LLogan's POV
I tell myself my plan isn't harebrained. It's practical.
The fact is that Noah's pissed at me. Which, fine. Fair. I didn't actually do anything with Elliot, but intent counts for something, and if he hadn't walked in? Goddess knows I would've fucked that Beta until the only word he remembered was my name.
Problematic? Yeah. I know that now.
I'd done the whole 'I'm gonna get you back' song and dance, tossed in some not-so-subtle teasing, left all the right breadcrumbs to lead him right back to me, and I still thought it was a good idea to mess around with Noah's best friend. If I were him, I'd be pissed too.
'I don't care,' the Omega had said, jaw tight. 'You're seeing other people. I'm seeing other people. This is what's best for us.'
'You have my blessing,' he'd said.
If there's one thing I know about Noah Whitaker, it's that he's a shit liar.
Sure, my hypocrisy probably annoyed him, but it's more than that. He still feels something for me.
"That something is hatred," Fenrir deadpans inside my head.
"Shut up and think of a way to catch that ox," I shoot back.
Fenrir huffs, settling into the recesses of my mind with all the grace of a disgruntled house cat.
The Ox.
Not like its slow, lumbering cousins in the wild. No, this thing's a government-engineered nightmare. Years ago, they outlawed the hunting of actual oxes and other animals as part of their conservation efforts (read: starving out supernaturals because, surprise, native packs had been handling wildlife just fine for centuries). Hunting bans meant genetically modified replacements, and the Ox? More jackrabbit than livestock.
Ears that pick up a twig snapping a mile away. Fur so dense it feels shifts in the air like whispers. Horns sharp enough to gut a grown werewolf. Legs that run faster than a bullet kicks.
I caught it once before. Doesn't mean it was easy.
Most Melees, the Ox walks uncaught. It's an animal that takes a pack of hunters days to track it and bring it down. One wolf catching it in a single night? That's how you earn the honor of the clan. Most of us stick to rabbits, enjoy the feast, and call it a night. The ones dumb enough to chase the Ox leave empty-handed and as laughingstocks.
But I have to try.
Because Noah never looks at me with more reverence than when I'm doing the impossible. I need those eyes on me again. Need them locked on me long enough that he forgets about that damn doctor—
Kieran.
The name alone makes my teeth ache.
Before I can spiral into another round of seething, I nearly plow into my mother.
"Sorry, sweetheart," she mutters, not even looking at me as she brushes past.
I catch her wrist, pulling her back. "Woah, slow down, Mama. What's going on?"
I've been too in my own head to notice it before, but now that I'm paying attention—the Big House is swarming. Werewolves everywhere—hanging decorations, shifting furniture, prepping like they're expecting royalty. There's an energy in the air, a crackling sort of anticipation.
"The Melee," Mom says, like that explains anything. "Someone has to get this place ready for it."
Jorge—who's never once considered me useful—snarls from across the room, "You can make yourself useful by fucking off."
I grin, calling to the man struggling with a ladder, "Always good to see you, Jorge."
He flips me off.
I turn back to Mom. "We don't usually go this all out for Melees."
She doesn't pause, shouting to a passing omega, "Red ribbons, not blue!" Then, to me, "It's the first Melee with all three packs in fifteen years. We're hosting. I'm not letting Solivern and Kurtal think we're slobs."
I blink. "We're celebrating with the other packs?"
She nods absently, already moving.
"The Department allowed that?"
She pauses just long enough to move a lamp from one table to another. "Yes, that's what I believe that was implied."
I can barely believe my ears. "The Department of Paranormal Affairs allowed that?"
She shouts something else at a passing Omega—something about lights or banners—but I'm not listening.
"Maybe they got tired of refusing permits," she says, shrugging. A soft smile graces her face, "Besides, the Eastvale Coyotes won that game. It probably swayed them. I'm so proud of you, baby."
I frown. "We've won games before. That can't be why."
This wasn't a championship. Not even close. Getting permission for a full-pack gathering after a tournament win? Sure. But one minor game? No way. It's a lie and I know she knows it's a lie.
Another pause. The first crack in her usual, unshakeable exterior appears.
Mom finally looks at me. Her blue eyes—same as mine—go soft. Sad. "Oh, Logan… Times are changing, and—"
"That's crockshit and you know it!" Rowan's voice thunders down from upstairs.
I don't wait. I'm moving before Mom can stop me, taking the steps two at a time.
"Logan! Wait!"
Too late.
I take the stairs two at a time, Fenrir growling low in my head.
'Something's wrong.'
I hiss underneath my breath, "Ya think?"
I shove open the door to my Dad's study without knocking.
Inside, the air is thick enough to choke on.
Dad's at his desk, fingers pressed to his temples like he's fighting off a migraine. Rowan's halfway out of his seat, lips peeled back in a snarl, fangs on full display.
And then there's him.
A human.
Captain Steve.
He's a Department lackey. Part of Eastvale's so-called law enforcement. I know him well, he's the officer assigned to our corner of town. Never liked him. The guy oozes false importance and ox shit, but we all know the golden rule: Don't step on the tail of the Department's goons, and they won't bother you.
So what the hell is he doing here?
And in that ridiculous new uniform?
I've never seen him in it before; sky-blue and black military-style robes. Gold pauldrons. Rank insignias in red and black. His sword rests on the floor, balanced at the side of his seat like he's not sitting in a house full of wolves in the middle of wolf territory.
Because he's not worried.
The Virilite gun hanging on his belt makes sure of that.
Steve leans back, grinning. "Whittaker Junior Junior. Nice of you to join us. Congrats on the win. Good game."
I mutter a thanks, but my focus is on the tension strangling the room.
Dad sighs. "You should've knocked."
Steve stands, brushing nonexistent dust off his pristine uniform. *"No matter. I was just leaving." He clips his scabbard to his belt. "I only told you as a courtesy. We've known each other so long, after all."
A pause. A smirk.
"Now you know. Maybe help your people… prepare."
He nods at Dad, "Be seeing you, Whittaker Senior—" then at Rowan— "Whitaker Junior—" then me— "Junior Junior."
I know he thinks that nickname is hilarious but every time he says it, I want to claw his skin off.
Luckily for him, Steve walks out, tossing over his shoulder, "I'll see myself out. You mutts enjoy your ceremony."
The door shuts.
Rowan growls, low and lethal, at the closed door.
Dad drags a hand through his hair. He looks ten years older than he did five minutes ago. "Courtesy, he says," he mutters. "More like gloating."
Rowan slams a fist on the desk. "Those damn Fragiles! This is against the Treaty!"
My pulse kicks up. Fenrir whines, uneasy.
"Dad," I say, voice tight. "What's going on?"
My father sighs again. It's like he has an entire bag of sighs locked in his chest. "Don't worry about it."
Rowan explodes. "Fuck that! Why are you coddling the PAC dog? Tell him!"
Dad's growl shakes the room. "Language."
"PAC dog isn't a cuss! It's what he is!" Rowan's eyes burn into me. "As long as Logan gets to toss his balls around, he doesn't have to suffer like the rest of us."
Suffer?
"What the hell does that mean?" I demand.
Rowan opens his mouth—
"Rowan." Dad's voice drops, Alpha command weaving through. "Don't. Say. Another. Word."
Rowan's jaw clamps shut. He doesn't have the spine to defy a direct order from the Alpha.
He exhales hard through his nose, then shoves back from the table. "You think this won't touch him? Fine. Maybe you're right. PAC treats their pets well. The rest of us? We're just taking up space. But everyone's gonna get it sooner or later."
Dad simply replies, "We'll discuss this after the Melee."
Rowan tsks and storms out, slamming the door behind him.
Silence.
Fenrir's agitation thrums under my skin.
There's clearly something they're not telling me, something important and I can't stand being in the dark like this.
"Dad…" I start.
He cuts me off with a forced smile. "So, Logan. Heard you had your bare ass hanging out for the whole team to see."
Crap.