Page 5 of Feral Omega

"When he's like that?" Whiskey echoes in disbelief. "You make it sound like he's a toddler throwing a temper tantrum and not a seven-foot-fucking-three monster juggernaut going on a murderous rampage!"

Valek cocks his head. "You know his exact height?"

"What?" Whiskey snaps, turning toward him. "The fuck does that have to do with anything?"

"It's just kind of weird," Valek says, kicking back on the couch and propping his muddy boot up on the wall, because apparently, we're a den of complete and utter savages. "I know I'm six-nine and the big guy's taller than me, but still, I could only give you a range."

"I've seen him standing by the refrigerator," Plague chimes in, having apparently given up on trying to get Whiskey to hold still so he can fix his damn nose. "The refrigerator is six feet tall, and there were coffee cans stacked on top that are about a foot tall each. I seem to recall him being roughly a coffee can and a half taller than the refrigerator. So if I had to guess, he's closer to seven-foot-five, seven-six at the most."

"What is this, a fucking word problem?" Whiskey demands.

"See, even that wasn't as weird as you just rattling off the guy's exact height off the top of your head like that," Valek shoots back.

"We don't know what his exact height is," Plague says in his faint yet annoyingly posh northern accent, sounding slightly exasperated. "I don't have anything in his chart except his blood type, and only that because I collected a sample."

We all turn to stare at him.

"How the fuck did you get a sample from him?" I ask, deciding I really don't want to know the answer as soon as the question is out of my mouth. There's no way in hell Wraith submitted to a blood test.

Come to think of it, I did catch Plague creeping around by the side of my bed a few months ago. Huh.

"Look, this is all beside the fucking point!" Whiskey says, holding his hands up. He turns to me, his eyes burning with a challenge I'd expect from Valek, but not him.

Maybe things have gone further than I thought.

"And what is your point, Whiskey?" I ask stiffly. "Because so far, all you've done is bitch and moan."

His eyes narrow and he stalks forward, jabbing a finger in my face. My alpha rage immediately boils up to the surface, but I'm well practiced at simmering it down.

It's getting harder lately, though. Probably the cabin fever. As vast as the grounds of the Chateau are, we're still five alphas cooped up together with nothing but our never-ending missions to take the edge off.

"My point," he says bitterly, "is that you're the leader of this shitshow, which makes that freak your responsibility."

"Watch yourself," I say through my teeth, the edge of a bark coming into my words. It's not something I use on my fellow alphas—especially not the ones who belong to my pack—lightly. "That 'freak' is my brother."

"All the more reason for you to keep him in line," he spits.

We stand there, toe to toe, staring each other down, neither willing to be the one who looks away first. A black-gloved hand shoots out of nowhere from my right and before I can react, Plague grabs Whiskey's broken nose and snaps it back into place. Blood sprays the air and the younger soldier lets out a pained scream of indignation, gripping his face.

"Fuck! That hurt, you psychopath!" he howls.

"It's easier if you don't see it coming," Plague says with the detached air of a serial killer, plucking a red handkerchief from his pocket like some old timey gentleman and methodically wiping the blood off his gloved hand. "By the way, you've put on weight, and it's not all muscle," he adds, motioning to Whiskey's bare torso.

"What the fuck, dude! I'm bulking!"

Plague hums. "Well, it's going to slow you down—and you're already not our most agile alpha, as today has shown."

Whiskey storms out of the main room, muttering a slew of bird-themed curses under his breath. Valek stalks after him, laughing his ass off. He loves pain. Prefers it when he's the one inflicting it, though—and considering he was a literal serial killer on death row before the Council got their hands on him and shoved him into my collection of psychopaths, he's caused his share of it.

But any kind will do, really.

Plague lingers, going over to gather the leftover supplies back into his leather doctor's bag. It's definitely not field issue. Guy has an aesthetic, I'll give him that.

"Thanks for that," I mutter.

"For what?" he asks innocently without looking up from his task of carefully placing the vials of antiseptic and other supplies back into his bag. The tinny clink of glass against glass is making my teeth ache.

"For stopping me from kicking the kid's ass."

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