Valek
Even without the option of business class on a flight like this, an early morning flight should be peaceful.
It should be quiet.
Full of people minding their own business while I mind mine.
Instead, I'm trapped at thirty-five thousand feet with two alphas who stalked me all the way to fucking Canada, and then we nearly killed each other.
I bribed another passenger for a seat switch so I could sit as close to these idiots as possible.
I want to keep an eye on them. After the stunts they've pulled over the past few days, that's hardly unreasonable.
And I enjoy a morsel of psychological torment as a treat now and then.
Across the aisle, Whiskey is wedged into his seat like someone tried to stuff a grizzly bear into a dog crate. Plague is pressed rigidly against the window beside him, clearly agonized by the other alpha. Or perhaps the agony is focus on strengthening his immune system through sheer will.
A flight attendant comes up the aisle and Whiskey perks up like if he looks extra eager, he won't be overlooked when it's time to order meals and drinks. It isn't, and he deflates like someone opened a valve in his chest and let all the air out.
"So," Whiskey starts, because apparently silence is physically painful for him, and it's worse now that he has to wait longer for salted peanuts. "Your family seems nice."
It takes me a moment to realize he's talking to me. When I do, I don't respond. Just keep watching clouds roll past below us.
"Your mom's pretty cool. And your brothers—"
"Siblings," I correct without looking at him. "I have a sister too."
"I was gonna say brothers and sister, bro. I'm not a misanthrope."
"Misogynist," Plague corrects under his breath.
"Whatever. They're all..." Whiskey trails off, probably searching for the right word that won't get him kicked in the face.
"Nice folks. Aggressively normal. They remind me of those little fuzzy animal toys at the craft store.
You know, Cottage Critters? The ones that come with staging scenes like bakeries and shit?
Not that I go to craft stores or anything, I mean, not usually, but Plague dragged me in there because he wanted some fabric to make a more secure type of mask for him and Wraith and—"
"Is there a question in there somewhere?" I ask.
"Just making conversation, man."
"Don't."
I catch Plague's hand moving in the reflection of the window. He reaches over and pinches the side of Whiskey's stomach. Hard, judging by the way Whiskey jolts and swats at his hand.
"OW! WHAT THE FUCK, brO?"
"Stop bellowing," Plague hisses. "You'll get us kicked off the plane."
"In the fucking AIR?!"
I shift slightly, turning my head just enough to see them better. The Wi-Fi hasn't worked once so far, and neither has the screen on the back of the seat in front of me, but this is better than any in-flight entertainment.
Watching these two dance around whatever the fuck is actually happening between them.
Plague's light eyes meet mine for a split second before he looks away, jaw tight. He knows I'm watching. Knows I'm recording every detail of every interaction for future use.
Whiskey, on the other hand, seems blissfully unaware that he's broadcasting his feelings louder than a fucking megaphone.
I pull out my phone, attempting once again to connect to the plane's Wi-Fi. The little loading circle spins.
And spins.
And spins some more.
"Fuck," I mutter under my breath.
Plague is also staring at his phone. His elegant fingers tap against the screen with clear agitation.
"Wi-Fi still down?" Whiskey asks, taking a sip of his drink.
"It would appear so," Plague says tightly. "You haven't tried yourself?"
Whiskey shrugs his huge shoulders, jostling Plague with the movement. Plague hisses. "If it comes on, you'll be the first to know, considering all you do is refresh that damn screen like you're going through withdrawals. And I'm the one with ADHD? I'm hookin' you up with my doc, bro."
I try again. Same result.
"This is unacceptable," Plague mutters, stabbing at his screen.
"Dude," Whiskey interrupts gently. "It's just Wi-Fi."
The look Plague gives him could freeze magma. "It's not just Wi-Fi. It's access to Ivy."
"She's hangin' out with Thane and Wraith, dude," Whiskey says, grinning. "Trust me, she's busy."
Plague's mouth snaps shut. The tips of his ears darken slightly, which is fascinating to witness on someone who usually has ice running through his veins.
I tuck my useless phone away, then reach into my carry-on bag.
My fingers find the familiar weight of my chess set, a metal magnetic board folded to contain hand-carved ebony and maple pieces.
I slide it out and Plague's attention shifts immediately to the chess set like a cat spotting a laser pointer.
"Since the Wi-Fi gods have forsaken us," I say, setting up the board on my tray table, "perhaps a game?"
I watch Plague's internal struggle play out across his face. Pride warring with genuine interest.
"Fine," he says finally, unbuckling and climbing over Whiskey without waiting for him to get up first. His knee drives into Whiskey's gut and forces all the air out of his lungs with a woof that turns a few heads.
"Seriously? You're just gonna leave me here to have some nerd pissing match?" Whiskey grunts, shoving Plague past him and into the aisle.
"Yes," Plague says without hesitation, falling into the seat beside me.
I bite back a grin. This is going to be entertaining.
"I could teach you to play if you'd like, Whiskey," I say, arranging the pieces. "Though I suspect you'd prefer to learn from your mate."
The barb lands exactly as intended. Whiskey's face flushes red while Plague goes rigid beside me again.
"We're not—" Plague starts.
"That isn't what my family thinks," I interrupt smoothly.
"You're such a fucking dick," Whiskey mutters from across the aisle, but there's no real heat in it. More like resigned acceptance. The passenger in front of him clasps her hands over her child's ears and turns around to glare at him.
"Little ears," I remind Whiskey in a singsong.
Whiskey gives me a blank stare. "What the fuck does that mean, bro? That's fucking menacing."
"Language," I correct flatly, grinning at him before turning to Plague. "White or black?"
"Black," Plague says immediately.
I turn the board so the black pieces face him, then make my opening move. E4. Classic. I watch his eyes track across the board, analyzing possibilities before he responds with C5.
Sicilian Defense.
Interesting choice.
We fall into the rhythm of the game. Click of piece on board. Pause. Counter-move. The familiar dance of strategy and prediction that I find infinitely more satisfying than small talk.
Plague plays aggressively. He's done this before. Often. His long fingers hover over pieces before committing to moves, and I notice he has a tell.
His left eyebrow twitches slightly when he's considering a sacrifice.
"You're gonna lose your pony," Whiskey pipes up from across the aisle, leaning forward to watch our game.
Plague's jaw tightens. "I know what I'm doing."
"Just saying, Val's got his pope lined up perfectly."
"I'm aware. And it's a bishop and a knight, not—"
I take the knight.
Plague counters by threatening my queen. Smart play, even if it's going to cost him his rook in three moves.
"Told you," Whiskey says helpfully.
"If you don't shut up," Plague grits out, not taking his eyes off the board, "I'm going to make you regret ever learning to speak."
Whiskey bites his own lips to hold back whatever he was about to say that was clearly not suitable for mixed company.
Plague moves his bishop, and I see the trap he's setting, using my aggression against me. I counter with a pawn push that opens up his king's flank.
"He's really topping you, bro," Whiskey says to Plague.
Plague's hand freezes mid-reach for his rook. He takes in a long, controlled breath through his nose. "It's called having the advantage. "
"Sure," Whiskey agrees easily. "That's definitely what it's called."
Plague makes his move angrily, the magnetic piece clicking against the board loud enough to make the flight attendant glance over.
I study the new board position, genuinely impressed despite myself. He's good. Too distracted by his packmate to best me, but good. Better than any opponent I've had before. If it weren't for Whiskey, we might even reach a stalemate.
"Your move," Plague says, his eyes meeting mine in challenge.
I take Plague's remaining knight, and the endgame becomes inevitable. Three moves later, I have him in checkmate.
"Good game," I say, meaning it.
"Again," Plague demands immediately.
I raise an eyebrow. "We'll be landing soon."
"Then we'll play quickly."
There's something almost desperate in his tone. Like he needs this. Needs the distraction of the board, the predictability of the rules, something he can control when everything else is chaos.
I understand that better than he knows.
"Fine." I reset the pieces. "But this time, you're white."
We play three more games. He takes the second one. The third game goes to me again, though it's closer than the first. By the fourth, we're landing, and Plague looks genuinely disappointed when the flight attendant asks us to put away our tray tables.
"I want a rematch," he mutters as I pack up the chess set.
"Anytime," I find myself saying, and for some reason, I actually mean it.
Whiskey has been blessedly quiet for the last game, absorbed in whatever movie he had the foresight to download to his phone before the flight. But now he's back to his usual chaos energy as we taxi to the gate.
"Home sweet home," he announces, rising to get their carry-ons out of the overhead compartment. "Can't wait to sleep in my own fuckin' bed. You still staying in our pack house, Valek?"
"I am," I say dryly.
"Cool." Whiskey hauls the carry-ons down and hands Plague's to him. "Remember the house rules and we're good."
The threat in those words is subtle but unmistakable.
Stay away from our omega.