Chapter 2
XAVIER
Iadjust my tie for the third time and check my watch again.
The Hollow Oak smells like stale beer, fried food, and bad decisions, but Dax insisted we meet here at seven.
Being punctual matters to me, even when other pack mates treat schedules like loose suggestions and punctuality like a foreign concept.
Logan slouches in the corner booth, his broad shoulders crowding the space, smoky cedar scent thick with irritation and something darker I’ve learned to recognize as self-loathing.
His storm-gray eyes track the bartender’s movements while his left hand, scarred from the job, drums against the wooden table.
The man hasn't said a word since we sat down twenty minutes ago, but his scent tells the whole story.
Another fight with Chief Patterson about protocol.
A reminder that following rules doesn't guarantee respect.
Griffin sits across from me, sandy hair falling across his forehead in a way that would be charming if his warm brown eyes weren't currently shooting daggers in Logan's direction.
His sandalwood and sawdust scent carries sharp notes of frustration, the kind that builds up over months of living with someone who leaves dishes in the sink for days and expects the world to revolve around his schedule.
"You planning to stare at him all night, or are you going to say what's eating at you?" Griffin's voice cuts through the ambient noise of the pub, drawing attention from the couple at the next table.
Logan's fingers stop drumming against the scarred wood table. His scent spikes with leather and rain, the combination that means he's about to say something he'll regret. "Nothing's eating at me."
"Right." Griffin leans back against the booth, his calloused hands spread flat on the surface like he's bracing for impact. "And I'm the Pope."
"Would explain the sanctimonious attitude."
I feel my cool mint scent sharpen as tension creeps up my spine like a familiar diagnosis I've seen too many times.
This is exactly how it always starts with these two.
One snide comment, then another, until they're circling each other like territorial animals and I'm stuck playing referee to two grown men who should absolutely know better by now.
"Enough." The word comes out firm and no-nonsense, the same tone I use with pet parents who refuse to follow basic treatment instructions.
Griffin's scent shifts, sandalwood mixing with something warmer, almost apologetic.
"Sorry, Doc. Long day."
Logan says nothing, but his shoulders lose some of their rigidity. Progress, I guess.
I trace the edge of my pint glass, condensation cool against my fingertips. No one's arguing about whose turn it is to take out the trash that's been sitting by the back door for three days. No one's passive-aggressively leaving dirty dishes in the sink because "someone else will handle it."
Griffin shifts in his seat, and I catch a whiff of sawdust from his clothes.
The same scent that fills every room of the house he built for us, complete with separate bedrooms because sharing space felt too complicated.
Logan stares at his beer, probably calculating whether his next paycheck will cover the mortgage payment he insists on making even though we've told him it's not necessary.
And here I am, the one who spent yesterday scrubbing their bathroom because apparently hoping really hard doesn't actually make soap scum disappear.
A year of this. A whole year of pretending we're a functional pack instead of three men who happen to share an address and a mutual inability to figure out what the hell we're doing.
"You're doing that again," Griffin says, his voice softer now, less combative.
"What?"
“Where you organize everything in your head while your scent goes all clinical and distant." He gestures vaguely at my face. "Your jaw gets tight, and you start making mental lists of everything we're screwing up."
Logan's eyes shift to me, storm-gray and unreadable. "He's right. You smell like the hospital when you're cataloguing our failures."
"Maybe because someone has to think about how messed up this arrangement has become." The words taste bitter, sharper than I intended. "We formed this pack with a specific goal in mind, and instead of working toward it, we spend our time arguing about whose turn it is to take out the trash."
"The goal," Logan repeats, his voice flat. "Right. Finding an omega who'll want three broken alphas with more baggage than a cross-country flight."
Griffin's scent spikes with sawdust and something raw, vulnerable. "We're not that broken."
"Aren't we? When's the last time any of us went on a date? When's the last time we even tried to meet someone new?"
Six months since Griffin's disastrous dinner with the teacher from Emma's school, since Logan's failed coffee date with the new paramedic, since my own awkward encounter with the pharmaceutical rep who thought my professional demeanor was charming until she realized it wasn't an act.
"Maybe," I say carefully, "the problem isn't that we're broken, but we're trying to force something that isn't working."
Griffin's warm brown eyes narrow. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means we formed this pack because we were tired of being alone, not because we actually complement each other." The admission tastes like regret and mint. "We're three alphas who don't know how to live together, let alone attract someone who'd want to live with all of us."
Logan's scent shifts, leather and rain giving way to something deeper, more complex. Cedar and ash, the smell of old wounds and newer understanding. "You think we should call it quits?"
The question settles in my chest like a weight. End the pack. Go back to our separate lives, our separate apartments, our separate attempts at finding someone who might fill the empty spaces we've been trying to fill with each other.
"I think," I begin, then stop as the pub door opens and Dax Sullivan walks in.
Even from across the room, his clean pine scent carries warmth and contentment, the kind of deep satisfaction that comes from knowing exactly where you belong and who you belong with.
His auburn hair catches the light from the vintage fixtures, and his kind green eyes scan the room until they find our booth.
He looks different. Happier. The kind of happiness that radiates from every pore and makes everyone around him want to smile.
"Sorry I'm late," Dax says as he slides into the booth next to Griffin. "Had an emergency at the clinic. Mrs. Patterson's cat decided to eat a rubber ball."
"How big was the ball?" I ask.
"Big enough to require surgery." Dax grins, the expression transforming his entire face. "But Mr. Whiskers is fine. Probably wondering why his favorite toy disappeared, but fine."
Logan actually cracks a smile at that, the first genuine expression I've seen from him in days. "Mrs. Patterson and her cats. How many does she have now?"
"Seven. And before you ask, yes, they're all named after literary characters, and yes, she dresses them up for holidays."
Griffin chuckles, the sound loosening something in my chest I didn't realize was tight. This is why we became friends in the first place, before the pack complications and the failed attempts at domestic bliss.
"So," Griffin says, gesturing to Dax with his beer bottle, "what's the big news? You sounded weird on the phone."
Dax's grin widens until I worry his face might split in half.
"I'm getting married."
The words hit the table like a physical blow. Logan's glass freezes halfway to his mouth. Griffin's eyes go wide, sandalwood spiking with surprise and something that might be envy. My own scent turns sharp with shock, mint and cologne mixing into something almost metallic.
“What?” Logan asks.
"To Emma," Dax continues, his happiness so intense it's almost overwhelming. "She said yes. We're getting married on Christmas Eve."
Christmas Eve. Three months away. The timeline hits me like a diagnosis I wasn't prepared for. "That's soon."
Of course, he is getting married to Emma, not only has he been dating her, but the other alphas in the Blackwater Pack too.
"I know it sounds crazy, but we don't want to wait.
We've been dancing around each other for years, and now that we're finally together.
.." Dax shrugs, the gesture encompassing everything he can't put into words.
"Life's too short, you know? When you find the person who makes everything make sense, why wait? "
The phrase twists in my chest like something sharp. When did I stop believing that person existed? When did I start settling for pack bonds built on convenience rather than connection?
"Congratulations," Griffin says, and his voice carries genuine warmth despite the complex emotions swirling beneath the surface. "Emma's perfect for your pack.”
"Thanks." Dax's scent settles into something warm and grateful. "And here's the thing. I want you guys to be part of it. Xavier, will you be my best man?"
I’ll be beside Dax as he promises his life to someone who loves him completely, watching him achieve everything the three of us have been failing to find for ourselves.
"I..." The word catches in my throat. "I'd be honored."
Dax's grin somehow gets even brighter. "Griffin, Logan, groomsmen?"
"Hell yes," Griffin says immediately. "Wouldn't miss it."
Logan's response takes longer, as he processes the implications. Finally, he nods. "Yeah. Of course."
"Perfect." Dax leans back against the booth, his contentment filling the space around us like warm honey. "There's just one more thing. Emma's best friend is planning the wedding."
Emma only has one best friend, Savannah Hale.