Chapter 19
Every Breath
NATHAN
Only a small sniffle escapes Johanna as tears roll down her face. I hold onto her chilly, trembling fingers. One step forward, a gentle tug, and she collapses into my arms. Her face presses against my chest, my shirt sopping up her sobs. Her hands grip my sides, tangling in my suit jacket.
This close, her cranberry scent infuses every breath I take.
Neither sour nor sweet nor acrid, the neutrality in her fragrance suggests she’s not in great distress—perhaps experiencing a release?
We’re on her territory, and so far as I’m aware we all care about her, having come because of her and the man she loved.
For this moment, it may serve as a safe place to let go.
She’s chosen to seek comfort with me. A good sign.
None of my plans included this particular end result.
I wouldn’t have chosen for her to burst into tears, but I’m not fool enough to turn down an opportunity to hold her.
To feel the full length of her body pressed against me, warm, except her hands and wet cheeks.
I’ve been working toward this, long before any sign of Max’s illness.
We haven’t seen each other since the jagged end of Max’s heat, other than a fleeting moment at the memorial service when she looked my way.
That was by my design. Even while overcome by the longing omegas feel for alphas during heats, Max had chosen Johanna over me.
I’d have done the same if our positions had been reversed.
I didn’t want my next meeting with Johanna to be dealing with the minutia of his death, but I take my presence here at his invitation as a sign that he wouldn’t object to my offering her any and all support she might need in the wake of his death.
After all, I understand—more than either of us would wish—what she’s going through.
Deep in my chest, a rumble stutters into action.
It takes a moment to fully manifest, allowing me to envelop Johanna through touch and sound as I purr for her in a way I haven’t in too long.
Purrs for my children and cats have kept my motor in reasonable order, yet this vibration has a decidedly different quality.
My aroma strengthens, meshing with the others filling the room: trees, moss, apples, lilac, and now my smoking candle. They overload the air purifiers. Johanna’s nose twitches as her sobs ease. Perhaps the mixed fragrances offers comfort, uneasy as it may be.
The fact that I’m holding her, purring for her, seems to unsettle the others. I understand—we’re all but strangers, after all. My lost mates used to envy my memory for names, faces, and associated details. It’s very handy in my work as a lawyer, and works in my favor now.
Corin Shallot looms several feet behind Johanna, gaze dark.
He resembles his cousin little in the ways that count—not merely differences attributable to designation—and seems far more controlled and focused, an excellent choice for chief executive officer to Max’s innovation officer—or whatever his title was.
I talked with Corin and his pleasant daughter earlier. The latter reminds me of my eldest, and not merely because they’re both omegas, but they’re also very capable at keeping their own counsel. It’s fairly clear neither know why Max included me in whatever it is we’re here to carry out.
Then again, I know less about the third man in the room, who has an equally strong reaction to my holding Johanna, but isn’t anywhere near as good at hiding it.
He’s somewhat familiar, as I met him at least once in passing.
An alpha accountant—have to love that alliteration.
I vaguely remember his last name as having something to with days. Morning or evening?
He hovers close, his tense posture suggesting that, at the least sign she’s loosening her hold on me, he’ll swoop in. It’s accidentally funny, in an inappropriate way for such a professional setting, because I can think of a whole litany of rude jokes that start with ‘Three alphas.’
The underlying musk of alpha strengthens.
Not clear who’s the cause, but mine is rousing, splitting my attention.
Half remains on cuddling Johanna as her sobs start to ease, but at the same time, he’s assessing the others.
Two to my one, overt dominance pouring off each, individually despite their restraint.
Taking control of the situation might require provoking them to confront each other—leaving me to take on the winner—or other trickery.
There’s a reason for all those rude jokes about alphas. Three alphas walk into a bar, three alphas fly to the moon, three alphas cross the road. All end in farting, fighting, or fucking, or all three at once. I know entirely too many, and I refuse to re-enact any of them here and now.
I glance pointedly at Shallot, then at his daughter. They exchange looks, obviously quick on the uptake.
A moment later, the younger Shallot rounds the table to my side. I let her ease between me and Johanna. My alpha resists and my purr stutters to a stop, but I let go. My body grows cold without Johanna close.
The younger woman murmurs encouragement as she guides Johanna out, something about feeling better after she’s washed her face—and how it’s better to let the alphas work things out alone.
There’s a humorous but also cruel twist to her lips.
Even my alpha allows begrudging respect for such a daughter, and the parents who raised her.
A few tears trickle along Johanna’s cheeks as she pauses in the doorway. Crying cannot diminish her, only add to her luster. She’s a queen forged of the kind of metal that strengthens with age. In that moment, beta though she is, she rules the room and sets the rules.
She faces us all, one by one. “No farting or fighting.”
By quirk of arrangement, Shallot gets stared down first, then me, and last, the other man. I don’t know how long he manages to hold her gaze, only that I didn’t look down sooner than Shallot.
As soon as the door closes behind the two women, a snort escapes Shallot. The third man’s shoulders shake slightly. I’m not much better.
“How many three alpha jokes does she know?” I ask.
“Too many.” Shallot sighs, then gives us as pointed a look as hers. “I’d rather not be forced to have the room professionally cleaned—not to mention Johanna will be back in a minute or two with my daughter—so let’s skip playing out the jokes ending in fucking as well.”
He manages to keep a straight face during the first half, leaving open to question whether he’s serious or joking. When he continues, I wince at the mere idea of being caught out by a daughter, even though I hadn’t considered the possibility of fucking anyone—Johanna included—in the room.
Still not thinking of it, in fact. It’s too soon. She’s not ready, regardless of how readily she snuggled in my arms.
As for the men, they’re strangers. The fact that both also winced at the notion of daughters witnessing their fathers in intimate situations, however, offers some reassurance.
I’d never knowingly introduce my daughters to anyone I’m not willing to trust with them.
Same with my son. I appreciate these men’s similar attitudes, and it makes me more inclined to introduce them to my children someday, if life turns that way.
But Shallot and Morning-or-Evening-or-Whatever are not my pack, not my mates.
I recognized my lost packmates as belonging with me at first sight.
As songs have put it, ‘seeing a stranger across a crowded room’ led me to my darling Renee, and the instant I walked into a consultation room to meet my sweet Lawrence, I knew.
Nothing of that sort with either of these.
Of course, when I first met Johanna I didn’t see her as a potential packmate either.
Nothing about her proclaimed she was mine—she wasn’t.
The fire in her gaze caught my attention because I’d lost it when my packmates died.
She offered something new, a challenge: helping her beloved through his heat.
Which I did, partnering with her in a way I’d never experienced before.
She had the heat down to a science and knew exactly how to give Max what his omega needed.
The result was brief bursts of sex punctuating long downtimes while his omega rested—and Johanna and I talked.
In the warm, dark shadows of Max’s nest, we wound up sharing fears, hurts, and hopes.
Things I’d never confided in anyone other than my mates, and things even they hadn’t known, couldn’t know, especially the emptiness left by their loss.
I saw an echo of that emptiness in her earlier, as she sought comfort in my arms. My void is shrinking, slowly but surely, thanks in no small part to those talks where we bared not so much our bodies as our souls.
Until Max’s omega overheard and took my interest in her as a threat. I left early, through no one’s fault.
Ever since, I’ve been plotting ways to meet her again, to show Max I’m not a threat. Worried what might happen if—when—it comes to pass.
She’s still not my mate. There’s no instant knowing, but rather a desire, welling deep within, for her to become my pack, my mate. Fate chose my first mates in a moment, then robbed me of them just as quickly.
This time, I choose. I choose her. I want whatever remains of my life to include the woman who roused me from my slumber with a challenge.
The woman who shared hopes and fears in quiet moments while Max slept.
I would’ve had him as pack, too, if there’d been time for him to realize that I didn’t need him to be anything except who he was, as long as he’d share her—presuming she wanted me.
I just have to hope that she’ll choose me back.
Well, that, and figure out what to do about these other alphas, who watched her depart with hunger in their eyes.
“So.” Shallot claps his hands. He points at me, then the other man, and finally himself.
“Nathan Mazarini, lawyer. Dan Eveson, accountant. Corin Shallot, Max’s cousin and executor.
I know why we’re here, but not why Max invited either of you, though it appears Johanna may have a clue.
Regardless of all else, we’re here to help her.
Hurt her, and you’ll regret it to the end of your days. ”
Whether or not Shallot—Corin—has admitted as much, he wants her too. Same with Eveson—Dan—though he looks rather shell-shocked.
Very well.
This is a very different challenge than any I’ve faced before, but I’m not one to shy away from competition. I’m a lawyer. I handle divorces and pack dissolutions.
I play to win.