8. Valek #2
All eyes turn to me.
Fuck.
"What do you mean?" My mother's brow furrows. "You don't think he's upset about losing his fiancée?"
I could lie.
I should lie.
I should deflect and move on, and keep my opinions about Wade Kelly to myself like I have for years.
But something about the way Whiskey and Plague are watching me—like they're waiting for confirmation of something they already suspect—makes me reconsider.
If only because if I don't clear shit up tonight, I'm certain they'll find a way to block me completely from the pack house.
And the omega I can't get out of my fucking head.
"Wade Kelly," I say slowly, choosing my words carefully, "is an arrogant fucking asshole with a mean streak a mile wide."
The table goes quiet.
"Val—" Caleb starts, but I cut him off with a short flick of my hand.
"So, no. He isn't devastated about losing his fiancée. He's pissed that someone he considered his property had the audacity to leave."
Silence.
Absolute fucking silence.
I don't bother looking at Whiskey and Plague. I'll let them wonder if the monster who ran them off a mountain road would help another monster abuse an omega.
I hope they feel profoundly fucking stupid for stalking me here and leaving the one they're supposed to be protecting thoroughly unguarded.
Perhaps she could be convinced to let me guard her myself.
The further away from these idiots, the better.
"Well," my father says, bringing his palms down on the table hard enough to rattle the glasses, his favorite move when he's navigating or avoiding an awkward family moment.
"I'm glad you're with better people now.
The Ghosts seem like a solid team, and it was cool of 'em to come up here to check on you. "
Plague and Whiskey exchange a glance.
A guilty glance.
The server returns with our drinks. Wine for most of the table, sparkling water for me because I don't drink when I'm this on edge.
The conversation shifts to safer topics. My mother's recovery timeline. Caleb's new pastry line for the holidays. Rae's practice taking on a new vet tech. Finn's upcoming recital with his students.
Normal family things.
Things that should feel foreign to someone like me but somehow don't.
I watch my family interact with Whiskey and Plague, noting how easily they fold the two alphas into the conversation.
How Whiskey makes Finn laugh with exaggerated stories about his Marine days.
How Plague and Rae bond over their shared medical backgrounds, discussing the finer points of surgical procedures with the enthusiasm of fellow nerds.
How he's actually loosening up and not sitting there with his spine as stiff as if Vlad Dracula himself had impaled him from ass to skull.
And how my mother beams at all of it like she's collecting these moments to store away forever in her memory.
She does that. Hoards happiness like a dragon hoards gold, building a treasure trove of good memories to balance out all the bad she's seen, taking in strays like me.
The food arrives, and for a blessed few minutes, everyone's too focused on eating to make conversation.
My blue ribeye is perfect. Bloody and tender, exactly how I like it. I slip my own folding knife from my pocket and flick it open in clear view of Whiskey and Plague, unable to keep from grinning slightly when Whiskey jolts.
As I slice into my steak, I'm acutely aware that Whiskey keeps glancing at me like he's wondering if I'm picturing the steak as him.
Or he wants to steal it.
"So Val," my mother says around a bite of her salmon, because of course she can't let us eat in peace, "speaking of romance, are you seeing anyone?"
I nearly choke on my steak.
"No," I grit out, my voice carrying a warning edge that would make most people back off.
My mother is not most people.
"What? It's a reasonable question! You're almost thirty, sweetheart. And you work so hard, you never make time for—"
"I'm fine," I interrupt, lifting my hand hopelessly.
"But wouldn't it be nice to have someone? Like Whiskey and Plague have each other?" She gestures at them with her fork. "Don't you want something like that?"
Kill. Me.
"How's the shoulder?" Plague asks Whiskey, smoothly changing the subject with the skill of someone who's dodged familial matchmaking attempts of his own.
"Fine," Whiskey says, rolling said shoulder in demonstration. The joint pops loudly, and he goes slightly pale. "Barely even feel it."
"You should ice it when we get back to the hotel. You're wincing when you cut your steak," Plague says, and there's genuine concern in his voice.
Whiskey's expression softens. "Yeah, okay. If it'll make you stop bitching."
"I don't bitch."
The meal continues in this vein.
Family teasing and ribbing mixed with measured verbal sparring between me and the two alphas who are clearly here for more than just moral support.
They're pathetically obvious.
Whiskey keeps trying to steer the conversation toward Wade, toward the Demons, toward anything that might give him information. Or ammunition.
Each time, I deliver a warning kick under the table.
And each time, he persists like the stubborn bastard he is.
Plague, to his credit, seems to be trying to rein Whiskey in.
I catch him squeezing Whiskey's thigh under the table, sometimes pinching his side, making him wince, and more than once, yelp.
Although Whiskey's relentless fishing is less intense now that I made my feelings about Wade Kelly perfectly clear.
It's almost endearing, the way Plague tries to manage his chaos incarnate packmate. I can see why the fans ship them.
"Picture time!" my mother announces as dessert arrives. It’s some kind of chocolate monstrosity that has Finn and Whiskey lunging simultaneously for dessert plates.
"Please don’t," I start, but she's already flagging down the server.
"Just a few photos with your new team!”
“Half the team,” I remind her in a last-ditch hope she’ll postpone the pictures until we're all together.
Too late. The server is already coming over, clearly delighted to accommodate, likely because she recognizes multiple professional athletes at the table and wants the bragging rights.
Half the town treats me like a pariah and ignores me, when I’m lucky. The other half practically worships me.
We shuffle around for the photos. My mother insists on one with all her children, then one with just the boys, then one with my father, then—god help me—one with Plague, Whiskey, and me.
I find myself sandwiched between the two alphas while my mother directs us like we're at a fucking Sears photo shoot.
"Closer! You're teammates, act like you like each other!"
Whiskey throws an arm around my shoulders.
I contemplate murder.
"Smile, Val!"
I bare my teeth in what could generously be called a grin at best.
"Beautiful!" My mother recklessly claps both her hands together, cast and all. "Absolutely perfect!"
I wouldn’t say that.
I look like a savage beast next to my perfectly pleasant, normal family, which is precisely why I loathe family photos.
The meal finally winds down. The check comes, and there's the usual polite fighting over who pays. My father wins by virtue of being the father, though I slip the server my card anyway when he's not looking and tell her to charge it and lie to my family that it’s on the house.
I’d rather not pay for Whiskey and Plague, but the fact it clearly went up both their asses when they caught the server handing me the receipt makes every penny worth it.
I flash them a knowing smirk.
We say our goodbyes in the parking lot. Hugs all around, because the Carters are huggers and I've learned to endure it over the years.
My mother holds me extra long, then moves on to squeeze the life out of Whiskey and Plague like they're already part of the family instead of dangerous variables I can't quite control. Even Plague cracks a smile for my mother’s sake.
Whiskey squeezes her back until she squeaks, and she gives a delighted laugh and smacks him on the ass.
With her cast.
A fat lot of good surgery is going to do her.
The Carters disperse, and then it's just the three of us left in the darkening parking lot.
I drop the pleasant mask I've been wearing all evening as I turn to face Whiskey and Plague.
"That was entertaining," Whiskey says, still playing at casual. "Your family's great."
"They are," I agree. "Which is why I'm going to make something very clear."
Plague straightens, his hand moving subtly toward his hip. Old instinct, probably. Reaching for a weapon that isn't there.
Perhaps I’m not the only one with a past.
"You're protecting someone," I say, keeping my voice low and level. "An omega. And you think I have something to do with why she's running."
Whiskey's easy smile vanishes. "We don't know what you're talking about."
"Please." I let my lip curl slightly, showing teeth. "I can smell her on you. Honeysuckle and summer rain. She's your scent match, which explains the protective behavior. The stalking. The desperation."
They don't deny it.
Good.
Lying at this point would be insulting to all of us.
"Here's what's going to happen," I continue, taking a step closer. They hold their ground, which I have to respect. “You're going to stop digging into my life. Stop following me. Stay out of my business, and I’ll stay out of yours.”
The vague, unspoken threat hangs in the air between us.
"We understand each other?" I ask when I realize they’re not going to speak, my tone conversational despite the menace underlying it.
"Crystal clear," Plague says, his voice tight.
"Good." I step back, letting my posture relax slightly. "Enjoy the rest of your stay in Northwyke. My flight is at six in the morning. I recommend being on the same plane."
I turn and walk toward my car, aware of their eyes tracking my every movement. Aware that I've just confirmed their suspicions about me being dangerous while simultaneously making it clear I'm not their enemy.
Just someone who will absolutely destroy them if they endanger what's mine.
The fucking problem is, I don’t just mean my family anymore, do I?