Page 7 of Pack Rivals, Part One

Nate groans, running his finger around the collar of his shirt like it just grew ten times tighter. "Not that bullshit."

"Yeah, that bullshit," I confirm. "We have to make an appearance, show our faces. Every other pack, every other alpha of prominence, will be there. If we're not, questions will be asked, rumors will start–"

"Your mother will spank your ass," Nate mutters.

"Nothing to do with my mother," I say, although avoiding my mother whining at me down the line of a telephone has become one of my most frequent pastimes. She's becoming weaker by the day and every phone call is more painful. "We don't want anything derailing this deal. And if people start asking where we are, other people might start checking up on us and then …" I sweep my hand through the air. "We've worked fucking hard to keep this deal quiet. I'm not having everything blow up in our face at the final checkpoint."

"Fine," Nate mutters, tapping his fingernail against the rim of his glass. "But, Axel, don't pretend with the whole omega crap. We all know there'll be no one of interest there tonight."

That's because we know all the omegas in the city – hell, we've slept with most of them – helped half of them through their heats; something that was fucking fun when we first formed our pack and started making a name for ourselves in this city. We'd been the new boys in town. Every omega had wanted to snag us. But, fuck me, that got tired real quick. I'm sick to death of whiny little omegas who expect to be waited on hand and foot. Something I wouldn't mind if they weren't a bunch of self-centered princesses, more worried about ruining their blow dry when you take them to bed, than blowing their minds.

There's no passion, no spontaneity, no hunger.

It's all selfies, expensive handbags and browsing for engagement rings.

Nate nods. "I'd sooner go blow a grand in a strip club."

That's been his way of dealing with things. A pack is meant to have an omega. Someone as passionate and animalistic as we are. Someone who wants us to pull her hair and rut her hard. Someone who wants our heads lost between her thighs. Someone who wants to be knotted firmly to our cocks.

My way of dealing with things? Bury myself in our work. This deal – the calculation and implementation of it – was all mine.

I can't wait to wipe the smile off Angel Boston's face. I can't wait to tell him: we win, you lose. Tough luck, you wannabe fucker.

I take the last sip of my bourbon.

"We just have to show our faces," I promise them both, "shake a few hands. Pretend to be interested in a few daughters. Then you can fuck off to some strip joint and roll in whenever you like tomorrow morning."

Nate doesn't grin this time. He hates shaking hands and polite conversations. The man was born several millennia too late.

I push back my chair, the legs squeaking against the polished floor. "I'm going to freshen up. We leave in fifteen."

In the private bathroom off my office, I splash water over my face and try not to notice the dark rings under my gray eyes. Rings caused partly by the long drive I made earlier to secure this fucking deal, and partly because it's not just sex we need an omega for. It's other crap too. Crap none of us would ever admit to out loud. Crap we need, nonetheless.

No matter what bullshit circulates on the internet, an alpha's only need isn't to bury his knot. An alpha needs someone to hold, to protect, to cherish. And not in the way those precious princesses want. It's more fundamental than that; more base, more primal.

We haven't found the right woman yet. It feels like we never will.

Maybe we ought to give up on pampered omegas all together. Maybe we'd be better off with a beta.

A beta like that pretty thing at the gas station yesterday. A tiny little thing, with curves in all the right places, a flirtatious smile and eyes the color of amber.

She may have been a beta, but I'd caught a whiff of something standing behind her in the gas station. Her perfume, I presume. Yet, sweet and delicious, like burned sugar on my tongue.

I close my eyes, tasting that flavor again. Shit, it tasted good. I wonder if the rest of her tastes like that. I wonder if I can lay my hands on whatever that perfume was. I'll have to ask Mrs. Finch to investigate for me. Not that she'll be happy. She seems as keen as my mother to see our pack settled down.

A set of knuckles tap against the door. "You ready Axel? I think our man's been cooking in there long enough."

"Sure," I say, tightening my tie around my neck and shrugging on my suit jacket.

When the three of us step inside the boardroom a minute later, it's sweltering and old Malcolm is melting in his chair, sweat pouring down his tomato-red face.

"All done here?" I ask.

"Yeah," Malcolm says, sliding the contract my way and running the back of his hand over his brow. "Could I have a glass of water?"

"No." I flip through the pages, making sure he's signed properly. Then I slam it shut and hold out my hand. "Nice doing business with you, Malcolm."

Malcolm slumps to his feet and shuffles around the table. I can tell he wants to say something bitter to me, but he's too hot to make his tongue work.

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