Chapter Two
Kingston
I glance around the living room, my gaze drifting lazily over a space that's somehow both perfectly organized and chaotically us. It’s easily my favorite room in the house, even when tensions run high—lately, that's been more often than I'd like.
The massive charcoal sectional couch sprawled across the center of the room practically begs someone to sink into its soft cushions. Beside it sits a matching armchair that is mine to always claim.
Two coffee tables sit nestled in front of the couch—one sleek, modern glass top, pristine despite Romano constantly leaving fingerprints behind, and another older, wooden one that's scarred from years of use and occasional abuse. It bears the marks of spilled whiskey and coffee mug rings we’ve long since stopped trying to prevent, the imperfections telling the story of our journey from barely surviving in a one-bedroom apartment to where we are now.
A wall of exposed brick lends warmth, the rustic texture softened by a series of shelves displaying an eclectic mix of books, framed photos, and expensive gadgets Romano insists are “essential.” My eyes drift to the massive floor-to-ceiling windows opposite, the afternoon sun bathing everything in a gentle gold that briefly masks the darkness we've faced recently.
Outside, the city stretches out, deceptively peaceful beneath the fading sunlight.
The moment of peace is shattered when Romano bursts in like a human hurricane.
“I think our soon-to-be wife will fit in just fine!” he announces, grinning like he just won the lottery.
He’s a blur of energy. Dark jeans slung low on his hips, an oversized hoodie swallowing his frame, covering the ink sprawling across his arms and chest—except for the ones crawling up his throat and hands.
His short black hair is a perpetual mess, strands sticking up in chaotic defiance, and his round glasses slide down his nose as he waves a tablet in the air like it holds the secrets of the universe.
Without hesitation, he flops onto the sectional, bare feet landing unapologetically on the coffee table with a loud thud.
I exhale slowly, my moment of quiet now a thing of the past.
“What are we excited about?”
Voss’ voice is calm, almost lazy, but I know better.
He moves like a shadow, quiet and controlled, his lean, athletic frame stretching effortlessly as he leans against the exposed brick wall near the couch.
He’s covered in just as much ink as the rest of us, the tattoos peeking out from beneath his fitted black tee and sweatpants that cling to his body like a second skin.
His thick black hair is pulled into a low bun, neatly kept, just like his freshly trimmed beard.
His brown eyes always seem blank. They have since we were children.
His lips twitch at the sides, the only real sign he’s entertained.
Where Voss is the smallest of us, Jace is the biggest. He’s built like he was meant to break people and enjoy it.
The man’s biceps are bigger than my head, and he knows it.
His black button-up is rolled at the sleeves, revealing forearms wrapped in ink, and his jeans are tailored but casual, somehow making him look even more dangerous.
His black curls, forever falling into his face, shift slightly as he tilts his head, blue eyes flickering with amusement.
He settles into the corner of the sectional, stretching out as he props his massive boots onto the second coffee table, mirroring Romano’s lazy sprawl.
“Alright, let’s hear it,” Jace mutters, relaxing. We are all used to Romano.
“You guys have to check this out.” He shifts, tablet bouncing slightly on his knee. “So Fallon—our soon-to-be wife—owns The House of Creed.” He sucks in air like he’s physically incapable of slowing down.
I raise a brow. That wasn’t in the files.
Romano grins like a proud idiot. “Side note: Our omega built that business from the ground up. Now she has locations in most major cities.”
A low whistle from Jace. “Not bad.”
Romano nods enthusiastically, shoving his glasses up the bridge of his nose so they stop sliding down.
“Anyway,” he continues, “Marco went to put our card on file for her dress—great idea, right?” None of us answer, which doesn’t stop him from barreling forward.
“He walked in, and since he didn’t know which one of the three women inside was our intended,” he snickers at his own phrasing, “he stopped to talk to her bodyguard.”
I perk up slightly, catching the subtle shift in Romano’s expression.
“When he pointed her out,” Romano grins, “she was going toe-to-toe with that bitch Marline.”
I blink. “The bird-looking lady that won’t stop hitting on Voss?”
Voss tilts his head slightly, unimpressed. “That’s the one.”
Romano bursts out laughing, clapping his hands together like this is the best thing he’s ever seen.
“Henry—that’s her bodyguard—sent us the surveillance video. Per her request.” His grin sharpens. “Just watch.”
He presses a few buttons on the tablet, and the TV blinks to life.
The room shifts. Focuses. Because if an omega sent us a security feed of herself wrecking someone’s shit… we’re going to enjoy it.
An extremely clear video comes to life. It’s the outside of the building where a black town car has pulled up.
A man steps out, checks the surroundings, and then opens the back door.
A woman dressed as a business woman steps out.
Then a small as shit goth looking woman steps out.
The man then reaches inside and pulls a third woman out.
I instantly hope that this is the one who will be our wife.
Her dark blue hair is tossed into a bun, and her clothes make her look relaxed and happy.
We watch her stumble and then faintly hear her yell.
“Damn it, Henry! What did I tell you about your strength?” Jace chuckles, and even Voss smiles.
They laugh before he calls her kid and tells her to get inside. The camera angle changes and the front door opens. The four of them step inside. The women chat and walk forward while Henry leans next to the front door, paying attention to everything.
“This is where it gets good guys. Marco should be stepping inside any minute.” Romano is practically vibrating in his seat. We watch as Marline comes into the frame. Voss growls. He really hates that woman. Not more than the rest of us, but it's more personal for him.
Marline enters the frame of the video. She looks horrible in a cream-colored suit, sharp-featured, practically drips with condescension. The audio picks up the barely restrained edge in her voice. Just polite enough to be professional but seething with unspoken judgment.
The response is immediate—the three women turn to face her, synchronized like a well-oiled machine. They must have been friends for a long time.That shit is creepy.
A beat of silence, then— “Yes, you can help me.”
The voice is cool, even, deliberate—the kind of calm that isn’t actually calm at all. The sound makes my skin prickle in anticipation.
The blue-haired woman in the blue sweater straightens. Something shifts in her tone, her posture settling into something authoritative, practiced, absolute.
“My name is Fallon. I have an appointment to find a dress.”
I can’t tell you how excited I am that this is going to be our mate. Looking at her is making my dick get hard. I try to adjust myself, but the zipper on my jeans digs into my skin harder.
Marline pauses. The audio catches a soft scoff, then a quiet exhale through her nose. “You’re getting married?” There’s disbelief in the woman’s tone—thick, unapologetic disbelief.
The two women with her react immediately, shifting back like they’re about to watch a car crash in slow motion.
Fallon, however, does not move. Her voice doesn’t waver.
She doesn’t hesitate. “Yes. I am getting married. My soon-to-be husbands will be covering all costs. They should have their card on file.”
A beat of silence. Then—
Marline snorts. She actually snorts. “Like whoever you’re marrying could afford us.” The rolling scoff, the unfiltered amusement, and every syllable are an open mockery. “You might want to try the thrift store around the corner.”
Jace growls low in his throat. Romano cuts him off, though. “Just watch you, giant!”
A shift in the frame—movement from Henry’s side of the screen. Marco steps in, voice low, as he speaks to the bodyguard, who tilts his head but doesn’t take his eyes off Fallon.
But Fallon isn’t looking at Henry. She tilts her head slightly, the warmth draining from her expression, her lips pressing into a slight, unreadable smirk.
“Now, Ms. Whatever-The-Fuck-Your-Name-Is, I genuinely don’t care.”
The air shifts. Marline’s smirk falters.
“But what I do care about is the fact that I will not tolerate this judgmental bullshit.” The audio catches the silence, the moment of hesitation as the Marline registers the shift in tone.
“My soon-to-be husbands, whom you might have heard of—the Rosetti pack?”
A sharp inhale—a stutter in her movement. I'm unsure if anyone else can see the fury in her eyes, although her expression doesn't change. She visibly stiffens—no snark, no more amusement.
And Fallon chuckles. It’s not funny. It’s a low, humorless sound, an edge of warning woven beneath it.
My cock aches. I see Voss adjust his stance, and Jace groans. “Well fuck. I want to make her laugh at me like that.”
I laugh at that because I feel the same. I finally give up trying for decorum and shove my hand in my pants to adjust myself.
She steps forward—not aggressively, not threatening—just enough.
“Is this how she treats all her customers?” Fallon asks, her voice suddenly lighter, almost sweet.
The camera shifts slightly, catching the employee hovering behind the blonde, shoulders tense, hands wringing at her sides.
She glances around like she’s waiting for permission to speak. When none comes, she forces it out anyway. “O-Only the ones she thinks a-are poor.”
A pin could drop.