Chapter 19 Wyatt, Boone, Levi, Wade, Cooper
WYATT. BOONE. LEVI. WADE. COOPER.
Two days ago…
[Almost present day]
Wyoming
Wyatt.
The light sliced through the gap in the hotel curtains with razor precision, splitting my skull in two as I cracked my eyelids apart.
My mouth tasted like I'd been licking the floor of Shorty's—not entirely impossible given the state I'd worked myself into last night. Fuck, how many shots had I knocked back by the time the world went blurry? Not even six…paired with a few pints of beer. Usually, I burned liquor off so fast I barely achieved a proper buzz. I didn’t recall eating anything, which might have worsened the problem, but still…
Was this part of the decay process?
Was I slowly losing the benefits of being Alpha, while gaining the detriments?
I groaned, rolling onto my back, the cheap mattress creaking beneath my weight as the room spun lazily around me. Reminded me of that teacup ride at the state fair when Wade and I were kids. Hated how it made me feel back then, hated it more now.
The hotel room was empty around me. I was all alone. Again.
The Beta, whose name I’d long forgotten, was gone.
She’d probably bolted as soon as I’d passed out.
Had we even fucked? I looked down, finding my jeans still belted around my waist. I wasn’t even under the covers.
Jesus, I couldn’t even manage a one-night stand these days.
Long gone was the ‘has it all together’ pack leader.
In his place, was a guy waking up in a pool of his own fucking drool.
Fragments of the night before flickered through my mind like a broken film reel.
The too sweet, artificial perfume. The woman smelled like she’d bathed in the stuff, nothing like the natural pheromones of an Omega.
The curve of her hip under my palm. It had been soft enough, silky enough.
Not enough. Never enough. Before I’d even left Shorty’s with her, the hollow emptiness in my chest told me it was an exercise in futility.
"Shit," I muttered, pressing the heels of my hands against my eyes until starbursts exploded behind the lids.
I couldn't do this anymore. The constant cycle of hoping each encounter might somehow satisfy the craving, only to be left feeling hollower than before when the sun rose. The pretending. The polite conversations at the bar. The bringing them back here, to this same shitty hotel.
I threw my legs over the side of the bed and sat up, wincing as my head throbbed in protest.
My body physically ached for completion, for the perfect chemical lock-and-key that only a true mate could provide. For the feeling of knotting, of being accepted fully instead of having to pull out at the last moment, spilling myself into a condom or between painted lips.
"Dammit," I growled louder this time, my voice bouncing off the paper-thin walls. "I'm making Cooper call Eros today. We’re getting a goddamn refund."
If we could prod the house contractors into high gear thanks to a little fine print in a contract, then we could certainly put pressure on Eros too.
Even if they wouldn’t give our money back immediately, maybe they’d give our pack priority again.
I had a feeling—and I’d had it for a while—that the institute shifted our case to the bottom of the list. You learn quickly in life that the person who shouts loudest usually gets their needs met first.
"Almost a year," I continued, needing to hear the words out loud. "They've had their chance."
I stood up, ignoring the way the floor seemed to tilt under my feet, and stomped to the bathroom. The tile was cold, and the fluorescent light buzzed angrily after I flipped its switch. I emptied my bladder, the pressure in my skull receding slightly with the relief.
When I finished, I made the mistake of looking in the mirror while washing my hands.
The man who stared back at me looked... broken.
On the outside, I still appeared to be a prime Alpha.
Tall. Muscled. Imposing. But that shit only went skin deep.
Unconsciously, I flexed my bicep as if to prove to the mirror I was still a beast. Too bad brawn did nothing to save me these days.
My insides had gone through a meat grinder, several times over.
I was bits of flesh, chummed into a pile that no longer resembled the original slab of beef.
I hated my reflection.
Hated looking too long, seeing the bloodshot eyes and the truth behind them—that I was no longer the man I used to be.
Without thinking, my fist connected with the mirror.
The glass cracked outward from the point of impact, a spiderweb fracturing until my face was interrupted by dozens of irregular lines. My features didn't quite fit together anymore. Suddenly, I was Frankenstein's fucking monster, my outsides matching my insides.
Blood dripped from my knuckles into the sink, diluting as it mixed with the water I'd left running. I watched the crimson-turned-pink swirl down the drain. Bits of me going down the drain.
Wade always thought he was the lesser one.
He worried about his visible imperfections—the scar through his eyebrow, the gap in his front teeth, that ridiculous mullet he insisted on keeping.
But Wade didn't understand that his imperfections were honest, worn on the outside where everyone could see them.
Mine were buried deep, festering under a carefully maintained exterior of confidence and charm. The perfect Alpha. The natural leader. The one who never broke.
Except I was breaking. I’d been breaking for months, splintering with each passing day that Eros failed to find us a match. Each night I spent in rooms like this one, trying to fill the void, only brought me closer to complete destruction.
I brutally slammed off the tap before grabbing a thin, scratchy towel. I wrapped it around my wound, not bothering to pick out the small shards of glass embedded in my skin. The pain felt clarifying, something real to focus on instead of the constant, gnawing emptiness.
Back in the bedroom, I yanked on my beer-stained shirt and shoved my feet into my boots. My wallet was still in my back pocket, truck keys too. I practically fled from the motel room, slamming its door behind me.
Pinedale was active this time of day, folks strolling with dogs and catching up in front of the hardware store. Straightening my posture, I plastered on what I hoped was a pleasant expression, and I tried to regain a bit of my goddamn dignity.
One thing I knew for certain: shit couldn't continue this way. Hopelessly waiting for an Omega, while losing our damn minds, ended today.
Boone.
I ripped another cluster of Larkspur from the pasture ground using such force that I stumbled backwards, nearly falling on my ass.
I tossed it into the open trash bag beside me, the third one.
I’d already filled two. Later, I’d have to ride back to the barn and grab the UTV to haul them all to the bio dumpster.
Once that was at capacity, the hazardous waste company would pick it up, give us a new one, and take the invasive plant to county for safe disposal.
A while back, they’d just let folks put Larkspur in with the regular trash, if it was properly bagged.
Once the dumping grounds started sprouting the poisonous shit everywhere, they’d changed protocol.
The pretty purple flowers of the deadly plant could trick anyone into thinking there was no harm in picking them, in smelling them, in letting them exist around a herd.
Every part of Larkspur was toxic. To animals.
To people. You want tremors, neuromuscular paralysis, potential death?
It’s just the ticket. Couldn’t even burn the shit out because you’d inhale the smoke.
Though, that wasn’t effective anyway. Had to get the complete plant, every inch of root base, or the damn stuff would grow back overnight.
So here I was, gloved up to my elbows, working my ass off.
Sweat dripped down my spine despite the cool, early Wyoming morning.
I wanted to finish this job before the sun got higher.
Summer days heated up fast, though the nights could still plummet to forty.
I unleashed a string of curses as the next bit of Larkspur snapped at the base, roots firmly underground.
The plants were winning, and my patience was losing.
"Goddamn purple devils," I growled, reaching for the shovel. A nearby calf startled at my outburst, skittering back to join its mother at the far end of the pasture. Good, they needed to stay away from this shit. A couple times, we’d tried to temporarily fence off Larkspur infestations.
The cows kept knocking the barriers down.
We debated sinking posts and giving the block-offs more permeance, but that would mean a lot of install and break down work.
The easiest, quickest thing to do, was get out here as soon as we spotted the purple blooms and tear them the hell out.
I slammed the shovel’s tip repeatedly into the soil, making a square around the snapped stems, and then I sunk the blade deeper, standing on it before rocking back for leverage. The Earth gave way, lifting the stubborn roots into view.
For the next two hours straight, I filled trash bags.