6. Malachi

6

MALACHI

Heads lean in as people whisper expectantly, maybe a little doubtfully, as Mayor Hargrove walks to the makeshift podium in Hyde Park. His stiff posture screams confidence, but the slight twitch in his eye gives away the stress simmering beneath. The flimsy paper banner flutters uselessly in the breeze, doing nothing to blot out the tension that hangs in the air like a storm cloud about to burst.

This, his reelection campaign, is supposed to reflect the confidence and hope a community gets from its leader, but the looks in the eyes of the locals tell a different story.

They aren't buying his nonsense, nor am I. The man's words are as hollow as a rotten tree.

The crowd's murmurs grow louder, like the distant rumble of an approaching storm, as Hargrove clears his throat, the microphone crackling to life.

I stand at the edge of the crowd, my posture relaxed but alert. My eyes scan the perimeter with quiet intensity, a subtle smile playing at the corners of my mouth. These people have no idea of the invisible shield we provide, and that's exactly how it should be. Hargrove hired our pack to keep someone from shooting him, something I'm not opposed to doing myself, but alas, he's writing us a check at the end of the day. The mayor isn't a great guy—corruption rumors swirl around him like flies on a carcass—but a job is a job, and I have a reputation to protect.

Zane stands near the stage, his eyes sweeping over every detail and potential threat like a hawk on a high perch, missing nothing. He is the most serious of the four of us. Zane has an earpiece in his ear just like mine, which links us to Quinn in the nearby van parked down the street, where he monitors every single feed in and around the park.

Dash, still recovering from last night's escapades, manages to look charming, despite the sunglasses hiding his bloodshot eyes. I nearly dragged him out of bed when he didn't want to get up this morning.

He only got up because I threatened rehab. I should follow through, but I won't because even though he's hungover, he won't mess up. He never has, and he never will. We need him to blend in with the crowd, not look like he's going to kill them. A smile splits his face, and the easy charm disarms those around him, making them more invested in the mayor. He's the distraction, the one who makes sure everyone underestimates us. He spots me and gives me a slight nod, his smile never faltering.

It better not.

"Rock and roll, fuckers." Quinn's voice crackles in my ear. "Keep your eyes peeled, gents. And seriously, Dash, try not to charm every lady you see."

"There's only one gal for this heart," Dash chirps over the channel.

"One night, and he's smitten," Quinn teases.

"Focus," Zane snaps curtly, breaking through their shenanigans before they get too carried away.

"Esteemed guests," Mayor Hargrove begins over the speakers, his voice booming with false confidence, "thank you for joining us today. Together, we'll reclaim Hyde Park and restore safety to our city streets. We will implement stricter curfews, increase police presence, and crack down on omega runaways."

The crowd murmurs, a mix of approval and unease rippling through the gathered people.

Hargrove presses on, his chest puffing out. "But that's not all. I'm proud to announce the formation of a special task force. This team will be dedicated to our omega population."

I fight the urge to roll my eyes as murmurs ripple through the crowd. Some nod in agreement, while others shift uncomfortably. A group near the back begins to whisper more urgently, their agitation palpable, even from a distance. I catch Zane's eye and nod subtly towards them. He acknowledges with a slight tilt of his head, already moving to get a better view.

I scan the crowd again, tension coiling in my muscles. His words might ring hollow, but they're stirring up real emotions. The fact of the matter is, Hargrove is awful for Puritan City, and he's never going to get elected with his outdated vision—one being that all omegas should live in a community center.

Strange description for a prison, but okay.

I suspect that is why more and more omegas don't come out of the closet, and those who do are either celebrities or disappear within weeks, whisked away by an alpha pack.

As Hargrove drones on about his plans for the community, I scan the crowd, my senses alert for any signs of danger. The faces before me blur, and for a moment, I'm transported back to our early days. We weren't just thrown together by circumstance, we were forged in the fires of our traumatic pasts. The memory of those struggles strengthens my resolve to protect what we've built.

As I scan the crowd, my mind flashes back to the crucible that forged our bond. Zane and I, thrust together in the chaos of foster care, became the unwitting guardians of the younger kids. Our negligent foster parents, lost in their bottles, left us no choice but to step up.

I can still feel the biting cold of that endless winter when the electricity was cut. Zane and I took turns stoking the fire, stretching our meager supplies and offering what comfort we could to the shivering little ones. When social workers finally arrived, they found us huddled together, our visible breaths a testament to our struggle and unity.

Those harsh days etched the meaning of resilience and brotherhood into our souls. Now, as I catch Zane's eye across the park, I know our bond goes far deeper than the bite marks on our wrists. It's an unbreakable connection, forged in adversity and strengthened by choice.

With a subtle nod to Zane, I refocus on our current mission. The lessons of our past have made us uniquely qualified for the challenges we face today.

Or so I like to think we are.

Quinn was and still is the brains, the strategist, with a mind as sharp as a tack and a wit to match. We found him when we were on the brink of falling apart, our makeshift family on the edge of survival. Although he was barely old enough to take care of himself when he moved in, he was mentally mature in ways a child never should be. He brought the structure and tactical mindset we needed to thrive rather than just survive.

His sharp mind and analytical skills meant he saw threats before they became problems, always keeping us one step ahead. During those bleak nights, when the cold bit through our threadbare blankets and hunger gnawed at our bellies, it was Quinn who devised ways to stretch our meager resources and figured out how to keep the authorities from splitting us up. His quick thinking and clever solutions not only kept us safe but also gave us hope. With Quinn, we didn't just endure, we found ways to outsmart the odds stacked against us. His presence turned our group from a desperate cluster of survivors into a tight-knit family with a fighting chance.

With Quinn came Dash, a street kid with a chip on his shoulder the size of a boulder and a scowl that could make grown men shiver. Hell, for a long time, we didn't even know Quinn had a biological brother until he begged us to help him get custody of him. Dash had seen more of the world's cruelty than anyone should at his age, but beneath the odd charm, there was a heart fiercely loyal to those he considered family. It took time, patience, and a few broken noses to integrate him into our fold, but once he was in, he was in for life.

Together, we formed a unit stronger than the sum of its parts. Each of us had our role to play, and we executed them with the precision of a well-oiled machine. We weren't just friends, we were brothers bound by more than blood.

Are. We are brothers and a bonded alpha pack.

I notice Zane's subtle hand signal—a reminder to stay alert. His hard eyes scan over the crowd, and even from here, I can see him grinding his jaw as he fights to remain completely and utterly still.

"Malachi," Quinn says in my earpiece, "two o'clock. Possible threat. Male."

I turn subtly, my eyes locking onto a figure moving through the crowd with too much purpose. Quinn's instincts are rarely wrong. Like a bloodhound, he always sniffs out trouble.

"I see him," I murmur, signaling Dash and Zane.

Dash moves first, intercepting the man with practiced ease, his hand firm on the stranger's shoulder. Zane appears at Dash's side, his casual demeanor a stark contrast to the tension in his eyes.

"Sir, you need to step back," Dash rumbles authoritatively, his voice low but commanding. "Can't let anyone close to Mayor Hoe?—"

"Dash," Quinn scolds his brother on the comms.

"Hargrove." Dash brings out the charm, easing his purposeful fuckup.

The man hesitates, then nods, retreating into the crowd. Crisis averted for now. Frowning, I memorize the man—tall, gaunt, red hat. He's probably looking for a restroom. Judging by his tattered shirt, I'm pretty sure he is homeless, and from here, I can see his bare skin devoid of any weapons.

"Harmless, but keep an eye on him," I instruct Quinn before looking away. I have complete trust in him that he will keep eyes on him, or at least one of the many surveillance systems he has placed through the park.

Hargrove continues his speech, oblivious to the minor drama unfolding, but that's our job—to handle the threats he can't see and ensure the safety of those who rely on us, even if they don't know it.

I catch Zane's eye again. His head is cocked to the side as though he's listening to something I can't hear from here.

Quinn buzzes in my ear again. "Oh, fun incoming, Malachi. We have some movement near the entrance. Looks like the guy is a journalist." The entrance to the park is wide open. Honestly, it's a terrible place for a rally. There are too many open spaces and too many possibilities where things could go wrong.

"My favorite," Zane coos, his hand on his gun.

Unhinged. The lot of them.

The breeze carries a medley of scents—freshly cut grass, the sugary sweetness of popcorn, and the underlying musk of the gathered crowd. The rustle of leaves and the low murmur of voices create a deceptively peaceful backdrop to our tense vigilance. I take a deep breath, grounding myself in the moment. The tension in the air is almost palpable, a static charge waiting to ignite. The sun beats down on us, casting harsh shadows and making the air shimmer with heat.

"Patience, gentlemen," I murmur into the comms, my voice a calm anchor amidst the tension. "Dash, stop fidgeting. Zane, ease up on that death glare. We're protectors, not executioners."

"Spoilsport," Dash mutters, but I catch the smirk in his voice.

"Focus," Zane rumbles, but his posture relaxes slightly.

Dash nods, his eyes never stopping their relentless scan. Zane adjusts his stance, the picture of relaxed vigilance. We might be protecting a man we don't respect, but our professionalism never wavers. The city is on edge, but we are an invisible line of defense.

I shift my weight, feeling the reassuring press of my concealed weapon against my side. The crowd's murmurs fade into the background, replaced by the rhythmic thud of my heartbeat in my ears. Every sense is heightened, every nerve on edge. This part of the job is absolutely boring, standing around watching and waiting.

I'd rather something or someone start a fight. At least it would make time go a little faster.

I nod at Zane, who's already shifting his position to get a better vantage point. Dash engages the people around him, his charm diffusing any tension that may crop up. It's moments like these that remind me why we work so well together.

As I watch Zane smoothly intercept the approaching reporter, I'm reminded of our days working the streets of Puritan City. We've come a long way from those desperate times, but the skills we honed then serve us well now. Every move Zane makes is a testament to years of watching each other's backs.

Quinn would climb the fire escape of the tallest building downtown. We always rotated, making sure we didn't hit the same spot twice in one month. I'd lean against a wall, eating something, as I looked for the perfect prey. Dash would go out, because as the youngest, he often got away with far more than us older kids, and his baby face got us more cash than I want to even delve into.

Zane was the muscle. If anything went wrong, and it often did, he got us the hell out of there.

It was a scheme we ran more often than we should have, but I don't regret it. It kept us fed, put clothing on our backs, and kept us together.

Our protection services came about by accident a few years ago when we were in a crowd very similar to this one with a very different outcome. A shooter and a politician created the business that feeds us today. I can say we were crafted through blood, sweat, and tears from that day—one I despise remembering, even though the ache in my shoulder reminds me about it often enough.

"Malachi, here they come." Quinn's urgent voice slices through my thoughts. "They really think they can just muscle their way through." He chuckles.

"Got them on scope," I respond, locking onto the approaching targets. They are moving with purpose. "Zane, Dash, stay alert."

Zane shifts, his eyes narrowed as he watches the figures closing in from the west. Dash readies himself, coiled like a spring, eager for any sign of trouble. He practically grins at the prospect of a scuffle. The crowd disperses gradually as Mayor Hargrove finishes speaking, but unease lingers in my gut.

"Quinn, what's your read?" I whisper, tracking the approaching individuals closely.

"Definitely a pair of reporters," Quinn replies after a moment, suspicion coloring his tone. "They have a camera, mics, the works."

"Hey." Dash's voice comes through the line with a bit of static. "I think I know that guy. He helped me out at the bar last night when that alpha was getting aggressive. Broke up the fight before it got nasty. I owe him one."

I frown, recalling Dash's drunken state from the previous night. "Did he say why he was at the bar? Seems convenient he's here now."

"Nah, just said he was passing through. But he seemed like a good guy," Dash replies, a hint of uncertainty in his voice.

"Stay on them," I instruct, gesturing for Zane to edge closer while Dash oversees the thinning crowd. "Friend or foe, Dash?"

"He seemed like a good guy." Dash's eyes light up as he defends the complete stranger. His judgement is often clouded by a single act of kindness. I sigh, knowing how quickly Dash's heart can be won over.

As Zane advances, the reporters come into sharper focus. They look determined, pushing through the remaining crowd with practiced ease. The man, with his crisp suit and sharp eyes, leads the way, his cameraman trailing behind.

"Excuse me!" the reporter calls out, his voice carrying over the din. "Mayor Hargrove! A moment of your time, please!"

Zane intercepts them, his presence imposing enough to make the reporter hesitate. "This area is off-limits," he states firmly. "You need to back up."

The reporter squares his shoulders, clearly not one to be easily intimidated. "We're with Channel 8 News. We have a right to be here."

"Not today, you don't," Zane replies, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Please step back."

The cameraman shifts nervously, glancing around as if looking for an escape route. The reporter, however, stands his ground, his eyes narrowing. "We have questions that need answers. The public deserves to know Mayor Hargrove's infrastructure plans."

"Sir, I'm asking you nicely." Zane's voice takes on a harder edge. "Step back."

Seeing the potential for escalation, I step in, placing a hand on Zane's shoulder. "We understand you have a job to do," I say, keeping my tone calm but firm, "but so do we, and right now, our job is to ensure the mayor's safety, so please step back and let us do our job."

The reporter's eyes flash with frustration, but he finally relents, taking a step back. His shoulders relax slightly, and he reaches his hand out to shake. "All right. Name is Logan Pierce."

"Logan." I address him directly, my eyes meeting his with a calculated stare as I shake his hand. "Malachi. Your questions can wait until we're done ensuring everyone's safety."

Logan raises an eyebrow, a hint of a smirk playing on the corners of his lips. "Understood, but we will be following up, Malachi."

I nod curtly, watching as Logan and his cameraman retreat. There's something about him that feels off, but I can't put my finger on it just yet. It doesn't really matter, though, because I'll never see the guy again anyway.

With the immediate threat defused, I turn back to the stage, where Hargrove's aides are ushering him away, their expressions a mix of annoyance and concern.

"Let's wrap this up," I tell Dash and Zane, who both agree in unison. "I'm tired of being here."

"Heard that," Dash mutters.

"Thai for dinner?" Quinn pipes up.

As the park empties out, I take a moment to scan the area, ensuring there are no lingering threats. Zane and Dash fall into step beside me, our formation instinctive and practiced.

"Damn reporters." Dash chuckles, shaking his head with a rueful grin. "They could have caused a real panic. Reminds me of my younger days, minus the cameras."

Ironic, because not even a decade ago, he was one of those kids. Some days, he still is with his antics.

"Yeah, but they didn't," I reply, clapping him on the shoulder, "and we handled it. Besides, the reporters should be here, and Hargrove is acting foolish for not wanting to deal with them."

"You aren't going to believe this!" Quinn's voice bursts through my ear with excitement.

Dash lounges on the ground, kicking one leg over the other, his sunglasses perched on his nose and his hands behind his head.

"Try me," Dash drawls lazily, a hint of amusement in his tone as his eyes flutter closed.

"The beta I brought home last night is across the street, dragging a laundry basket down the sidewalk," Quinn says with urgency. "I think she is cursing at said basket."

"Beautiful?" Dash sits up eagerly, scanning the street for a glimpse of the beta.

"Why is this the first I'm hearing about her?" I interject as I follow Dash's gaze.

Sure enough, across the street, a small woman with pale blonde and pink hair growls at a laundry basket she's dragging down the sidewalk. Her frustration is palpable, her movements jerky and irritated.

"My online gamer friend called in a favor," Quinn explains as he pulls the van up to the sidewalk. "She needed a ride share but didn't trust it."

I grunt in response, feeling curious and cautious. She was right—the ride shares and apps can lead to even more danger.

Dash moves to walk away, only to have Zane grab his collar and shove him toward the van. "Get in before your dick makes a mistake it can't come back from—like an eighteen-year mistake, one I'd have to deal with as well, and I'm not ready to be a dad."

"But she's perfect," Dash laments desperately.

"She's a beta from the looks of it." Zane pushes him into the van, slamming the door firmly shut.

"He can't get a beta pregnant, stop feeding him lies." As I remove the comm from my ear, I toss it to Quinn through the open window. "Her name?"

"Aria," Quinn replies dreamily, gazing at the woman like he is under a spell.

"No." I point to all three of my pack members. "We are still waiting on a call from Scent Synergy. We agreed—no betas, remember? It's not fair to them when we find our omega."

Zane snorts. He hates that we are still in the queue.

Quinn's face falls slightly. "But Aria?—"

I cut him off gently. "I know, Quinn. But we can't risk hurting her in the long run. It's better this way."

No matches, but that's okay. I'm a patient man.

"Who the fuck cares about having an omega?" Zane mutters before slamming the van door shut.

I frown and look away, the weight of finding an omega lying heavily on me. I get it. Our odds of finding a scent match are rare. Omegas are even rarer. A lot of packs are content to take on a beta, but I refuse to. I have seen firsthand what it can do to a beta when an alpha pack finds a scent-matched omega, and the beta never makes it out okay. Never. They are always emotionally destroyed, and I refuse to willingly do that to a woman, even if they are adorable and growl at a laundry basket as though it personally offended them.

"I'll catch you back at the house." I slap the van once, the sound echoing in the quiet street. My focus shifts to the little woman who just kicked the laundry basket, toppling it over onto the dirty street.

She's adorably feral.

I watch the little spitfire for a moment, weighing my options. Every instinct tells me to walk away. We don't need complications, especially not beta complications. But something about her fierce determination, the way she faces her mundane battle with such intensity, draws me in. It doesn't matter that it's a laundry basket. It reminds me of our pack.

Before I realize it, my feet are carrying me across the street. Each step feels like a decision, a choice to reach out, despite our pack's agreement. I rationalize it as simple kindness, nothing more. But deep down, I know I'm curious about this woman who's caught Quinn's eye.

I stride across the street, my steps confident and measured, like a knight approaching a damsel in distress, even if this damsel looks like she's ready to bite my head off. The closer I get, the more details come into focus. Her pale blonde and pink hair glows in the light, and her delicate features twist into a fierce scowl as she glares at the fallen laundry. The air around her crackles with frustration and determination.

"Need some help, Aria?" I ask, keeping my tone gentle so as to not scare her away. As the words leave my mouth, I wonder if I'm making a mistake, but it's too late now. She's turning to face me.