,” Malik says quietly.
I blink at him. “Doing what?”
“Staring down the hallway toward her room. Dax has done it three times in the last five minutes.”
“I have not,” Dax protests, but he’s literally facing that direction right now.
“I wasn’t staring,” I say. “I was just... thinking.”
“About?”
I don’t have a good answer for that.
I pour the rest of my terrible coffee down the sink and try to ignore the way my hands are still shaking, the way my skin feels too hot, the way every nerve ending seems dialed up to eleven.
“I’m gonna...” I gesture vaguely toward the living room. “Go sit down or something.”
“Good idea,” Malik says, his voice strained.
“I’m gonna take a nap. Nobody wake me,” Dax growls.
We head back to the living room, and I collapse back onto the couch. Pulling out my phone, I try to distract myself with literally anything. Social media, news, stupid videos. Nothing holds my attention for more than thirty seconds.
Everything feels wrong.
And I know exactly why.