AllFreeNovel
Share Us
I shake my head, surprised it doesn’t wobble right off my neck. Her grin grows. “This is the Pierson pack,” she repeats. “And you have a match quotient of 98 percent. Do you know what that means?”
My voice shakes. “N-no.”
“Most believe scent-sensitivity begins around 95 percent, but, of course, there’s no way to guarantee the math.”
Because no one can prove scent-sensitivity, biologically. It just is. Like wind—something anyone could feel, but no one could quite describe the shape of.
Exactly like this.
Celine’s eyes bore into mine, impressing the importance of her final statement. “Which would make these alphas your mates.”
chapter
nine
If I had a hundred dollars for every time I’m interrupted by a second call while I’m already on one, I probably wouldn’t have to work this hard.
I’ve been in the car half the day and on calls for all of it. At least when I’m driving from one building site to another, I can use Bluetooth. Otherwise, I might develop some sort of repetitive strain injury from holding this goddamn phone all day.
That would be pathetic, honestly, but not all that surprising. I should probably workout with the guys more often, but there’s never enough time. Or the right time. Somehow, the days seem to slip by faster and faster, but they also pile up.
And I’m tired.
Down to the bottom of my bones.
But this thing keeps happening whenever I try to rest—where my mind pings restlessly, and the guilt that lives under the pit of my stomach rears up. Then my “rest” is fucked, anyway, so I get up and get more shit done.
Last night, on top of all my work shit, I also got out eighteen emails from Cass and Damon’s agents. Freaking the fuck out about Damon being a dumbass and getting into some fight after the game.
For a minute, the messages blasted me into the past, when I was still in my mid-twenties, trying to finish a degree and work ten-hour shifts while saving up to get our pack on its feet. The guys used to get hauled in for shit all the time. School faculty, coaches, gym teachers.
Damon cheating on tests. Cassian beating up punks in parking lots.
Jesus Christ. We’re all grown men, now. I thought those days were behind us, but apparently not.
I’ve been meaning to talk to Damon about his penalties this season. The same way I’ve intended to speak to Cassian about his worsening depression symptoms. There never seems like a good time, though, when we only pass each other occasionally in the mornings.
We probably should have discussed the Forever Matched shit more, too. After we decided it was the best way forward, we never sat down to hash out what, exactly we were looking for.
Hell. I don’t even think I know.
Maybe there will be time when the season is over, in May. Although, fuck. May is overbooked on demolitions and rebuilds. Or June. Someone’s birthday is in June. It isn’t Cass. He’s December. I thought Damon was in September?—
Dusting construction debris off the pants of my navy suit, I fold myself back into my Range Rover. Just two more places to stop, and then, maybe, I can get dinner for all of us on the way home. We could sit down and talk this through.
A beep interrupts the latest update with my lead contractor at my newest build site. Annoyed, I click off one call and answer the unknown number.
“Pierson.”
The voice on the other end is professional and crisp. “Mr. Smith Pierson?”
“Yes.”
“This is Forever Matched.”
My entire day screeches to a halt. I freeze, my hand falling from the gear shift. “…yes?”
“We have a match for your pack. A female omega. She’s here now, actually. Would you like to come down and meet her?”
