CHAPTER 7
WOLF
“I signed us up for this when I got home from work,” Finian says, showing us the app on his laptop.
If looks could kill, Finian would be dead right now.
Amos is looking at him as if he could eat his firstborn child.
He stands there radiating a slow, controlled fury that makes the air feel heavier.
He leans back against the bookshelf with his arms crossed over his chest. His shoulders are squared, his spine straight as a steel beam, and every breath he takes is measured. Too measured.
“Explain.” His pronunciation is slow, thought out, and threatening in a way that causes a sliver of worry to work its way up my spine.
My eyes flick between Finian and Amos. I catch worry flash in Finian’s eyes as he starts his story again. He knows he’s on thin ice with Amos. Amos is intensely private. Posting his business online is a guaranteed way to anger him.
Amos’s jaw clenches so tightly that muscles stand out along his face. It pulses with the effort not to erupt. But his eyes inflict the real damage.
They’re locked onto Finian. Unblinking. Icy. So cold they could snuff wildfire even as flames climb the sky.
Amos doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t have to utter a single word.
The tension rolling off him is so thick, even the floor seems to consider its life choices.
Finian shifts his weight and tries a smile that dies as soon as Amos cuts his gaze through it.
The message is clear without a word: Amos is one inch away from losing every ounce of patience.
All of it.
Every ounce of his restraint barely contains the rage surging through him.
He’s furious because Finian signed us up for the Select-A-Mate dating app without our consent, treating it like a team-building exercise instead of a blatant invasion of our privacy.
After Finian confessed, I checked the app.
It pries into the farthest corners of who we are.
I hate it, but at least I’m not ready to murder Finian like Amos seems to be.
“So, as I was saying, this is the best course of action we have to fulfill the stipulations of the contract to get Wolf’s inheritance.
We do not have time to waste on dates or on seeing if we mesh well with people.
We need to get it right the first time, so that we can get this show on the road,” Finian says, turning his laptop toward us.
My eyes fall down to it before rising to meet his once more. “I don’t like this.”
“You don’t have to like it, but you need to go along with it.”
I cock a brow. “Why is that?”
Finian gives me a duh look. “Isn’t it obvious? Because if we don’t do this, then you lose everything. Every. Single. Thing. You worked hard for everything you have, and you just want it all to go away? I don’t think so.”
Amos exhales sharply through his nose, jaw clenched, folding his arms as if praying for patience. The sound slices through the room. “Take it down,” he says, voice low and firm.
The words land like an order on a fire scene. There is no room for debate. No room for misunderstandings.
Amos arm lifts, finger pointing straight at Finian. “Whatever profile you made, whatever pictures you used—delete it. Now.”
“I didn’t use pictures. That's the thing. This app doesn’t allow pictures because it is based on your answers.” Finian smiles, but he sees that neither one of us is smiling, so his smile dims.
Amos’s voice stays low, but each syllable is edged with steel. It’s the kind of danger that raises the hairs on your neck. He narrows his eyes, pinning Finian with an unwavering, freezing stare.
“I don’t want strangers swiping us like we’re a clearance-rack special, man. To hell with that.”
“That’s not how it goes ... ” Finian tries to say, but Amos cuts him off.
“No. I didn’t agree to this, and you damn well know I never will.” Amos's jaw tightens, the muscles clenching and unclenching.
Finian looks torn between defending himself and sprinting to the nearest exit. I sidestep when I see his eyes flick toward the door. He jerks upright, his eyes burning into mine. The tension is thick enough to taste.
“I didn’t see anyone else doing anything about the fucking addendum in the contract, so I did it for us. Hate me all you want to, but you all will go along with this. You have to, or you, Wolf, will lose everything. Do you want that?”
I growl. “You know I don’t want that, but hellfire, man, I don’t want to be forced into mating some complete stranger, either.
You know how I get when my choices are taken away.
At least, with my father’s stipulations, I can choose who I want to be with.
With this, to save face, we must go along with whoever this app chooses for us. ”
“What even is our screen name?” Amos asks with a roll of his eyes.
“3SexyDiablos,” Finian says proudly, puffing his chest up like a peacock prancing around.
I scoff, glance at Amos as he tries not to laugh, then look back at Finian. “Dude, you called us devils. Who in their right mind will want to be with us when our name means the three devils?”
Finian deflates as he thinks about that. Then, a nice red shade rises up his neck from the collar of his shirt. “Sexy devils, though.”
“Do you think that’s going to matter?” Amos asks, clearly upset over the whole thing, even though the only emotion he’s sporting is anger. He’s not the one to show emotions, anyway, let alone anything more than anger.
Shaking his head, Amos fixes Finian with a glare hot enough to scorch the earth.
He leaves the study as if the room itself is an insult.
His footsteps are sharp and deliberate, stomping just a bit too hard.
He wants the world to feel his displeasure.
His shoulders are rigid beneath the burden Finian just dropped on him.
He doesn’t look back. Not even a flicker of hesitation on his part. Nothing. That absence, coupled with no backward glance, hits harder than any slammed door can.
Amos always says something. It doesn’t matter what the situation is. He never leaves without voicing his opinion on the subject. Even if it is a muttered complaint or sarcastic banter, Amos always says something.
I exhale slowly and turn back to Finian.
My eyes scan the study, taking in all the grandeur.
Dark wood dominates, rich and warm, pulling the room into a quiet gravity.
Shelves climb the walls, crammed with old and new books.
The old books look touched, read, and lived with for years. Nothing here feels decorative.
The cream walls soften everything, easing the weight of the wood. The room feels both expansive and intimate. It settles under my skin, calming me. I turn and make my way around the room.
“You know, he has a point,” I say absentmindedly.
I trail my fingers along the nearest spines.
The leather is supple beneath my touch. I sense the years it’s endured.
I breathe deeply. The air carries hints of paper and aged scotch.
Something warm lingers—maybe traces of someone who truly inhabits this space, like me.
My footfalls whisper on the rug. For a moment, I simply stand. I let the room seem to hold its breath.
This is my space. My sanctuary away from the world, but now it’s tainted.
The desk by the window draws my attention.
Its dark wood matches the furniture. I set my notebooks in a tidy stack, careful not to disturb the open books facedown, left where I paused mid-thought.
I imagine myself sliding into the chair, surrounded by the room's hush. As I settle in, the outside world fades; it’s just me and the soft rustle of pages.
It’s a study, yes. But it’s so much more. A place where secrets can be kept safe, and thought can unfurl without fear.
When my eyes drift back to Finian, I see the pain etched in his eyes. I know him. He hates that he divided us at this moment. We’ve always been so close, ever since we became a bonded pack. This is the first time that we’re all on different pages.
“I didn’t mean for this to happen,” he says with a forlorn sigh. “I only wanted us to have a chance at fulfilling the stipulations of your inheritance.”
“I know you meant well, but the fact is, you did not. You know we enjoy our privacy. Now, thanks to you, we are thrust into the spotlight.”
Finian thinks about my words for a moment before he speaks. “We needed this push, Wolf. You know it. I know it. If it were left up to all of us, we would not meet the stipulations of your inheritance. We needed this push.”
“Says who?” I ask, feeling the frustration building inside of me.
Before either of us can speak, there’s a ding on his laptop. Both of our attention jerks toward it, then back to each other. Finian’s gaze is sharp and knowing. Mine is terrified and unsure. The ding makes my pulse jump. There’s only one thing it can mean, and we all know it.
A match.
On that app.
The same fucking app that has us all circling each other in varying degrees of irritation and wonder.
As much as I try to stop it, a tiny thrill flickers low in my belly before I can stop it.
It’s quick, bright, and traitorous. I try my best to shove it down hard, schooling my expression into something neutral as Finian springs into motion like he’s been waiting for this exact moment.
He drops into my chair without hesitation, fingers already lying across the keyboard.
I hover near the bookshelves, leaning back against them with my arms crossed.
No matter how aloof I try to be, I can’t help that my curiosity is piqued.
The seconds stretch. He clicks, clicks, and clicks. Scrolls. Pauses. Brows lift. His mouth falls agape as he leans back slowly, wonder softening the hard lines of his face.
“There are no pictures allowed, of course,” he murmurs, almost reverently. “But … she sounds absolutely perfect. Here. Read this.”
My breath catches. Just for a heartbeat, just enough, I feel it. That familiar brand of euphoria that’s eluded me for quite some time. Then I force myself to exhale, steady, controlled, as if that tiny spark inside me didn’t just flare.
I swallow hard, the lump in my throat making it quite difficult. My heart thuds inside my chest. My lungs constrict, making it hard to breathe. I’m lost, yet I feel like I’ve been found at the same time. Why does something as small as matching with an omega make me feel so … right?
“I … shouldn’t.” I shake my head, wrapping my arms around me tighter.
Finian must hear something in my voice because he glances up at me from his laptop.
His eyes slowly roam down my body before making their way back up to meet mine.
He cocks a brow in question, silently asking me to please explain my reaction to him.
But I can’t do that. I can’t put into words the chaos inside my head.
I don’t want there to be a weakness inside of me, but this yearning comes with weakness.
Finian nods at me, that quiet, insistent kind of gesture that he’s perfected.
There are no words, just expectations. It lands in my chest like a ten-ton weight.
I shove off the bookshelf, intending to go to him, but my feet have other plans.
I start pacing instead, slow, restless strides across the floor.
Back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth.
My thumbnail finds its way into my mouth, and I chew on it without thinking about it.
The familiar sting grounds me even as my thoughts spin incessantly.
He wants me to come and look. I want to go and look. He doesn’t have to say he wants me to, because it’s written all over the way he’s watching me. He’s being patient and urging.
I know I shouldn’t. I know what stepping closer to him means, what it invites, what it risks.
Curiosity is a traitor, though. It’s already unfurling inside me, warm and insistent. I’m driving myself insane with the need to want more, needing more. I’m not the type of person to want something like this. However, I can’t help wanting just that.
I don’t want to do this.
I do …
I don’t …
Fuck.
“Finian, it’s not a good idea,” I say, rambling. “What is she … Who is she … What are we … Fuck!”
I keep telling myself that I don’t want this.
I repeat it like a mantra, like it’ll build a wall between me and the pull of that screen.
Except … there’s a small part of me—a tiny, stubborn, absolutely impossible—that does want to do this.
That person wants to see what the screen has to offer.
That person wants to know what the screen says.
I want to lean into whatever this can become, even if it’s reckless.
I pace harder, trying to outrun everything inside of me.
Every small part wants me to do this, to succumb to the need of being with someone made just for me.
But no matter how hard I pace, it keeps catching up with me, and it’s catching up with me in an adverse way.
The way we’re being forced into this, rather than simply doing it because we choose to, leaves a bad taste in my mouth.
Finian’s voice cuts cleanly through the noise in my head. I stop mid-stride. When I glance over, he’s already watching me with that maddening mix of patience and understanding, like he can see everything I’m trying to outrun.
He lifts his hand and waves me over. It’s a small gesture, but gentle and sure. “Come on. Have a look.”
An invitation.
A nudge.
A promise that he won’t push harder than I can handle, but he wants to. I can tell by the way he’s coaxing me over that he wants to push, but he knows he cannot push too hard.
I hesitate anyway. Just a beat. Just long enough to feel the resistance coil tightly in my chest.
I take a step to start my pacing once more, but come to a stop, shaking my head.
This is preposterous. I’m acting like a pre-adolescent male.
Huffing out a breath—half surrender, half annoyance at myself—I finally move toward him.
I let his silent coaxing pull me in despite every warning bell still ringing quietly in the back of my mind.
“Fine. How good can she possibly be?” I roll my eyes and stomp toward him.
I lean down, looking over his shoulder. I begin reading.
And reading.
And reading.
By the time I’m finished reading, I’m salivating at the thought of seeing just how this omega is. My heart accelerates inside my chest, the blood whooshes in my ears. The need to find out who this woman is is greater than the need to find out who I am.
“We must meet her,” I finally say, feeling a nagging feeling in the back of my mind that I dash away. There’s no room for any of that. The only thing I have need of is the way this profile—this woman—calls to me.
And she calls to me on a deeper level indeed.