Page 46 of Storm
That leaves me with the seat to Jonathan's left, directly across from Reed. Perfect.
I hesitate before pulling out the chair, nearly knocking over the water glass as I sit down. An awkward silence falls as we settle in. I stare at the elaborate place settings, my hands trembling slightly as I try to remember which fork to use for what. A beta servant appears from a side door carrying a platter, and I jump slightly at the sudden movement. I hadn't realized there would be staff here. It makes sense—elite alphas don't cook for themselves—but it adds another layer of unreality to this whole situation.
"Alex arrives tomorrow," Jonathan says once the first course has been served. "I expect everyone to make him feel welcome."
Storm stabs a piece of food with her fork, the movement unnecessarily violent. "Is he as much of an asshole as you?"
I nearly choke on my water, coughing into my napkin. Speaking to an alpha like that—especially Jonathan Kingsley—should earn her a sharp lecture at best, an alpha bark at worst. But Jonathan merely raises an eyebrow.
"No," he says, his tone oddly soft. "Alex is nothing like me."
Something in his voice makes me look up, then immediately back down when I accidentally catch his eye. For just a moment, there's an expression on Jonathan's face I can't quite place—almost like longing, or regret. It's gone as quickly as it appeared, his features returning to their usual mask of cold control.
Reed shifts slightly, his gaze moving between Jonathan and Storm. "Alex is the more... approachable twin," he says, the words casual but loaded with meaning.
Jonathan shoots him a look that would make most people cower, but Reed just returns it steadily. There's a history here, a complex dynamic I don't understand.
“You have a twin?” Storm blurts out.
"As I was saying," Jonathan continues, "Alex's return is important. My father’s expect to see a united front at dinner in three days. That means you—" he points his fork at Storm, "—need to at least attempt to act like a proper omega."
Storm's eyes narrow. "Define 'proper.'"
"The basics would be a start. Don't challenge every word I say. Don't insult my family to their faces. Don't act like being in the same room with me is torture."
"But it is torture," she says sweetly, batting her eyelashes in exaggerated innocence.
I hide a smile behind my napkin, then immediately worry that Jonathan noticed. I busy myself with cutting my food into unnecessarily small pieces, trying to be invisible.
"You think this is a game?" Jonathan says, his voice cooling several degrees. "It's not. My fathers are not men to be trifled with. They expect certain standards, certain behaviors. If they find you lacking?—"
"What, they'll send me to my room without dessert?" Storm interrupts.
Jonathan sets down his fork with careful precision. "They'll take matters into their own hands. And trust me, Storm, you do not want that."
Something in his tone makes me shiver involuntarily. I grip my fork tighter to hide the trembling of my hands.
"Fine," Storm says after a moment. "I'll play nice for the daddy’s. But I want something in return."
Jonathan raises an eyebrow. "Which is?"
"Information." She leans forward, her wild curls falling around her face. "I want to know what happened to Rook after Choosing Day. Where he is, what he's doing. Everything."
The tension at the table ratchets up several notches. Reed's scent spikes with something sharp and dangerous, while Jonathan's expression turns to granite. I sink lower in my chair, wishing I could disappear entirely.
"We've been over this," Jonathan says, his voice flat.
"Not good enough," Storm pushes back. "You promised?—"
"I promised he wouldn't be harmed if he stayed away," Jonathan cuts her off. "That's it. I don't owe you any more information than that."
Storm's scent turns bitter with frustration and anger. "If you expect me to play the perfect little omega for your fathers, I need more than vague assurances."
Jonathan studies her for a long moment, his green eyes unreadable. Then he turns to Reed. "Show her."
Reed's eyebrows shoot up.
"Show her," Jonathan repeats, his tone allowing no argument.
