Page 35 of Feral Alphas

His lips flatten together, and he glances past me. “I don’t see George. Where is he?”

I suppress a sigh, sensing the tides turning. “We had a difference of opinion and parted ways.”

Romdine senior’s brows rise. “He’s been your manager for five years. Surely you could have worked through it?”

My jaw ticks as I look him over. “I don’t know, father. You tell me, was it something I could have ever worked through, or did you force his hand?”

His body pulses with a silent scoff. “If only your tongue was as smooth as your bow, you wouldn’t be losing allies, son.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.” Never mind war in the Isles, I have one blowing up right here in the Grand Theatre foyer. I suppose that’s insensitive to those experiencing real hardship; it’s not easy to overcome an inheritance of superficiality, but I am trying.

“It wasn’t one,” he shoots back. “Not having a pack at twenty-six is an embarrassment, and soon you’ll lose the chance on the good ones.”

“Perhaps I like being a lone wolf.”

He sneers. “No Romdine will be a loner. The West boys are here tonight, and they’re willing to overlook your rudeness.” He jerks his head over his shoulder to where a rowdy group stands by the champagne tower. “Go and chat with them and I’ll see if I can convince George to return.”

So, blackmail it is, with my manager as the bait. I snort. “I’ll go talk to them.” Anything’s better than standing here with this weasel. “But don’t bother contacting George.” I drop my hand onto his arm momentarily. “I’m not fond of puppets on strings.”

“Ta-ta, dove,” Aunt Reece coos, far more like a pigeon than I’ll ever be, acting blissfully unaware of the tension between the Romdine patriarch and his heir. Or ex-heir, probably.

It was a fricking good line I dropped on my father, but I don’t feel the same confidence inside as I cross the crowded marble floor. George handled all my publicity, and I’m not sure I even know my own social media logins. I have a big public event concert in six weeks, and I’ve no idea what needs organizing. With a heavy sigh,I realize I’ll need to hold onto tonight’s payment in order to hire someone new.

I just want to play music and be done with the family bull crap.

Snippets of the boys’ conversation hit my ears as I approach. Brian West smacks his forehead. “Shit, my ass is numb after sitting for an hour through that drudgery.”

I feel like flushing his head down a toilet, an impulse I haven’t had for nearly a decade. Guess I am getting old.

One of the betas hanging off the men I went to school with reaches her manicured hand back to pinch his rayon-clad derriere. “I can help with that, dove.”

I suppress a shudder. Clayton West elbows his brother to silence him and calls out to me. “Here’s the man of the hour!”

“Good evening to all.” I rest one hand on Brian’s shoulder. “I’m glad you’re all smiling since I’d hate to hear anyone thought Rephnelium Wester’s masterpiece wasdreary.”

Brian laughs. “Don’t be sulky.” He lifts both hands in a wide shrug. “You know I’m a man of action.”

“Then why torture yourself by coming to these concerts?” I ask. He’s always been like that, doing whatever the fudge he wants but only if he can complain about it.

He smirks and turns to take one of the wide-topped champagne glasses. “Because of the booze, brother.”

“Then at least pass me one,” I demand, agreeing with him on the point that quality champs might be the only thing that will make this mingle bearable—especially with my father still glaring at me across the room.

“Oh, did you hear the good news, Kye?” the middle of the three West boys asks as he hands me a glass. “Ronin scent matched withan omega. We’re bringing her home next week. Good time to make a decision.” He eyes me with amusement, like I’m being a petulant child not wanting to join their pack.

My heart leaps at the word and I grip the slender glass stem tighter. “Only with Ronin?”

“Yeah, but so what? He said she’s a gorgeous red-head, mild as butter and twice as smooth.” He taps his nose to indicate her scent.

If she’s scent matched, that means she’s been through the Kazi Omega Center, which has my sample. In fact, every omega center in this damn country has my sample, thanks to an overzealous father desperate to continue his lineage through his son.

My shoulders slump. Is it a pipe dream to want an omega that matches with my personal scent? Bonding with any omega is said to be super sweet, but I always thought if there was a match with my DNA it’ be a sign from the universe, like there was a person out there designed for me. Someone who’d be truer than my own soul.

Yeah, pipedream for sure, just like living off my music, even though I’ve achieved a modicum of success.

Clayton nods to me. “Brian’s right. You can’t keep vacillating about this. Now that we’ve got a bitch coming in, other guys are asking if there’s a vacancy.”

How he can call his brother’s soul mate a bitch is beyond me. They both need a good head dunking, preferably if the bowl isn’t clean.

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