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I want a home. And I’m not sure there’s an equation for that.
chapter
three
We all agreed.
I thought we all agreed.
Monday morning. Eight a.m.
But it’s eight-twenty, and my cup is the only one on the counter.
I stand there, staring at it. Thinking about how this is a perfect metaphor for my whole life.
A sad cup of jizz—sad because I filled it to the brim with my backed-up balls—sitting alone, in the house I bought, on the countertop I chose and had installed. Next to my phone, which has buzzed ten times in four minutes.
The cup is from the clinic I selected. For the specific scent-matching company I researched, applied to, and landed a highly coveted slot with.
All my work. Hours and hours of it.
And all these two jack-offs had to do was?—
Well.
Jack off.
If they can’t even come through for that, then what in God’s name are we even doing?
Noise interrupts my brooding. I know without looking up that it’s my youngest packmate, Damon; because Cassian never makes noise. Despite being a professional hockey goalie who’s built like a brick house.
Damon comes shuffling into the room, wearing nothing but those tight briefs he likes so much. He scratches his sack and presses the heel of his other hand into his left eye socket, grunting.
“Morning, Big Hoss. What’s with the weird moisturizer sample?”
I blink at him, refusing to believe he actually ignores me this thoroughly. My phone starts up again. “It isn’t moisturizer.”
He shrugs, reaching into a cabinet and coming up with a box of chocolate breakfast cereal. Without bothering to find a bowl, he shovels a handful right into his mouth.
“Is it milk?” he chews. “Because I could use some.”
My eye twitches. I roll my lips together, trying my best to remember all of the parenting books I read fifteen years ago, and their tips on how not to absolutely strangle spoiled, useless brats.
Granted, the spoiled useless brat is twenty-six now. And I’ve never really been a parent, just a pack alpha.
But God help me, some days I wonder.
True to form, Cassian appears from somewhere mysterious, fully dressed, without making a single sound. Until he grumbles, “It isn’t milk.”
He sits at the breakfast bar, three feet away from my sample cup, and pulls a paperback out of the interior pocket of his athletic jacket. I watch him, too infuriated by his apathy to even form words.
He’s Cassian, though. Which means he sees everything without even looking at me. His fingers turn a page, the motion deliberately casual. Belying the irritation underscoring his voice. “I told you; I’m not doing that.”
I silence my phone again and repress the urge to strangle him, repeating my most common mantra where dealing with my pack is concerned.
Control, control, control.
Damon’s posture stays loose. He looks at both of us, ice-blue eyes wide. “I have no idea what either of you are talking about.”
