Chapter Three – Too Many Walls and Too Many Assholes
CHAPTER THREE
Too Many Walls and Too Many Assholes
B y the time we finally leave for home, I’m so exhausted that I’m ready to pass out for a few hours before worrying about food, but Jay makes us stop by Silva’s to grab takeout.
Out of the three of us, Jay had the shittiest childhood. Going to bed hungry reminds him too much of those days, and he hates it, so he’s always been the strongest advocate for stopping to eat, no matter how tired we are.
Normally, the downsides of our living situation don’t bother me. But today, everything grates: the overflowing dumpster in the alley next to our building, the empty bottles littering the base of the stairs, the faint sour smell in the stairwell.
When we actually step inside our apartment, it’s like I’m seeing it for the first time.
We barely have any furniture, just an old couch, a small TV, and a termite-infested wardrobe that needs serious treatment.
The nicest thing we own is the nest mattress that we bought years ago, right after the Matching Program was announced.
We thought a match would come soon, so we spent most of our savings on a decent nest. Back then, it felt like a smart investment.
But we didn’t have the money for a proper platform underneath, and by the time we could afford it, our hope had shrunk enough to keep us from bothering. So we left it on the floor.
Now I can’t stop thinking: if we mate in four weeks, wherever we end up, it’s gotta be better than this. No way this place is suitable for a nyra.
I haven’t thought about my mom in years, but now the memories come rushing back.
She bonded with my dads when she was nineteen.
I don’t have any happy memories of them together: they found Lydia, their scent-mate, when I was too young to remember.
And after Lydia came into the picture, I don’t think my mom had much happiness left in her life.
But she used to tell me stories about the time before, when she was in love and believed a non-scent bond could be enough.
She told me that when they bonded, my dads worked their asses off to buy her the perfect nest. The platform beneath it was made of polished cedar, and she used to wax it every week with perfumed oil.
Except during her and Lydia’s heats, when my dads took me and, later, my half-siblings to our grandparents' house, I slept in that nest with her every night until the day she went missing.
I remember feeling sad for her, knowing how much it hurt her, the fact that my dads were in the next room with their true mate, but I still loved sleeping beside her. She’d wrap her arms around me and I’d fall asleep breathing in her sweet scent, like honey and cinnamon.
A nest like the one she had is the least we can offer our nyra. As low-rank officers, we don’t make a ton of money, but we’ve got some savings and now we can afford a real setup, with a good wooden platform and a new mattress.
And I want it not just for her, but for my brothers too.
Jay and Shane are both sons of aegis with human women. They’ve never slept in a real nyra’s nest before, never known that scent-warmth-softness that sinks into your bones. I want them to feel that.
“How much do you think we’d make if we got into Special Ops?” I ask, between bites of my food.
Shane grins, wild and bright. “Way more than we make now. They’re not about to have Prime nyras living in shitholes like this, so I bet they pay Tier-One packs decently.”
Jay finishes chewing, swallows, and says, “They give every new pack bonded to a Prime a ten-thousand-dollar relocation grant.”
Shane stares. “How the hell do you know that?”
“It’s on the Matching Center website,” Jay says, not even embarrassed. “Information tab. I looked it up. Special Ops also offers an extra grand a month if you’re stationed in a high-cost city. I think they’re pretty serious about not letting their nyras live in bad conditions.”
Their smiles are so boyish, they look ten years younger. I probably do too. It’s all starting to feel too real.
“I think we need to work on managing expectations,” I say.
I want to believe that, in a few weeks, we’ll be sitting at a real table, eating a real dinner with our nyra in a warm home, with her scent thick in the air. But I’m scared to believe in something that good just to watch it all go to shit.
Jay looks at me sharply. “I’ve been thinking,” he says, his voice more serious now. “And Shane’s right.”
Shane chuckles. “Of course I am. But what exactly am I right about?”
Jay rolls his eyes. “If in four weeks we find out she’s not our nyra, we’ll be crushed either way, whether we let ourselves hope or not.
So fuck it. I’m gonna stop telling myself this is gonna go south somehow.
I’ll take all the happiness I can get out of this, and if it crashes, it crashes.
It’s not like we’re not used to getting screwed. ”
Shane nods at him. “Jay, that’s the best piece of wisdom you’ve ever given us.”
I nod too, because Jay’s right. No matter how hard we try to avoid hope, we can’t stop it from sneaking in. And when the truth comes, whatever it is, it’s gonna hit us either way. Whether this girl is ours or not, our lives are about to change.
Even though we worked the night before, we barely sleep, the three of us tossing and turning in the nest all night. My brothers’ scent tells me their minds are like mine, racing too much to let me relax.
When we get to the station the next morning, I feel every pair of eyes on us. As usual, we ignore everyone and go straight to the briefing room.
Over the next few minutes, the room fills with officers coming in for shift. Conversations die the second Sergeant Lowson starts roll call. “All right, let’s get into it. Everybody here? Good.”
Saying I like the sergeant would be a stretch. But I don’t dislike the man. And when it comes to human cops, my standards are so low that not actively hating him is enough to make me think he’s a decent guy.
“So, Saint Marie High,” he continues. “One confirmed fatality. Fourteen injured, mostly minor, caused by the panic. Shooter’s confirmed dead on scene, autopsy’s in progress.
Preliminary ID is John Mackenzie, twenty-two years old, local, no criminal record.
CSU’s still processing evidence. Homicide’s taking point for now, until the Feds decide how bad they want it.
Ballistics and a full use-of-force review are underway. ”
He looks straight at Shane, then adds, “Press is already circling the building. If anyone sticks a mic in your face, keep your mouth shut and direct them to the PIO. Don’t make us a headline.”
As if there’s even the slightest chance Shane will say anything to the press.
Of course there isn’t. His face stays blank, but I can smell his annoyance rising.
Jay and I react instantly, and a wave of calming pheromones replaces the scent of his irritation.
We’re probably overdoing it, but these next four weeks are critical.
We can’t risk anything, not even a ripple of tension.
The air is so thick with scent I’m amazed the humans don’t pick up on it. Their dull senses leave them clueless about half of what’s going on around them.
Lowson turns to me. “Larsens, until the Full Use-of-Force Board makes a determination, you’re benched. Admin hold. You clock in, clock out, and stay visible in the building.”
I nod. We knew this was coming.
I don’t mind the standard protocol after an OIS — Officer-Involved Shooting.
And since we’re strays, we get the full treatment: psychological evaluations, Internal Affairs interviews, blood panels, full medical workups.
All of it just to prove we’re still functioning as a controlled pack. That part I can live with.
What I hate is being stuck in the station, crammed into this shoebox with too many walls and too many assholes.
I’ve just sat down at my desk after briefing when Preston Moles drags a chair over and drops it in front of me like he owns the place.
“So,” he says. “I heard you guys found yourselves a golden pussy. Gonna turn you into real boys now, huh?”
His voice alone makes me want to punch him. On the table beside me, Jay shifts his weight slightly, eyes locked on Moles. Shane doesn’t move, but I catch his hand curling into a fist on the edge of his desk. But we’re not about to screw things up over a waste of air like him.
“Get off my table, Moles,” I growl.
“Oh, I don’t think so.” He leans in, face way too close. “I wanna know how it works. Three big guys for one girl… all her holes must be real loose to fit all of you.”
I clench my jaw. I know exactly what this is. Balls has probably already made it clear we’re fair game, giving every bastard in the building the green light to poke at us until we snap and sink our own ship.
I exhale slowly. This is how it’s going to be for the next few weeks, but we’ve been through worse, and if I let it get to me, he wins.
We usually ignore guys like him, but when it gets to this level, silence becomes a challenge and he’ll just keep escalating. I have to be smart on this one, so I play the game.
I meet his eyes. “Yeah. Just like your mama’s. Last night she took all three of us just fine.”
His face turns red instantly. “You’ve got some nerve talking about my mother with your filthy mouth!”
“Then get off my table,” I reply. “And you won’t have to hear anything from it.”
But he doesn’t move. Of course he doesn’t. He wants the reaction.
“Tell me, Larsen,” he says, his voice lower. “What’s it like to fuck a bitch so thirsty she needs three dicks to stay satisfied?”
Jay’s fingers drum once on the desk, a nervous tell that he wants this over now.
I take another deep breath and force my fists to unclench. “You tell me,” I reply. “I heard your wife needs even more than that.”