6. Xavier

These missions are never easy. Doesn't matter that they're a monthly occurrence, walking into one of these parties still makes my hair stand on end. There are crystal chandeliers in abundance, casting a warm glow over the glasses of champagne being handed out by the elegant servers. But that's just the pretty fa?ade. Because for every second or third alpha in a bespoke Savile Row tuxedo, there's a beautiful omega in his wake, their eyes downcast as they're led across the room by a collar and leash.

"Oh my God," Jasmine murmurs, her hand tightening on my arm. "Are they kidding, these fucking freaks?"

She keeps her voice low, given our company, but I wouldn't blame her for screeching it from the rooftop. Some days, I wonder what breathing in this vile air is doing to my sanity, not to mention the overwhelming urge to bleach my eyeballs at the end of the night. I've witnessed a lot of shitty things in my life, but events like this make me ashamed of my designation.

Luckily, no one here expects me to be the life of the party. That's Declan's role, God pity him. Someone has to keep getting us these invitations, and our youngest packmate has learned to play the part to perfection. As far as the world is concerned, I'm the money, Erik is the muscle, and Declan is our charming playboy, always ready to mingle with the worst of our peers.

While Erik lurks outside in the shadows monitoring our every move, I cast a quick glance around the sumptuous lobby. The party – if that's what you can call it - is being held in the private mansion of one of the wealthiest alphas in the state. On a power level Bennett Litchfield is unimpressive, but as an expert art dealer he has well-established ties with the city's elite. Looking at his smug face you might think he's every bit as cultured as he likes to make out, but the truth is, Litchfield deals in a lot more than just expensive artworks.

Omegas.

I smell them even before we've crossed the lobby. A sweet fog hangs thickly in the air, cut through with a sour, disturbing edge. Even without our mission intel, it would be proof that some of the omegas aren't here by choice. But it's the sharp intake of breath from Jasmine that makes my stomach clench. Ever since she asked me to put the alpha musk on her pulse points, I've been wondering if I was making a mistake bringing her along. These events aren't for the faint-hearted, even if she's just engineered her own escape from one of the nastiest packs in the city.

I can barely tolerate the thought of her in Kayden Sawyer's clutches. I've only met him a couple of times, but we've done our research, and if he has a redeeming quality, we've yet to find it. He's nothing but a bully and a sadist, his gambling business used to worm his way into the pockets of the city's elite. He feeds all sorts of other addictions in his clubs, including guns, flesh, and illegal drugs. If anyone stands up to him, he obliterates them in ways both bloody and public. Or that was his modus operandi until his ratty pack decided to upgrade by bonding Jasmine Crenshaw.

Sawyer's only other allegiance, according to our intel, was to his stepsister, Grace. She was firmly under his control until she aligned herself with the Rose Pack, a far more respectable and powerful pack than the one she grew up in. The Roses might be in the business of tiaras and travel luggage, but their pack alpha is an uber even I wouldn't mess with.

As Jasmine's heeled boots clack on the marble floor, I wonder what she thinks of her almost-sister's escape. If it in any way prompted her own, I look forward to the opportunity to thank Grace and her alphas personally.

I glance at Jasmine now, feeling a throb of protectiveness in the pit of my stomach. Not that she looks like she needs it. She's barely leaning on the arm I offered, her back straight and her eyes like green gems under her curly wig. She pulled it into a clever updo before we left the car, and the style gives her delicate bone structure a more severe edge. With her confident stride and cool expression, she looks every inch the powerful alpha. I just have to hope the disguise holds for the duration of our visit. But if it doesn't… Well, that's part of the reason Erik is lurking outside in combat gear.

"It's the usual scene," I say for the benefit of Erik, who's listening through my earpiece. "About two dozen guests mingling in the foyer. There's activity off to our left in the lounge area. There's also a line forming at the entrance to the portrait gallery."

We studied the floor plan as part of mission prep, and I'm now certain the night's entertainment is confined to the first floor. There's a silk rope across the foot of the elaborate staircase, and black-suited servers are directing guests towards either the lounge area or the gallery. No doubt the guests are indulging themselves in other nooks and hidey-holes, but with any luck, we won't have to flush them out.

"I can't see any activity on the second or third floors," Erik confirms my suspicions in my ear. Part of his role in these missions is to observe the event using infrared and scent sensors. Normally we'd just hack into the building's surveillance system, but on party nights, places like this go blind. No elite alpha wants to be caught on camera abusing omegas, especially when half the guests are politicians or titans of industry. "Have you got eyes on Declan?"

"Not yet. We'll head to the gallery first." I'm hoping we won't need to visit the main salon, since I'm fairly certain the guests are doing more than playing cards and drinking whiskey in there. "Have you got a headcount?"

"Fifty alphas and twenty-six omegas. I can't tell if the omegas are brown bags or party favors, but there's half a dozen in the gallery who aren't moving."

To the casual ear, Erik probably sounds callous as he describes the omegas, but I can clearly hear the rage simmering in his voice. Brown bag is the term we use for collared omegas who are on the guest list. For the most part, they're attending voluntarily, although there are plenty of power abuses inside bonded packs. A ‘party favor' is an omega who's been supplied by the host, and they're rarely here of their own free will.

I scan the room as we move towards the gallery, smiling and nodding at the guests I can't avoid. As the manager of the most exclusive club in the city, there are a lot of familiar faces. Members dip their heads in greeting, while others view me as the fastest route to a coveted black card. If I was alone, no doubt they'd be sidling up to me to chat, but contact is limited to the curious glances they cast in Jasmine's direction.

I can't blame them for looking, even if I want to pound their sly smiles to dust. The alpha musk is doing its job, and I have to remind myself this is why I invited her. I knew her stunning looks, combined with a powerful alpha scent, would get their heads turning. And while they're watching us, Declan and Erik can complete the more hands-on part of the mission.

It doesn't stop me from keeping her close. My hand slides from her arm to her waist, my fingers resting lightly on the warm curve of her hip. She doesn't object, although she doesn't lean into me either. I have to wonder if her composure is real, or if it's just part of her disguise. As an omega, this scene must be like claws plucking at her nerves.

And she thought you were going to use her as bait.

The reminder makes my blood boil. Only an omega who's undergone systematic betrayal by her alphas would jump to that conclusion. I must make some kind of choking sound, because Erik is instantly in my ear. "Update, brother."

I huff out a breath, trying to relax my jaw as I glance around. "I'm just thinking how much I want to turn this tasting event into the last meal of their lives."

Erik grunts his agreement, not that he'd ever let a mission go off the rails like that. "Well, rein it in. Can you see the host?"

I pan the room, only to have Litchfield catch my eye. He's moving slowly, soaking up the praise of the other guests, but he's clearly headed in our direction. "He's about to intercept." I feel Jasmine stiffen and glance down at her. We're in the thick of the crowd now, and I wouldn't blame her for wanting to bolt for the door. "Everything okay, darling?"

She gives me a sharp look at the endearment, but as I brush a curl back behind her ear, she leans in to nuzzle my cheek. "I know him," she murmurs, her voice tight. "That's Litchfield, right? He visits my father at our estate a few times every year."

"Are you afraid he'll recognize you?"

"Not afraid." She turns to look at him, and the glitter in her green eyes makes my groin tighten. She might be in disguise right now, but the predatory energy she's giving off is hard to fake. "And not surprised, either. I never liked the way he looked at me."

I have to work hard to keep my placid smile pinned to my face. "He's not a target tonight, but he's on our list." And quickly rocketing his way to the top. "Are you okay to greet him, or would you like to slip away to the bar?"

"I'm fine," she replies, her chin tilted up. "I always prefer to look the devil in the eye."

"Good girl," I murmur, then clear my throat, embarrassed. I wonder if Erik caught the slip. A slight chuckle tells me he probably has, and I feel my ears grow warm - until I catch the way Litchfield is staring at her. "Although, if the devil keeps leering at you like that, I might have to send him out to Erik for a chat."

Jasmine bites her lip, and for a second I think I can smell a hint of honey under her alpha disguise. But then Litchfield is on us, his hand thrust eagerly in her face. "Goodness, Volk, what a treasure! When I saw her across the room, I was certain she was an omega. But I'm delighted to find she's one of us, after all."

Somehow Jasmine manages to shake his hand without kicking him in the nuts. "I'm Crystal. Xavi's cousin from California. Just here for a short trip."

"Not a blood cousin," I add abruptly, tightening my grip on her arm. "But a favorite of mine since childhood. We're very close."

Erik gives another laughing grunt at my clumsy claiming, but fuck him. If he was in my shoes right now, Litchfield would be a smear on his shiny marble floor.

Unfortunately, my minor flip out means I've missed part of the conversation. When I tune back in, our host is asking with a sly smile, "Do you have a preference, my dear?"

Despite her confident air, Jasmine looks confused. "Thanks, but I'm not a big drinker."

Litchfield gives an oily laugh, his fingers twitching like he wants to pinch her cheeks. "I mean in treats, my dear! We have blondes, brunettes, and redheads, although I must warn you that none have coloring as delicious as yours. Male and female options are available, although cocks are in short supply tonight, so we ask a premium for them. Not that any money needs to pass hands right now, of course. Just enjoy yourselves, and one of my servers will make a note of your tastings."

"You're quite the host, aren't you?"

There's enough wolf in her voice to make my hackles rise, but Litchfield is too busy studying her curves under her coat to realize how close he's venturing towards a snapped neck. "I live to please, my dear," he murmurs, licking his lips as his gaze reaches her throat. "Perhaps I could give you a personal tour…"

"We wouldn't want to keep you from your other guests," I manage to grind out, and then I'm sweeping Jasmine towards the gallery. A few alphas grumble about us ignoring the line, but the look I give them has the anger draining from their faces. "Eyeshine," Jasmine murmurs, nudging me into a small alcove. It's a pocket of solitude amongst the swirl of alpha appetites, and I take a calming breath. Even in her boots, Jasmine is only level with my chin, but her hands are persuasive as she presses me against the wall. I feel her soft warmth radiating through her coat, and for a moment I'm lost in the wide green pools of her eyes. But then she screws up her nose and gives me a little shake. "Are you about to flip out and eat these assholes?"

I barely manage to swallow a burst of laughter. "No. I have indigestion from their scents alone."

Her gaze drops to my mouth, and she scowls. "It's stomach-churning. All of it. But we're here to save an omega, right?"

"We are."

She gives a tight nod. "Are they close by?"

I flick a glance at our target. "The girl at the end. Her name is Stephanie, and she's just turned eighteen."

Jasmine looks around, her breath stuttering as she takes in the scene behind us. I've seen it before, so I'm not surprised by the row of omegas, all standing on stone columns like marble statues. There are six in total; five females and a male, and none of them are older than twenty. They're wearing scraps of cloth, which I assume are meant to resemble Grecian togas, but the alphas circulating around them don't see the fabric as much of a barrier.

"Are those bite marks?" Jasmine asks in a strangled voice.

Most of the guests limit themselves to sniffing and licking, but a few have left their teeth imprints in the omegas' flesh. The young blond guy, in particular, looks like he's been mauled by a pack of dogs. I can feel her stiffen as she watches an alpha thrust a hand under his loincloth before jotting a number on the card at his feet. "What's he writing?"

"His bid for a night with the omega," I tell her. "It's a silent auction."

She doesn't ask what that entails, and I'm glad. I can already see the strain on her face, her mouth tight and her eyes darkening. "If the omega is here voluntarily, they split the proceeds with their pack after the host's cut. But most are here because they have no choice."

I've heard rumors, in fact, that Litchfield keeps some of the omegas locked in his warehouse, right alongside his overpriced artworks.

"She's going to fall," Jasmine murmurs and I follow her gaze, cursing under my breath. The omega is swaying, her face pale and her pupils blown. Even through the stink of hungry alphas, I can smell her terror. "We have to get her down…"

"We will." I encircle Jasmine's waist as she tries to step in her direction. "But not until the right moment."

She frowns, suspicion swimming in her eyes. I want to comfort her – and for a lot more than the plight of an omega she's never met – but I restrain myself. "Trust me. We won't leave without her."

"And the others?" She casts a glance at the blond guy who's being groped by a different alpha. "None of them deserve this bullshit."

"You're right. They don't." I could tell her that the blond is here every month and dances at a low-rent club downtown between events. I've offered him a job multiple times, but his alpha is a part-owner in the sleaze pit, and his loyalty won't let him quit. I wait until I catch his eye, then force a smile. "Benny, have you thought any more about my offer?"

"You know I'd love to dance for you, Mr. Volk," he replies with a saucy wink. "But my guy is the jealous sort."

I glance around, but I know his alpha isn't here. Even if Litchfield deemed him worthy of an invitation, he wouldn't bother to show. Benny is on his own during these events, even though his alpha takes most of his auction price.

"The offer is always open, Benny."

"You're the sweetest, Mr. Volk." His gaze slides to Jasmine. "But let me know if you want something a little more personal, okay? I'm feeling a pang for an alpha sandwich, if you know what I mean."

He gives Jasmine a charming smirk, and she surprises me by returning the smile. "It's a damn shame I'm on a diet," she says in a husky voice that goes straight to my groin. "You're very tempting, Benny."

He laughs, but I'm pretty sure it's because of the look on my face. Picturing the two omegas together – with me, the besotted filling – isn't hard to do. "Well, if you're feeling hungry, I'm great for working off the extra calories." He sticks his tongue in the side of his cheek, his eyes crinkling with mischief. "Ask Mr. Volk. He can vouch for me."

Jasmine raises a brow in my direction, but I'm suddenly jostled by an alpha in a bad suit that reeks of cigarette smoke and whiskey. He thrusts past Jasmine, leering up at Benny. "Fuck diets. I'm here for a feast." Grabbing the omega's thigh, he rips the scrap of cloth from his waist and drags the fabric down to his nose. "And you smell like you're gagging for a good, hard rut."

Benny's a professional, but his practiced smile slips at the violence simmering in the alpha's gaze. I step forward, ready to toss him across the room, but Jasmine snatches up the pen at Benny's feet and scribbles something on his auction card. "Sorry, but he's taken. Unless you can beat this bid?" The alpha scowls at the number she's written down and she gives him a withering look. "I guess you'll just have to rut into a pillow instead."

The alpha clenches his fists, a threatening growl rattling in his chest. There's a lot of us packed in this narrow gallery, but there's no way he can miss the warning gleam in my stare. Or the scent of pissed-off uber leaking from my pores. But he's drunk and on the edge of a rut, and I'm not surprised when he takes a step towards me…

Only to pause as music starts up in the next room, turning all heads.

"Declan's on," Erik says in my ear, and I give Jasmine a little nudge.

Not that I need to. The allure of my packmate's voice draws everyone back towards the foyer. The drunk stumbles past, but I linger until Erik steps through the door at the end of the hall. He has a small brunette by his side, Karly shooting a wink my way as she peels off her coat. She's wearing the same toga-style covering as the omegas in the auction, and with her pale skin, dark wig, and small frame, she's a close match for Stephanie. The switch happens with minimal fuss, Erik grabbing Stephanie while Karly quickly takes her place on the pillar. Erik carries the traumatized omega outside while Karly shoots me a little salute. It's not the first time the former soldier has helped us get an omega out of one of these parties, and I almost pity the asshole who ends up with the winning bid.

"She's safe," I murmur in Jasmine's ear as we step into the foyer. She turns to look, but I wrap my hand around her nape, leaning closer to her ear. "Erik has taken the omega outside. For now, let's focus on Declan, shall we?"

She shoots me a distracted glance and I can't blame her. Because she's spotted my packmate, and he's as mesmerizing as usual. There's no stage or spotlight, but Declan has never really needed one. Lounging halfway up the roped-off staircase, he's a decadent vision in his rumpled tuxedo, long legs sprawled out in front of him. His bowtie hangs loose, his hands dangling at his side as he drops his head back and serenades the chandelier. It's a soulful ballad, perfect for his lustrous tenor, and I feel the familiar tug in the pit of my stomach.

It"s his version of Dusty Springfield's Breakfast in Bed, and I grunt in amusement at the song choice. Of course, the way Declan sings it, all anyone is thinking about is messy sheets and hungry mouths roaming over slick skin. If his audience hears the mocking edge to his voice, they don't show it. The foyer is packed with mesmerized guests, and I glance at Jasmine, expecting to see her just as deeply under my packmate's thrall. But there's a small frown between her brows.

"You don't like this song?" I ask quietly.

"Other than the fact it's the definition of poor taste?" She wrinkles her nose, glancing around at the slack-faced alphas. "But he seems to have a lot of fans."

I feel my lip curl in protest, but she's right. It doesn't matter that Declan is an alpha, or that the scent of omega still hangs heavily in the air, right now everyone wants a piece of my packmate. Biology, I think not for the first time, can be both a gift and a curse.

"Come on." I tuck my hand under her arm. "Let's go break up the party."

She raises a brow at me but plays along as we cut through the crowd. Declan is still staring at the ceiling, seemingly lost in his song, but as soon as we reach the bottom of the stairs, he jerks to his feet. He sways, over-correcting and making a clumsy grab for the banister. He misses by a mile and stumbles down a couple of steps, almost falling into my arms. Jasmine makes a small sound as we're engulfed in a wave of spicy amber and expensive whiskey.

"Hello, precious," Declan says, leaning heavily on me as he gives her a slow, drunken smile. "Fancy seein' you here."

"Fancy," she mutters back, "isn't the first word that comes to mind."

A surprised laugh rumbles out of his chest and a couple of alphas step closer, no doubt drawn by the sound. Declan is just too charming for his own good, and I shoot them a quelling look. "Show's over," I tell the crowd, wrapping a protective arm around his shoulders. "Time we headed home, don't you think?"

Declan mumbles a drunken protest, but Jasmine is already heading across the foyer. I hurry to follow, my packmate stumbling over his feet as I drag him through the crowd. But I'm not quick enough to stop Jasmine from pausing at the door to the salon, her back rigid as she stares at the scene inside.

"Fuck me," I hiss, trying to steer Declan around to block her view. But she's gripping the doorframe and I wince as I cast a quick glance in the room. It's the usual shitshow of predatory alphas using and abusing powerless omegas. But in this instance, they've taken the tasting theme literally, strapping the naked omegas to a long dining table. At first glance, it looks like their pale limbs are soaked in red wine, but the coppery scent in the air clearly says different. "Don't look, Jasmine."

But I'm too late, her face stricken as she lifts shocked eyes to mine. "Why are they doing that?"

I struggle for a response, but Declan just gives a moody shrug, his Southern drawl laced with disgust. "Because they can." He looks around, tugging on his bedraggled bowtie. "I need a fuckin' drink."

All signs of the beguiling crooner are gone, his amber scent harsh in my nose, and I nudge him towards the front door. When I extend a hand towards Jasmine, she stares as if I just slapped her with it. "We can't leave them!" she hisses, gripping the door frame tighter. "We have to stop this."

"And we will." The promise sounds weak to my ears, and I grind my teeth, hating how impotent I feel. "But not right now." She opens her mouth to argue, and I try to soften my gaze. "Tonight's about saving Stephanie. We need to stay focused on that."

She looks back into the salon, biting her lip. I can see moisture gathering on her lashes until she shakes her head, her chin lifting as she turns back to me. "Do you have a plan for them?"

"Every last one of them."

There's just enough of a growl in my voice that she believes me. Or at least gives me the benefit of the doubt. But as we turn towards the door, Declan looks over my shoulder and gives a weary sigh. "Incomin'," he mutters.

"Mr. Volk!" I glance back to watch Litchfield push his way through his guests, an anxious wrinkle between his eyes. "I hope you're not leaving so soon. We haven't even brought out the dessert yet." Jasmine makes a pained sound and I barely swallow the snarl climbing my throat, but Litchfield isn't finished. "I've saved a particularly delicate treat for you to sample. You wouldn't want him to go to waste, would you?"

The asshole is smiling at me, seemingly oblivious to the fact I'm a heartbeat away from ripping his head off. The only thing that stops me is Declan's face filling my vision, his eyes crinkled in concern. "Eyeshine, X. Jesus, your mask is really slippin'."

I grunt, because all I can smell is Jasmine's distress. Rage burns through my lips and the urge to murder every alpha in the place is so strong, I barely feel Declan's hand as he gives my arm a rough shake. "Get her out of here before you lose it, X," he tells me, not a drop of whiskey lacing his words. "I'll run interference until y'all are clear."

Jasmine gazes up at him, clearly confused by his change in demeanor. But Declan just pats my shoulder as he stumbles drunkenly towards our host. "Litchfield, my buddy! Did you like my song? I told you we'd give ‘em a damn fine dinner and show…"