Filed To Story: Alpha's Regret: His Wrongful Rejection
I unzip her hoodie, feed her nipples into my mouth, suckle and bite, and she goes wild. She needs me inside her. She whimpers, begging, and I give it to her while she clings to me, moaning.
“Cadoc,” she sobs.
Unprepared, I come with a grunt, hot seed dripping over my knuckles, splattering on the wet tile by my bare feet. A song ends, and another starts.
I’ve never come quicker. Or harder.
Or felt more like shit afterwards.
I step out, dry off, and quickly shave, apply pomade, style the sides and flatten the top until I look respectable, roll on deodorant, and call for my clothes.
A Lewis bustles in with a garment bag and a pair of oxblood wingtips.
“Hang it there.” I gesture to the hook at the end of the locker bank.
I hope the jacket’s big enough. My clothes have been getting tighter. Makes sense if I’m going into rut.
Holy fuck.
Rut.
A hundred pornographic images flash in mind—Rosie blushing, Rosie’s tits, her nipples hard and straining, her bouncing ass slapping my thighs—at the same time my gorge rises in my throat.
We’re shifters. Not animals.
How many times has my father said it?
And now I’m hard again, and my pants are tight.
I breathe through it. In, out. I regain control.
I focus on dressing, tucking the brown silk shirt into wool trousers and putting on simple silver cufflinks. We always wear silver when we entertain humans. It helps counter misconceptions.
Then I text Derwyn.
Status.
Three dots.
Same.
I button my jacket and stride out of the locker room to find Seth and Kenny waiting, shaved and suited up. Guess they used the ladies’ locker room.
“No Griff?” I ask.
“Afraid he’s on the injured list.” Seth falls into step beside me. Kenny falls in behind.
“Ask him if I need to bring another Owens up from the minors.”
Except for Seth, I have no preference for which wolves form my inner circle. They all want status, they’ll all settle for money, and none of them except Seth and Derwyn can fight worth shit.
Seth casts me a sidelong glance, but neither he nor Kenny has anything to say. I’m the alpha heir. My word is law.
Everyone does what I want—except me.
That hot, wild rage rises in me again.
Can she feel it?
I shove it back, batten it down, and listen to the bond. It kind of bubbles—like when a clam digs itself back into the sand in the lake shallows. Delicate like that, fading the further it gets from its source.
Is Derwyn even close enough to know she’s safe? He’s the dimmest of the Collinses by far, but he can fight. What he lacks in brains, he makes up for in sheer bloody-mindedness. He won’t give up just to piss you off. He can also keep his mouth shut, so he was the obvious choice since I need Seth with me.
I text as I walk.
How close are you?
He responds with a picture of a rusty, single-wide trailer. He’s maybe a yard away. I can’t visualize where he’s standing. The Bogs are nothing but swamp, rickety walkways, and floating hovels. Is he in the water? In another scavenger’s home?
It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t look like he can get closer without being on her doorstep.
I jab the elevator button. Enough of this. It’s time to go to work.
The gym is in the Tower basement. My family lives in the penthouse. On the twenty floors in between, high-ranking packmates from the five families jockey and backbite and scheme to move a little closer to the top.
My father says that hierarchy is in our blood. Our territorial nature is written into our DNA. Our job as shifters in the modern, post-assimilation era is to direct our nature to productive ends for the preservation, well-being, and improvement of the species.
In my opinion, that’s a very fucking noble way to describe shifters destroying each other’s reputations to move up a flight of stairs. Not to mention what a mid-ranking wolf in the Estates would do for an apartment in the Towers.
And one day, I’ll inherit it all.
The ride isn’t long enough. The doors whisper open in our foyer, and Kenny takes a guard position next to a male of my father’s circle. Seth trails me into the conservatory where Mother is playing her harp.
The Shahs listen attentively, seated by the fireplace, drinks in hand. My father lounges in his wingback chair, a wall of windows at his back. Uncle Alban and my cousin Brody dominate a sofa. Tonight, there is no reflection of the moon in the vast black lake.
An attendant offers me a vermouth. I decline and stand at polite attention as Mother finishes De Falla’s “Spanish Dance.”
From this vantage point, at night, the lake looks oval. The lights of the cookie cutter homes of the Estates, the marina and the shops at the Landing, and the lit offices of the High Rise form a glowing ring, casting a glitter on the waves lapping the rocky shoreline.
In the distance, the Narrows are shrouded in blackness, and the Bogs blend into the darkened woods and the foothills beyond.
It’s as if they don’t exist.
I finger my phone in my pocket. It hasn’t vibrated. I’d have felt it.
Seth throws back one drink and starts another before Mother plucks the last notes of her usual piece and smiles graciously at the Shahs. They coo appreciation, and we all clap. Father rises and takes Mother’s hands, brushing her knuckles with his lips. She allows her eyes to sparkle.
The usual act.
Next, Mother takes Mrs. Shah’s arm and clasps her to her side as if they’re old friends. I don’t believe they’ve met before tonight.
My father slings an arm over Mr. Shah’s shoulder. I give a chin dip to the humans’ son, rifling through my memory. Vinay. That’s his name. He’s a high school junior, happily uninvolved in his father’s business.
Uncle Alban hauls himself to his feet, grunting at Brody when he doesn’t stand. Brody takes his time finishing a text before he gets to his feet.
We adjourn to the dining room. Howell Owens, my father’s second, follows with Seth bringing up the rear. Very civilized. Very non-threatening.
There are 7.9 billion humans alive on earth right now. There are fewer than twenty thousand known shifters. Since I can remember, I have always known the exact numbers. Father repeats them like a mantra.
We are outnumbered. Humans, despite their weakness, could stamp us out in days. Hours. They could confiscate our property. Put us in zoos or prisons. Experiment on our bodies. They’ve done it in the past. Father is certain that they still would if they could.
We are vulnerable except for one thing. My grandfather, the Great Alpha Broderick Moore, figured it out. Humans, unlike shifters, don’t really believe in strength in numbers. They pay it lip service, but at the end of the day, what they really respect is money.
They don’t see shifters as prey, and they don’t see our numbers as puny, because we’re rich as fuck, and they want a piece.
Thus, the chandelier is vintage Tiffany. The table is Frank Lloyd Wright. The painting above the fireplace is a rare Kandinsky.
Next month, Mother will have changed it all, but it will smell the same—paint, stain, polish, lacquer. Human. Expensive.
Mr. Shah recognizes the artist and pauses to admire the work. Father pulls out Mrs. Shah’s chair. I pull out my mother’s. An attendant circles the table to pour the wine. I place my palm over my glass.
The Shah’s son is nervous. He smells damp.
I offer him a reassuring smile. “First time on pack lands?” I ask.