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I never wanted it. People are annoying. Other alphas enrage mine.
Those dominant instincts lying dormant in my chest? They hate breathing air with these guys. They want me to fight.
Which is really all I ever want, too.
Plus, I hate fish.
I’d bet my left nut that the sea bass filet Jonah has in the pan costs more cash than I have in my wallet.
Okay, so I don’t have a wallet. But whatever. My pocket.
At the moment, I don’t have those, either. Exercise shorts and tank tops ripped halfway down the sides are about as close as I get to dressing around here.
I’m not sure what my aversion to “real clothes” is. I’m sure Spencer has his theories.
Audacious for the guy to spout psycho-babble at us while he’s the most fucked-up person in this house.
Maybe.
It could be a three-way tie.
Jonah is the only normal-ass alpha around here. Came from a good family, finished school. No arrests. No scandals.
And now he’s “successful” and bored out of his fucking mind. So what does that tell you?
Seems like his only form of amusement these days is getting on my ass. “You have blood on your cheek. Use a napkin,” he grunts, tossing one at me.
My scowl pulls into a full-on glower. But the bastard just smirks.
He thinks the fact that I’m a roiling volcano of rage is hilarious.
If I had to point to one specific reason why I ended up here, it would be his unconquerable amusement. When we met, I was twenty-one, fighting in underground matches because I had too many arrests to get into the real ones.
I got the absolute shit kicked out of me one night. And while I was lying on the concrete outside the ring, waiting for my soul to leave my body, some big-ass Jason-Momoa-looking motherfucker stepped right over me. He stopped and glanced down at my bloody hamburger-esque face.
And then he smiled.
It was deranged.
I liked that.
I wouldn’t exactly say we were friends at first. He started coming to my matches. Told me he liked watching my “punk ass” get “beat to hell.”
Then, it was a flask ringside after a couple victories. A couple rounds of pancakes at shitty diners. He didn’t even tell me he was a famous NFL player until the day he came into the shop where I worked my day job, demanding I sketch up a sleeve of tribal tattoos for him.
I would have told the guy to get fucked, but it was a slow day.
Now, he has ink all over his arms, shoulders, and chest. Nothing like my blackened body. But most of his work is mine.
Since that first appointment, he refuses to go to anyone else. Says my designs are “visionary.” And “shocking, for someone who gets hit in the head so often.”
Dick.
It’s his fault I’m about to choke down some precious fish dish. His fault that I’m here, in this fancy-ass townhouse. The ugly, jagged scar on the face of this otherwise good-looking pack.
He simply doesn’t take no for an answer. Never gives up on any of us.
Like a fucking weirdo.
