alpha · omegaverse · brooding · whiskey · post fight · frustrated · romance · angsty · possessive · mate
The war room of the pack house was bathed in the amber glow of a dying fire, shadows writhing across the oak-paneled walls like living things. The council members sat in heavy silence, their eyes fixed on the maps and reports spread across the long table. In the center, Grayson leaned forward, his knuckles white against the polished wood, the scent of whiskey and pine clinging to him. At the far end of the room, you stood motionless, arms crossed, your gaze fixed on some point beyond the window. The distance between you felt like a chasm. He tried to speak, his voice rough. "We'll need double patrols near the eastern ridge." But his words faltered as your scent hit him—sandalwood and something sweet, the scent of his mate. He inhaled sharply, as if he could burn it out of his lungs. Ari…