Page 6 of Broken Bonds
Like a conversation Mom didn’t realize I overheard where she gave David’s wife Carleen information on natural concoctions she could use to help keep her from catching.
Dad wants a whole stage full of family behind him for promo ops during his campaign, I’m sure. Wouldn’t do for the leader of the Atlanta Pack to not have a houseful of grandpups so he can pretend to be a doting grandfather, right?
My three Alpha brothers are nearly as cut-throat as my father, except for one crucial element—they’re dumb as rocks.
No seriously, they are.
The only reason they graduated high school and, later, university was my father’s pull and pocketbook. They work for Dad. Everything they have is because of him.
The ultimate nepo babies, right?
The problem is they’re annoying shitheads who think they’re smarter than they really are, and to their credit they do a pretty good job of pretending.
I think that’s something else my father resents. That me, the omega son, got all the brains. Empirically, I am smarter than them, from my test scores to getting away with shit that they’d never dreamed of doing.
The omega son never needed, much less asked for, help from the old man. Never needed a tutor. Got into trade school without needing money.
Was working independently, never asking for a single penny from him or Mom, not since I was a kid.
A few weeks after my unwilling return, my father started spending a lot of time away from home working with his campaign consultants. I dressed the part around him, pretended to do things with Lana—I mean, we were out doing things, but not like he thought we were—and kept my head down to lull him into a false sense of security.
Which is where I screwed up.
Big time.
I’d started frequenting a club just northwest of downtown, and had never scented another shifter there of any kind.
A predominantly gay club.
My father thought I was going out with Lana on those nights, her parents thought she was with me, and we were both mutually doing our own things on those nights but staying in touch via text in case we needed to get our stories straight.
I went to the club seven times, hooking up with guys—humans—and having a blast.
Unfortunately, it was the eighth time when I fucked up. What, only nine days ago?
God, it feels like forever.
I’m only 5’-10” and 180 pounds, but this adorable little guy was even twinkier than I am—that’s a word, right?—and I had him pressed against a wall, swapping spit with him in preparation of asking if he wanted to go somewhere else, when a hand painfully clamped onto my shoulder.
I spun, ready to throw punches, when I froze.
Because the hand belonged to Dad’s guy, Paul.
Motherfucker.
Chapter Five
Mal
Escape
Well, long story short, Paul dragged me to Dad’s office that night (cockblocking sonofabitch) and, honestly? I thought I was about to die right there.
Not metaphorically die from embarrassment or shame or any of that bullshit—I literally thought I was dead.
I won’t bore you with the details, but I was told if I ever pulled a stunt like that again that he would literally kill me. That now I had to announce a public engagement to Lana and actually go through with marrying her within the next few weeks, or…
Well, or.
