4. Kyrian

4

"Ky, have you seen Luna?" Roman hollers from behind the bar, a cocktail shaker in his hands.

"Nope!" I call back, taking him in. Bartenders dress up for the job, and he's wearing a shimmering black shirt that matches his eyes. He looks good enough to eat, and my dick agrees, hardening in my pants. "Haven't seen her today. Was she supposed to come in?"

"She's supposed to take Eve's shift."

Luna is a dancer who works here at the Alpha Bet bar sometimes. And Roman is the beta of my pack.

It feels kinda strange to say that out loud. My pack. My beta.

Having a pack, a family, that's a new thing for me. Sometimes I pinch myself. I have to, or I might think I'm dreaming.

We're not an official pack, not yet. There's a law that says you need an omega in your pack to register it. Legal bullshit. We're fine the way we are. We don't need more people.

I don't, anyway. I'm so fucking lucky as it is.

I mean, who would want to be with someone like me? And yet Roman and Archer seem to think I'm worth it. I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop, for them to wake up and kick me out of their lives, but it hasn't happened so far.

I haven't managed to annoy them that much yet.

That reminds me of this guy I met the other day… Sawyer. An omega, I'd thought, from the slender cut of his body to his pretty face, and that sweet scent that went straight to my dick. Yeah, I'll bet he's a full-blooded omega. Who knew he was the owner of the café I randomly entered?

The guy I offended.

Fuck.

Then Archer strides out of the office at the back, distracting me, and I drink him in. In his gray suit, the alpha is damn hot.

Out of the suit, he's even hotter, and the thought of having him at my mercy later tonight makes me smirk, even as my dick turns hard.

Well, harder.

These two are my men, my pack. Roman and Archer. Hot in everything they do, almost too hot to handle.

I'm one lucky alpha. That much is for sure.

But good luck sooner or later runs out, and that's what fucking scares me. They are great guys, clever, beautiful, successful. Educated.

Sooner or later, they will get bored with the village idiot and leave.

Unless I fix this. Fix myself.

Somehow.

The night wears on without surprises. I'm a bouncer and I do face control at the door of the bar, but it's rare I send anyone away. As far as I'm concerned, fancy clothes and arrogant airs don't gain you any more entry in here than the devil's kiss on your brow, as one of my foster fathers used to say. I'm an equal opportunities kind of guy, and only bounce the dickheads who pull dickhead moves.

Archer surfaces only once more from his office. He likes to take a look at the crowd, make his rounds. He meets my eye and nods with a smirk, and fuck if that doesn't rekindle the desire in my gut. The man is so damn fine.

I catch glimpses of Roman juggling glasses and cocktail shakers or talking to customers from time to time, and I grin. He's a performer and a flirt, but I know he won't start anything outside our pack. He's just an outgoing person, a bright flame, working as a bartender to finance his history studies, but I think he enjoys this job a lot. If he becomes a history teacher someday, his students will be in for a treat.

My heart beats harder whenever I glimpse my pack, and I can't wipe the smile off my face, even if Sawyer's outraged eyes keep intruding in my thoughts.

"Hey, Ky!" a guy says, lifting his hand for a high-five.

I wave and smile as customers file in. I'm popular with the regulars, and with the new ones, too. Boys and girls fancy me. But I'm a reformed man, only interested in my pack.

Except…

Yeah, Sawyer.

Hell.

What does this mean? Can't I be faithful to my men? I made a promise to be faithful, and I feel it in my fucking bones that this is my pack. These are my people.

So why can't I fucking stop thinking about him?

A guy who has to hate me for my stupid behavior. It's just… books. Books hate me, always have. And I just can't win with them.

I shouldn't have touched his precious books. I just hadn't expected a veritable library at the back of the store, and I had been drawn there as if by a spell. Touching what I can't handle. Looking at what I can't understand. Drawn to it like a moth to the flame.

Maybe that's why my mind won't let go of this Sawyer guy.

He's mad at me. And with good reason, I guess. Yet my brain is stuck on him. Fuck, it annoys me. Where's my self-control? Are my promises to my pack mates a lie? They are the best thing that's ever happened to me.

So stop thinking of the pissy café owner, Ky. Easy. Focus on your job. Scan the crowd, make sure you keep the peace. As for your other problem… You have a job. You have mates. So what if they don't know just how stupid you are? They won't care if they find out.

Right?

Scowling at a random guy who backs away from me, I return to my post by the door.

They wouldn't care. I don't need books to be a functional adult, I don't need… anything. Everything is fine.

Let sleeping dogs lie.

They deserve their rest.

Until I gather my courage and face the problem head-on.

It's not the first time I've tried to face my issues. But every time, something makes me turn back and put it off for another day.

Doesn't stop me from going back for more.

At the library, for instance. Sometimes they offer tutors to help you. They are volunteers, as I understand it, but mostly they work with children.

Not huge-ass alpha adults like me.

I made an appointment anyway. Last time I was here, the tutor took a look at me and told me I should be ashamed of myself.

I am.

So I fucked off and didn't come back in months. But it's that urge I have, to try what seems out of reach, to try against the odds. Against all the voices in my head, some from memories and some all of my own imagining, telling me how stupid I am, how useless.

How this will never work out.

Fucking books.

The weight of them presses down on me as I climb the steps leading to the library entrance. I enter. A hush reigns inside, making the oppressive feeling worse.

What the hell am I doing? At my age? A bit too late for letters, isn't it?

But like every time, the thought of my pack finding out about my terrible shortcomings keeps me going. If they find out, at least I want to tell them I tried.

Would that make it better or worse? Is it better to be seen as lazy or just too stupid to live?

I hate how my knees feel weak as I wander down the entrance hall toward the main library section, corridors with offices radiating out to my right and left. How little children hop around happily, accompanied by their parents, when I'm dragging my goddamn feet.

A poster for reader meetings catches my attention before I reach the information desk. It shows a group of people seated in a circle, smiling at the camera. They are holding open books in their laps.

A girl comes to stand beside me, and I glance at her. Then I stare because there's something about her blond pigtails and her big dark eyes that won't let my gaze go. A fineness in her pointy chin, in the elegant arches of her brows, and her long neck.

"Oh look," she says, and then thankfully proceeds to read the poster out loud: "‘Our book club discusses fantasy romance on Thursday night.' Oh, reading club. Sounds like fun."

Does it? To me, it sounds just about as fun as poking my own eyes out with a spork. Reading for fun. Sometimes I wish…

"Are you here for the class?" she asks, and I turn back to her in surprise.

"Yeah. Are you the tutor?"

I mean why else would she ask that question, right? But she blinks and a blush rises to her cheeks. I watch fascinated as she seems to check me out, her gaze moving from my face to my chest, my legs, and then back up.

But then she shakes her head. "Oh no. I'm not… Tutor for what? There are a couple of offers here on the board, that's all."

Hell!

"Nothing. Never mind."

"I can show you where the main desk is," she offers.

"I know where it is," I grunt. "Like I said, never mind."

With a small sigh, she turns away and starts walking toward the exit. She's leaving.

"Fuck, fuck!" I hiss between my teeth. I'm being an asshole, something I've been working on changing. An antisocial ass who is used to pushing people away, despite my smiles at work. I worked hard on those smiles, too. "Hey! Wait."

She glances over her shoulder at me, one dark brow perfectly arched. "What?"

I hesitate. "Thanks."

She smiles, then, and it's like a sunrise. "No problem."

"Do you come here often?"

Her smile grows uncertain. "Sometimes."

And with that, she leaves for good.

I pushed. Finding the right boundary between asshole and nice, nice and creepy, is damn hard for someone only used to assholes, let me tell ya.

I rub a hand over my face. Glance at the information desk. Make a strategic decision and get the hell out of here. Maybe I'm hoping to catch a last glimpse of her on the street, I tell myself.

But by the time I get out, she's already gone, like a wisp of smoke.