“I could say the same about yours.”
His lips quirk in what might generously be called asmile. “And they’re taking things slow. That’s good, considering you weren’t even at a point to tell your own sister about it before the wedding.”
I stiffen at his words. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He leans against a nearby table, blocking my path more effectively. “Just that you smell like heat suppressants strong enough to mask a chemical spill. And there’s not even a trace of your alphas’ scents on you.” His eyes narrow. “For a pack that’s supposedly so devoted, you clearly haven’t gotten physical yet.”
Heat floods my cheeks, but I force myself to maintain eye contact. There’s no reply that won’t sound like a lady protesting too much. “Not that it’s any of your business, but we’re building our relationship on more than just biology.”
“How modern,” he drawls, the sarcasm thick enough to cut. “Though I don’t remember that being the way you did things in college.”
The memory of how desperately I’d wanted their approval, their touch, makes my stomach turn. “People change.”
“Do they?” He steps closer, and I catch his scent—cedar and smoke, still familiar after all these years but enough to make my nose itch with the need to sneeze it away. “Or do they just get better at pretending?”
“Back off, Brendin.” My voice comes out steadier than I feel. “Whatever game you think you’re playing?—”
“The only one playing games here is you.” His voice drops lower. “We all know there’s something off about this sudden pack of yours. Either you’re lying or they’re playing you.”
“Why do you care so much?” I fire back, my patience finally snapping. “What possible difference does it maketo you whether or not I have a pack? You’re marrying my sister in a few days.”
Brendin’s jaw tightens, and for a moment, something raw flickers across his face. His mouth opens, lips parting as if he’s about to answer, to finally say whatever’s been burning behind those calculating eyes.
“Trinity, there you are.” Josie’s bright voice cuts through the tension like a knife. She appears at my elbow, pressing a glass into my hand. “I got your favorite!”
I take a grateful sip, expecting the familiar burn of whiskey and bitters from an old-fashioned. Instead, sickeningly sweet apple juice floods my mouth. I barely manage not to spit it back into the glass, coughing slightly as I force myself to swallow.
“Oh my god, I’m so sorry!” Josie’s face flushes crimson as she realizes her mistake. “That’s mine. Here—” She switches our glasses, taking the apple juice back. “Good thing I hadn’t tasted mine yet.”
“Apple juice?” I raise an eyebrow, studying my sister’s embarrassed face. “Since when do you drink apple juice at a party? Especially when there’s champagne flowing like water?”
“I’m just taking it easy on the alcohol,” she says quickly, not quite meeting my eyes. “Don’t want to be all puffy and bloated for the wedding photos. You know how I get when I drink too much—my face swells up like a balloon.”
Brendin’s expression shifts, his earlier intensity replaced by something softer as he looks at Josie. His hand moves to her lower back, a gesture that seems both protective and possessive.
“Let’s go watch the sunset,” he says, leading her away. “Trinity has her pack to get back to.”
The concern in Brendin’s eyes seems genuine as heguides Josie toward the dance floor, one hand protective on her lower back. Despite everything I know about him—his controlling nature, his need to dominate—right now he looks like an alpha worried about his omega.
It doesn’t make sense. None of this makes sense.
Why do Egret, Brendin, and Saren care so damn much about whether my pack is real? They have Josie. They won. They got the perfect traditional omega they always wanted. So why the constant interrogation? Why the barely veiled hostility? Why do they look like they swallowed something sour whenever one of my men touches me?
They act like jealous exes, but they’re the ones who walked away. They’re the ones getting married in a few days.
My head throbs with questions that have no good answers. Maybe they just can’t stand seeing me happy. Maybe their egos can’t handle that I moved on instead of pining after them forever. Or maybe—and this thought makes my skin crawl—maybe they still want to prove they made the right choice by leaving me.
Whatever their game is, I’m exhausted from playing it.
“Screw this,” I mutter, draining my whiskey in one burning gulp.
The alcohol hits my empty stomach like a fist, but I welcome the warmth spreading through my chest. Tonight, I’m not going to obsess over my exes’ motivations. I’m not going to analyze every look, every word, every calculated move.
Tonight, I’m going to have fun. Even if it kills me.
TWENTY
MATHEO
