Page 34 of Feral Alphas

My eyes snap open in the dark to see the clock flick over to 1:01am and a cold clarity washes over me, leaving goosebumps on my skin. He’s not talking about her like she was simply the best fuck of his life. He’s speaking the way the scent matched alphas refer to their soulmates.

And there’s no way in hell the Omega Center will release an abused omega into his pack when he’s got a criminal in his custody—not even a reformed one.

He squeezes me tight and rests his head against mine. “I’m so glad I’ve got you, Luka.”

I stroke his hand while my gut twists into a knot. What if having me becomes the reason he can’t have her? I cannot stand between Colt and his chance at true happiness.

Chapter fourteen

Kye

My bow hovers above the cello for a few seconds and expectancy runs through the gathered crowd. Scent dampeners lie thick in the air, but the instrument balanced against my chest has its own specific smell, of horsehair and wood varnish. Plenty of musicians use synthetic strings, sacrificing quality to do so. Sacrifice is not in my vocabulary.

I move my arm, summoning the first delicate thrums from the vibrating strings. The ensemble come in two bars later with a gentle and soothing accompaniment, a fitting backdrop for the spell of wonder I weave across the audience of frilled and bejeweled guests.

I close my eyes, concentrating on the feel of the four thick strings under my fingers and the glide of the bow. For this suspended moment, nothing else matters. Not my arse of a family trying to force me into a pack full of morons, nor the withholding of my trust fund until I comply, or the fact my career is hanging by a thread after my manager walked out on me two days ago.

Only rightness exists in this precious moment, as if time itself pauses to hear the genius of the music. The notes vibrate through my entire body until my blood pumps in sync. Composer Rephnelium Nesters was the musical mastermind of his era, and if I could travelto any moment in time, I’d go back thirty years to hear him play this piece, Starless Skies. I was born a generation too late to meet him.

Did writing this epic piece tug at his heart like it does at mine? I’m sure it did because his music tells me he felt things deeply.

My part finishes and the strings behind me swell as I stand, lifting my bow in the obligatory acknowledgement of their presence and I sway to the rhythm for a moment before retaking my seat and diving into the second stanza as the melody turns haunting.

What was it in Rephnelium’s life that darkened his skies? The biographies say he went blind two years after composing this arrangement, but maybe his vision was blurring long before then. The only thing worse than an artist going blind would be joining an intolerable pack and submitting to some two-bit alpha who doesn’t know his tail from his head.

The concert hour goes by in a flash, far quicker than ten minutes of chatting with the fops I call friends from Dreamwillow Academy where I earned my masters in music performance.

I glide off the final note and lift my bow with a flourish, sweat from the exertion and blazing stage lights trickling down my chest. This is living! An exhilarated smile crosses my face as I stand and bow amid applause. Despite being entranced for an hour, the audience is a little stingy, but I forgive them because I know half the women are wearing gloves and no one wants to be seen applauding too enthusiastically. It isn’t hip.

The master of ceremonies leaps onto stage. “Another round of applause for the talented Kye Romdine, and the wonderful Cloud Nine orchestra! And a huge thank you to all of you beautiful souls out there for supporting this charity event! We invite you to join us in the lobby foramuse-bouche.”

That makes this the type of gathering which allows the hosts to charge exorbitant prices to people who can’t eat food unless it’s served in another language while paying me half of what I’m worth, all in the name of the greater good. But I’m not in a position to be picky when the Romdines have frozen my fricking fund.

The spotlights track me as I heft my twenty-pound cello and exit stage left. I look around for my manager and a pang hits me as I realize he’s not here, and never will be again. I can’t even remember exactly what we fought about, but I’m pretty sure it was a pretense, since my father hired George in the first place. He’s trying to force me back into the fold.

At the bottom of the stairs, I’m hit with a blast of cold air laced with mist. I twist around, shielding my cello from the spray. “Who the frick left the dampeners on when the instruments are coming offstage!” I roar.

A stagehand comes running. “Sorry, sir!”

“Sorry? Sorry doesn’t cut it for a six-hundred-thousand-dollar instrument, boy! Fricking moron!” Even after all these years I’m swearing the only way mom tolerated. I snort at my own foolishness.

If George was here, I’d make him clean it, but since he’s not I’ll clean it myself. Can’t have that dampness lingering on the strings. The poky dressing room they gave me is barely big enough to host me and the five-foot tall cello and its storage case, but I manage to get my baby wiped down and safely housed in the solid case, sparing an extra moment to affectionately stroke the detailed scroll work.

This instrument is the only honest thing in my life.

After straightening my bow tie, I head out into the fray to mingle and get my share of the amuse-bouche. Thanks to learning both French and Spanish to better understand the classics, I can evenpronounce the entrée properly. I would have been forced to learn languages anyway, thanks to an excessive Romdine education.

Waiters dressed in all white bear the trays around the room with both hands, as if the foreign name gives extra weight to the smoked salmon with blue cheese or spoons balancing mouthfuls of avocado and roe stuffed peppers.

“Kye, that was delightful, dove!” Aunt Reece swarms up to my arm, snagging a salmon piece before the tray swings away. Dove; the current ‘it’ word, supposedly used in heartfelt wish for peace after war broke out in the Southern Isles two months ago. Glibly referencing the archaic symbol is preferable to actually making any kind of war effort or campaigning for an embargo which might stifle third-quarter profits.

“Thank you, Aunty,” I murmur, offering my cheek for her kisses.

She hums near my ear. “Smell that alpha. All grown up!”

“He’s been grown up for nine years now.”

I stiffen at the deep voice punching through our tiny moment of pretend familial love. There goes the neighborhood. I turn and offer a forced smile. “Thank you for recognizing that, Dad.”

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