8. Valek
Valek
Fork and Barrel on a Friday night is always packed.
Every table is full of families and couples and groups of friends who actually want to be here, who aren't being strong-armed into dinner by their well-meaning mother who thinks her adult children need more "quality time together."
I spot them immediately.
My family has claimed the large corner booth, and somehow—somehow—Tweedledee and Tweedledum have already arrived and integrated themselves into the Carter family ecosystem like invasive species.
Whiskey's massive frame takes up half the booth, gesturing wildly with his hands as he tells some story that has Finn laughing so hard he's crying.
Plague sits ramrod straight beside him, looking like he'd rather be literally anywhere else but managing polite conversation with the Chaos Dumbass and my family.
And there's my mother.
My sweet, meddling, utterly oblivious mother, sitting beside them like a queen holding court, her cast propped on a decorative pillow someone procured, beaming at these two alphas who clearly can't tell if they love or hate each other and are pretending to be a couple.
And for what fucking reason?
To maintain their cover while they stalk me?
The absurdity of this situation would almost be funny if it wasn't so fucking irritating.
"Val!" my mother shouts the moment she spots me, waving with her cast like I'm the prodigal son returning instead of the dangerous thing she invited into her home and tried to rehabilitate. Key word being tried. "Over here, sweetheart!"
Every head in the restaurant turns.
My favorite.
I paste on what I hope passes for a pleasant expression and make my way through the tables, hyperaware of all the eyes on me and the whispers that follow.
Is that Valek?
Yup. Guy sticks out like a sore thumb.
It’s scary he’s still running loose. Guess they don’t lock people up for murder where he’s from.
That last one makes my jaw tighten.
"I'm late. My apologies," I say, sliding into the booth next to Caleb, who immediately shifts to give me space. My brother knows better than most that I need room to breathe. "How are you feeling after your surgery?"
I attempt an actual smile for her, but it makes Whiskey's eyes widen slightly. Guess it wasn't a good one. Perhaps I should wear a surgical mask like his boyfriend does to make myself look more approachable.
But Plague isn't wearing one at all tonight, much to my surprise. Then again, he can't eat while wearing a mask, can he?
At least I know he's suffering as much as I am, even for a different reason. Fork and Barrel isn't exactly the cleanest establishment. The gigantic wooden beaver statue outside, the one posed as if it's gnawing into the corner of the restaurant, is sticky enough to attract flies.
I'm certain he saw them.
Wish I could have seen what he did.
"Oh, it was fine!" My mother waves dismissively, though I can see the exhaustion around her eyes.
"Quick as can be. I'll be back to baking in no time.
" She gestures to Whiskey and Plague with her cast. "I was just getting to know your teammates better.
Did you know Whiskey here was a Marine? And Plague studied medicine before hockey! "
"Fascinating," I say flatly.
Whiskey's grin doesn't falter. He opens his mouth to say something that's surely stupid, but Plague shifts slightly and glances sideways at him, and Whiskey grunts like something painful happened to him beneath the table.
Good. Plague can tell I'm in a piss-poor mood and will keep Whiskey leashed, if we're all lucky tonight.
"Your mom's been telling us stories," Whiskey says cheerfully to me, as if we're all friends now. "Apparently you were quite the troublemaker as a kid."
"I wasn't," I say shortly.
"He was," Caleb interjects, earning a sharp look from me that he ignores. "Remember when you convinced Finn that eating snow would give him superpowers?"
"No," I mutter.
That is a lie. I do remember.
"It's fine," Finn says, grinning at me with his usual uncomplicated affection. "I forgive you. The superpower thing sounded legit."
The table laughs. Even Plague's lips twitch slightly, which for him is practically a standing ovation.
I hate this.
I reach for the water glass someone's already poured for me and take a long drink, using the moment to observe.
Whiskey and Plague are sitting close enough that their outer thighs touch under the table. That certainly isn't the careful separation of platonic alpha male packmates. Whiskey's massive arm is slung along the back of the booth behind Plague, fingers occasionally brushing his shoulder.
Plague endures it with the patience of a saint, though his shoulders are tight enough to snap.
The scent rolling off both of them is... complicated.
Cinnamon and winter, yes. That distinctive Whiskey-and-Plague combination that's been irritating my nose since the very first sniff. But underneath, woven through it like a thread of gold through dark fabric, is something else.
Honeysuckle.
Summer rain.
Her.
The omega they're protecting. The one who's clearly their scent match, based on how thoroughly her scent has permeated their skin.
The one I'm certain is Wade Kelly's missing fiancée.
The thought makes my hands tighten into fists. I force them to loosen as I pick up the menu even though I already know what I'm ordering.
"So," my mother says, turning her attention back to Whiskey and Plague with that gleam in her eye that means she's about to meddle to no one's benefit but her own, "how did you two meet?"
I watch Plague's eye twitch. It's subtle, barely there, but I catch it.
"Rookie camp," Whiskey says smoothly, like he's been preparing this story. "I was fresh out of the Marines, didn't know shit about professional hockey culture, and this asshole—" he jerks his thumb at Plague, "—took pity on me."
"I did not take pity," Plague corrects, his tone dry. "You were a liability. Someone had to make sure you didn't get yourself killed."
"See? Pity." Whiskey's grin widens. "And he's been stuck with me ever since."
"Stuck is an accurate description," Plague mutters.
Their banter is smooth. Practiced, even. But there's something off about it. The timing's too perfect, the responses too rehearsed. Like they've had this conversation before, perhaps even before they came.
It's good.
But not good enough.
"That's so sweet!" My mother clasps her good hand to her chest. "You boys are so open. I just love it. Val here is just so private about everything."
Well. Maybe it's good enough for the Carters.
"I'm sitting right here," I point out.
She pats my hand. "Yes, dear. And you're doing wonderfully."
What the hell does that even mean?
Caleb snorts into his water glass. Rae kicks him under the table. Finn doesn't even try to hide his laughter.
And this is why I avoid family dinners.
The server appears, rescuing us all from whatever my mother was about to say next.
Steaks for Whiskey and Plague, salmon for my mother and for Rae, some kind of artisanal pasta for Finn that comes with a wine pairing he's far too excited about, considering this is an establishment with a giant wooden beaver gnawing on the side of it. Caleb decides he wants the same.
"And for you?" the server asks me, her pen poised.
"Blue rare ribeye. No sides."
"A man after my own heart," Whiskey says, earning another round of laughter from my family.
I'm going to kill him.
Slowly.
Starting with the balls, somehow.
The server retreats, and my mother immediately launches into interrogation mode, asking Whiskey and Plague about their families, their lives, how they manage to balance hockey with their relationship.
It's masterful, really. The way Whiskey deflects personal questions with humor while Plague provides just enough detail to seem forthcoming without actually revealing anything substantive.
Makes me wonder just how long they've been lying to people about what they are to each other.
"So Val," Whiskey says, turning those honey-brown innocent puppy dog eyes on me with fake casualness. "You played with the Demons before joining the Ghosts, right?"
Ah. There it is.
The real reason they're here.
Not for team bonding. But to dig into my past, looking for... what? Connections to Wade Kelly? Evidence that I'd ever help cover up an omega's abuse?
My hand tightens on my water glass.
Under the table, I deliver a sharp kick to Whiskey's shin.
He doesn't even flinch, the bastard. Just keeps that easy smile plastered on his face while his work boot presses back against mine in warning.
"Briefly," I say to him, keeping my voice neutral. "One season before I was traded."
"Must have been interesting," Plague adds, his tone too carefully disinterested. "The Demons have quite a reputation."
"For what?" Caleb asks, because my brother is genuinely curious and has no idea he's watching a verbal chess match.
"Excellence," I say flatly. "They win games."
"And they have Wade Kelly," Whiskey continues, like he can't help himself. "Heard you two were on the team at the same time, too."
Another kick. Harder this time.
Whiskey's smile doesn't waver, but I see Plague's hand move under the table again. Whatever he does, it makes Whiskey's grin twitch and his eyes water in pain.
At least one of them has some sense.
"We were," I admit, because denying it would be pointless. "I didn't particularly like him."
"Really?" My mother looks surprised. "But he seems so charming in interviews. Poor boy, with his fiancée going missing like that—"
Both alphas go rigid.
It's subtle. The kind of thing most people wouldn't notice. But I'm not most people, and I've spent far too much time observing these two and trying to figure them out.
"What happened to his fiancée?" Finn asks, leaning forward with the morbid curiosity of someone who consumes true crime podcasts like candy. You'd never know it from looking at him, either.
"She disappeared," Rae supplies, because of course she knows. Rae knows everything. "No note, no explanation. Wade has been devastated."
"I doubt that," I mutter before I can stop myself.