Page 25 of Gunnar

Torin huffs a laugh.

I ignore them both and look at Gunnar. “So, you’re in charge,” I say.

Torin’s mouth curves into that lazy grin of his.

“Big old bossy bear?” he says. “What gives you that idea?”

“Gunnar loooves being the boss,” Orson grunts.

He knocks back the last mouthful of his beer and shoves to his feet, stalking to the back of the room.

The door creaks open.

A moment later he’s back with another bottle.

A low sound spills from Gunnar’s throat.

Orson freezes for half a second, then deliberately slams the bottle down on the table harder than necessary.

When he wrenches the cap off with his teeth, the foam sprays across the table and splatters onto Torin’s shirt.

Torin looks down at it.

Slowly.

Then back up.

“Do that again,” he says mildly, “and I’ll take your head off your shoulders.”

Orson bares his teeth.

Torin just wipes the foam off with the back of his hand and takes another drink of his own beer.

“I’m the oldest,” he gestures toward himself. Then he hooks his thumb toward Gunnar.

“But he’s the Alpha.”

“Alpha,” I repeat. The word settles strangely inside me, and the back of my neck prickles.

Without meaning to, I look at Gunnar.

His eyes are already on me.

Those irises again—gold, almost glowing in the firelight.

For a moment the rest of the room seems to fade away.

Of course he is, something inside me whispers.

“Orson’s the youngest,” Torin continues. “And the dumbest.”

Orson slams his fist on the table.

“Stop saying that!”

The bottles rattle.

Torin just grins wider.