Page 8

Without hesitation, he flops onto the sectional, bare feet landing unapologetically on the coffee table with a loud thud.

I exhale slowly, my moment of quiet now a thing of the past.

“What are we excited about?”

Voss’ voice is calm, almost lazy, but I know better.

He moves like a shadow, quiet and controlled, his lean, athletic frame stretching effortlessly as he leans against the exposed brick wall near the couch. He’s covered in just as much ink as the rest of us, the tattoos peeking out from beneath his fitted black tee and sweatpants that cling to his body like a second skin. His thick black hair is pulled into a low bun, neatly kept, just like his freshly trimmed beard. His brown eyes always seem blank. They have since we were children.

His lips twitch at the sides, the only real sign he’s entertained.

Where Voss is the smallest of us, Jace is the biggest. He’s built like he was meant to break people and enjoy it. The man’s biceps are bigger than my head, and he knows it. His black button-up is rolled at the sleeves, revealing forearms wrapped in ink, and his jeans are tailored but casual, somehow making him look even more dangerous. His black curls, forever falling into his face, shift slightly as he tilts his head, blue eyes flickering with amusement.

He settles into the corner of the sectional, stretching out as he props his massive boots onto the second coffee table, mirroring Romano’s lazy sprawl.

“Alright, let’s hear it,” Jace mutters, relaxing. We are all used to Romano.

“You guys have to check this out.” He shifts, tablet bouncing slightly on his knee. “So Fallon—our soon-to-be wife—owns The House of Creed.” He sucks in air like he’s physically incapable of slowing down.

I raise a brow. That wasn’t in the files.

Romano grins like a proud idiot. “Side note: Our omega built that business from the ground up. Now she has locations in most major cities.”

A low whistle from Jace. “Not bad.”

Romano nods enthusiastically, shoving his glasses up the bridge of his nose so they stop sliding down.

“Anyway,” he continues, “Marco went to put our card on file for her dress—great idea, right?” None of us answer, which doesn’t stop him from barreling forward.

“He walked in, and since he didn’t know which one of the three women inside was our intended,” he snickers at his own phrasing, “he stopped to talk to her bodyguard.”

I perk up slightly, catching the subtle shift in Romano’s expression.

“When he pointed her out,” Romano grins, “she was going toe-to-toe with that bitch Marline.”

I blink. “The bird-looking lady that won’t stop hitting on Voss?”

Voss tilts his head slightly, unimpressed. “That’s the one.”

Romano bursts out laughing, clapping his hands together like this is the best thing he’s ever seen.

“Henry—that’s her bodyguard—sent us the surveillance video. Per her request.” His grin sharpens. “Just watch.”

He presses a few buttons on the tablet, and the TV blinks to life.

The room shifts. Focuses. Because if an omega sent us a security feed of herself wrecking someone’s shit… we’re going to enjoy it.

An extremely clear video comes to life. It’s the outside of the building where a black town car has pulled up. A man steps out, checks the surroundings, and then opens the back door. A woman dressed as a business woman steps out. Then a small as shit goth looking woman steps out. The man then reaches inside and pulls a third woman out. I instantly hope that this is the one who will be our wife. Her dark blue hair is tossed into a bun, and her clothes make her look relaxed and happy. We watch her stumble and then faintly hear her yell. “Damn it, Henry! What did I tell you about your strength?” Jace chuckles, and even Voss smiles.

They laugh before he calls her kid and tells her to get inside. The camera angle changes and the front door opens. The four of them step inside. The women chat and walk forward while Henry leans next to the front door, paying attention to everything.

“This is where it gets good guys. Marco should be stepping inside any minute.” Romano is practically vibrating in his seat. We watch as Marline comes into the frame. Voss growls. He really hates that woman. Not more than the rest of us, but it's more personal for him.

Marline enters the frame of the video. She looks horrible in a cream-colored suit, sharp-featured, practically drips with condescension. The audio picks up the barely restrained edge in her voice. Just polite enough to be professional but seething with unspoken judgment.

The response is immediate—the three women turn to face her, synchronized like a well-oiled machine. They must have been friends for a long time.That shit is creepy.

A beat of silence, then— “Yes, you can help me.”