Plague
The food containers need to be dealt with.
That's the first thought that locks into place after the door closes behind Wraith and Ivy, after Thane wanders off and says he's going to bed early before his skull cracks open.
Whiskey and Valek don't move when I stand.
Valek remains in the armchair with his book, one ankle crossed over the opposite knee in that too-casual arrangement that wants very badly to be mistaken for relaxation.
Whiskey is sprawled in front of the couch on the floor, legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles, arms behind his head, shirt riding up to show a sliver of stomach.
As if he doesn't know exactly what he's doing to me.
Muttering, I pick up the nearest empty container and put the rest of my food in it. I snap the lid onto it angrily enough to jar it.
And now there's green curry residue on my arm.
How terrible.
Grimacing, I carry the stack of containers to the kitchen. The lights are too bright and I have a migraine brewing. I flip the switch and use the under-cabinet lighting instead, because the main light makes the grease streaks on the countertop too visible and I'm already on edge.
When I come back into the living room, Valek hasn't moved. But Whiskey has. He's sat up, turned so he's facing the armchair more than the couch, elbows on his knees, and when I come in, his eyes track me the full length of the room.
I pick up my laptop from where I left it on the couch and tuck it under my arm like a shield. Whiskey's honey-brown eyes follow the movement.
"So," he says.
"So."
"What were y'all saying over there?"
"Nothing worth repeating."
"Uh-huh."
I move toward the hallway. The migraine is pulsing behind my left eye now, a steady throb that syncs with my heartbeat, and I have a plan that involves a shower and a closed door and a bare minimum of ten hours of not looking at either of these alphas.
"Plague."
Whiskey's quiet, which is not a mode he normally operates in. It would be more realistic for Whiskey to suddenly transform into a fucking unicorn. It means something has gotten under his skin and he can't joke it away fast enough to pretend it didn't.
I stop in the doorway without turning around.
"What?"
"What were you talking about?"
"Languages."
"Try again."
My jaw tightens. I turn slowly. He's still on the floor, but he's sat fully up now, shoulders squared, face tilted up at me with an expression that is unfairly soft for someone who just shoved a whole spring roll in his mouth.
Like he was…
Ugh. Fucking STOP IT, brain.
"It was nothing, Whiskey. Drop it."
"He told me not to tease you," Valek says from the armchair.
My head snaps toward him.
He sounds untroubled, smooth, as if he's commenting on the weather and not starting shit I'd prefer to keep buried under forty feet of concrete.
He hasn't looked up from his book. But his mouth is curved in that faint, knowing way that says he knows exactly what he just did and is unbothered by the consequences.
"Valek."
"What? I'm not teasing him now." He turns a page. "I'm telling him the truth, which is different."
Whiskey is still watching me. I can feel his eyes on the side of my face.
I adjust my laptop against my ribs and stare at a point somewhere above his left ear because if I look at him directly, I'll see whatever expression he's making right now, and I'm not equipped for whatever that expression might be.
Puppy eyes, probably.
God fucking damn it.
Whiskey pushes himself to his feet. The movement is slower than his usual chaotic energy, and when he straightens to his full height, he moves to put himself between me and the hallway.
His honey-brown eyes are too soft. Too searching. Too fucking everything, and the migraine behind my left eye pulses harder.
"What the fuck is going on?" Whiskey asks. His voice is still quiet. Still that wrong register that doesn't belong to him. "Between the three of us."
"Oh? It's the three of us now?" I arch an eyebrow. "I have no idea what you're talking about."
"Bullshit."
"Whiskey—"
"Do I sense some weird-ass sexual tension or something?
" Whiskey gestures between me and Valek, then back to himself, making a triangle in the air.
"Because it's getting fucking thick in here and I can't tell if I'm imagining it or if y'all are doing some freaky multilingual foreplay shit I'm not equipped to decode. "
"No."
Valek shrugs, his silver eyes finally lifting from the book to meet mine. "It is one way for a new pack member to bond, isn't it?"
I stare at him.
He stares back with that infuriating calm, that complete absence of shame or hesitation, as if what he just said is the most reasonable thing in the world.
Whiskey's head swivels between us. I can practically see the puzzle pieces slotting together in that chaotic brain of his that operates on pure instinct and zero filter.
"Huh," he says slowly. "That's… actually a good point."
I growl at him. "It is not—"
"No, no, hear me out." He holds up one hand, palm out, the universal gesture for let me cook. "Pack bonding. Physical intimacy. It's a thing. Scientific. Plague, you're basically a doctor, you know this shit. Being a smartass is your whole kink."
"I am not a doctor, Whiskey."
"Close enough. The point is…"
"There is no point. There is no bonding. I already told you, there is no…"
"You kissed me back."
Whiskey's jaw is set. His eyes haven't left mine. And for once—for fucking once—there's no trace of the class clown, the court jester, the himbo who makes everything into a joke because the alternative is feeling something too hard.
He means it.
He means every fucking word.
"I told you what it meant," I manage, dropping my voice to a low, frustrated whisper in hopes Valek can't hear me. I know he can. He's an alpha. "Our omega was in heat—"
"That's horseshit and you know it. You're scared.
" Whiskey takes a step closer. Just one.
But the distance between us shrinks enough that I can smell him now, that familiar cinnamon fucking apple pie warmth that goes straight to my traitorous fucking cock.
"You're scared because you felt something and you don't know what to do with it. "
My jaw is clenched so tight my teeth ache.
"Tell me I'm wrong, Hamsa."
Fuck, I hate when he calls me that.
I hate it because I like it.
The words won't come.
Because he's not wrong.
For once, he's infuriatingly right.
Valek shifts in the armchair. The movement draws my attention for just a second. He's watching us both, book forgotten, the stillness of a dangerous alpha who's decided to let something unfold, even if I don't believe he's a physical threat.
Not if Ivy likes him.
And when I look back, Whiskey is closer.
Close enough that when he reaches up, his hand finds my jaw.
I'm tempted to tell him to fuck off, promise Valek he's just being weird and this is all bullshit, slam and permanently lock a door between us and pretend this conversation and everything between us never happened.
I don't let people in.
Ivy is my only exception. She's my scent match. My mate.
Whiskey is a fucking wrecking ball.
And I'm not moving because I don't want to move, and that's terrifying.
Whiskey's thumb brushes across my cheekbone. The touch is too gentle for someone with hands that big, fingers that thick, the callused palms of an alpha who breaks things for a living.
Like me.
"Tell me I'm wrong," he says again, barely above a whisper.
I close my eyes.
And then his mouth is on mine.
The laptop slips from my grip. It hits the floor with a thud that only briefly irritates me because it was fucking expensive, but I don't have the mind to worry about it because Whiskey's lips are so warm and insistent. As if he's been waiting for me to stop running long enough for him to catch up.
I kiss him back.
I'm crumbling under the pressure of his mouth and his hands and the soft growling sound he makes when I fist my fingers in his shirt and tug him closer.
"Fuck," he breathes against my lips. "Fuck, Hamsa, I knew it—"
"Shut up," I growl against his mouth, nipping his lip to make sure he does.
His hands find my waist, my hips, sliding under the hem of my turtleneck to press against bare skin. I gasp into his mouth, which he takes as an invitation to deepen the kiss, his tongue shoving against mine.
Valek rises from the armchair.
"Room for one more?" he asks, his voice low and rough as he approaches with that same silent grace he brings to everything. He stops a few feet away, and when I break the kiss long enough to look at him—well, glare at him—his silver eyes are dark.
Whiskey's head turns. His breathing is ragged, his lips swollen, his honey-brown eyes glazed with want. He looks at Valek for a long moment.
Then he grins.
"Why the fuck not? Let's let Plague find out what you're like in bed. Best way to get to know someone, yeah?"
"Since when?" I scold him. "And why are you volunteering me?"
Valek hasn't moved closer. He's waiting, reading us both the way he reads a chessboard, and I realize with a jolt of irritation that he won't come to us. He's making us decide.
"Rules," I say, and my voice sounds steadier than I feel. "You stop when I say stop. And this doesn't mean anything."
He nods, and for once, he isn't grinning. "Agreed."
This is one way to make sure Valek isn't a threat, considering he's our scent match's fucking scent match, apparently.
Valek's hand finds the back of my neck at the same moment Whiskey's mouth finds my throat, and I immediately have second thoughts. My body locks up. I'm caught between them and I can't breathe, can't think, can only feel the pressure of both of them pressing closer.
Valek's lips brush my ear. "Is this acceptable?"
The phrasing is so him that I almost laugh.
Instead, I turn my head and kiss him.
His mouth is different from Whiskey's. Not like how I'd imagine a werewolf in a plaid shirt would kiss, for one thing. He kisses like he's testing what makes me react. When I bite his lower lip, his breath catches.