Push & Pull

GREYSON.

*

Ida Summers smelled electric, like the air before a rainstorm. The complex undertones of her pheromones resembled freshly cut flowers—roses, if Grey had to guess. Her scent was easy to read—shy, anticipatory, interested. She wet her lips as she lifted a nervous hand to tuck a lock of pin-straight, auburn hair behind her ear. Her gentle, brown gaze softened as she admired the only other person in Grey’s cramped dorm room: Mason Monroe.

His best friend, roommate, and frustratingly oblivious Beta.

It struck Grey then that Ida was stupidly lucky that Mason was a Beta. Otherwise he’d have long been clued in to just how badly his Omega girlfriend wanted him. The room was thick with her scent, so heady it damn near overpowered Grey’s own pheromones, which had him gritting his teeth in silent, aching discomfort.

Jaw clenched, he averted his gaze as Ida moved to place a hand on Mason’s shoulder, leaning in to softly exhale something into the shell of his ear. Grey’s own unfinished essay stared back, mocking him.

Christ. He wanted to hate Ida, he really did, but she didn’t deserve it. It wasn’t her fault that Grey happened to be in love with her boyfriend—had been, since they were both still in high school. A lovesick, stupid Omega fool. If he didn’t watch himself—and his pheromones—Ida was going to catch on. She’d been sweet to him thus far, but that would abso—fucking—lutely change if she ever scented the longing he felt for her boyfriend.

His only saving grace so far had been that Mason was a Beta. Even if he slipped up while Ida wasn’t around, Mason was none the wiser to the wanting that plagued his scent.

Shit. He was so fucking pathetic. He needed to get a goddamn grip already. He needed to vacate the room right now before he lashed out at Ida and pissed Mason off in the process.

Grey sighed, scrunched up his nose, and pushed his chair back from his desk—decision made. With stiff, jerking movements, he packed all his shit and tossed his backpack over his shoulder, shooting both Ida and Mason a withering glare. “Alright,” he began, his pinched look more than enough to make Ida’s face flush scarlet. “I’m leaving.” Grey tilted his head, gaze sliding from Ida to Mason. “I’ll be back in one hour.” His right index finger jutted out as he reiterated, eyes narrowed. ”One.”

Mason smirked—the bastard—looking smug and hopeful as he suggested, “Two?”

“Mason!” Ida exclaimed, smacking Mason playfully on the back of his head. ”Please!” She looked back toward Grey, mortified. “We’ll be out of your hair by then,” she promised.

Mason tossed an arm around Ida’s shoulders, pulling her in closer to him, eliciting a startled yelp from his girlfriend as he did so. “If you see a sock on the doorknob, best not to come inside.”

"Mason!"

“Whatever you say,” Grey exhaled, eyes forward, quietly impressed with himself for keeping the bitterness from his scent. “You horny bastard.”

Mason barked out a laugh at that.

Ida made an indignant sound as she shoved Mason off the bed and onto the ground.

Grey didn’t bother sticking around.

Instead, he fled.

The thing was, Grey’s family wasn’t rich by any means. There was a reason Leo, his twin brother, had chosen to forgo college and join the Coast Guard. The military was a free ride so long as one had the talent and Leo had that in spades. His brother, at least, wasn’t a drain on their parents. And, try as he might to also not be, his mother still insisted on sending him pocket money whenever she could.

Grey smiled gently, thinking of Allison Fox with her kind eyes and soft smiles. His mother was a saint of a woman—an Omega who’d given birth to five healthy children, of which Leo and he were the oldest.

She was a good mother and a devoted Omega to their Alpha father.

He felt a bit guilty for the hard time he’d given her growing up. While Leo had presented as a Beta, Grey had presented extraordinarily early as an Omega, which had come with a whole host of other issues he didn’t really fucking like dwelling on. The point was, he didn’t take it well. He may have been an Omega, but that didn’t mean he didn’t know how to throw a punch or two.

Alright, several.

He’d dragged Leo into their fair share of tussles, each bruised knuckle and bloodied lip giving their mother another gray hair to fret over. He felt bad about it now, in retrospect. Not that he was any less of a hothead—he’d just gotten better at patching himself up and making sure his mother didn’t find out when his anger overtook his common sense.

Which was, embarrassingly, far too often.

Fucking Alphas. None of them knew how to keep their damn pheromones to themselves. It was suffocating—revolting, really, the way they thought they could just cover him in their scent without his permission. Acting like he should be thankful.

Presumptuous bastards. All of them.

Grey shoved his key into the driver’s side keyhole with angry gusto, ripping open the car door with an annoyed jerk as he tossed his bookbag carelessly into the passenger’s seat. Once he’d pulled the door shut with a slam, he slid the key into the ignition and, with an anticipatory wince, turned it.

The engine sputtered—turn, turn, turning—before it coughed to life with a shuddering rumble. “Christ,” he mumbled to himself. His piece of shit car was due to die any day now, but he couldn’t very well tell his mother that. She’d worry herself into an early grave if she knew the car had given out on him.

Which was why it was always such a goddamn relief when it managed to shudder to life once more.

With a relieved sigh, Grey put the car into reverse, backed out of his assigned student parking space, and started on his way to the campus library. He could’ve walked, sure, but he didn’t feel like wasting twenty minutes hiking across campus. Kingswell University was, after all, nestled deep in the Texas Hill Country. His calves burned just thinking about making the hike up Sorority Row toward Frederick Langley Library—“the FLL,” as it was often called.

Besides, when he returned to his dorm in an hour, it would be the heat of the day. He just hoped it didn’t stink to high heaven of Omega and sex. Grey didn’t think he could sleep surrounded by another Omega’s pheromones—especially knowing they were meant for the same man he had feelings for.

Grey’s hand tightened around his wheel, knuckles gone white. Why couldn’t he just fucking view Mason as a normal friend? He felt like shit, lusting after his friend like this. He was taken. He wasn’t interested in Grey, not like that. He wouldn’t ever be. Grey wasn’t small or delicate like other Omegas. He was tall, well-toned, and rough around the edges. He was even an inch taller than Mason. No Beta would ever want to be with an Omega he had to look up at to kiss.

Alright, dickhead, he thought. Enough with the fucking masochistic pity party.

Returning his attention ahead of him, his foot hovered over the brake as the convertible in front of him slowed, blocking in another car that had their rear taillights on, obviously in reverse, intending to back out. He couldn’t hear what they were saying, muffled as they were, but the exchange was clearly heated. Which, great. The last thing he needed was to be delayed further by campus idiots.

Grey eased his foot down onto the brakes, slowing the car to a near stop once he’d concluded the convertible had no inclination of moving any time soon. Just when he was thinking of cutting his losses and reversing out of the parking lane, the convertible’s brake lights flashed and with absolutely no warning, it sped backwards, slamming into the front of Grey’s car with a sickening CRUNCH!

Grey lurched, seatbelt locking as his head snapped back, slamming into the headrest. ”Fuck,” he exhaled, thoroughly rattled, his heart racing as his adrenaline spiked. The shock wore off fast, swiftly replaced by indignant rage. Because, what the fuck?

With deft, nimble hands, Grey divested himself of his too-tight seatbelt and damn near kicked his door open as he attempted to get out. He coughed, waving a hand in front of his face as he took in his completely destroyed, smoking engine.

Grey pinched the bridge of his nose. Fuck. He didn’t need a goddamn insurance adjuster to tell him his piece-of-shit car was totaled.

Frustrated beyond belief, Grey turned an angry, accusatory gaze on the culprit.

LOGAN.

*

[text from: Father]

Do not test me, boy. Annika is my personal assistant, she is meant to assist me in my work. She is not to waste time cleaning up your incessant fuck ups. Step out of line one more time, Logan, and you will see just how thin my patience with you has grown.

Well, it would seem Daddy Dearest was in a mood. Logan clicked the lock button on his phone, the screen blinking out of existence. Empty blackness stared back at him. “Ha,” he exhaled, his mouth twisting in a sardonic mockery of a smile. “That’s how he wants to play this?”

Figures. His father had never been fond of him. No, he much preferred his older brother, his golden son. It was like he’d already forgotten who had nursed his precious son back to health after his mate died. Luke was still a shell of his former self. And yet, their father continued to shower him with love—the same love he would never dream of bestowing upon Logan.

His grip tightened around his phone. No, his father didn’t have time for fuck ups.

He really thought a text like that was going to make Logan behave? Well, at least he saw fit to text him himself this time. Logan half expected a strongly worded plea from Annika. But his father did so love to send others to do his dirty work.

Bastard.

Logan hurled his phone across the room, gut twisting with sick satisfaction as it hit the floor with an audible crack. He was entirely too sober to deal with anything at the moment, much less his father. Logan leaned forward then, snagging an open bottle of bourbon by its neck. He poured a liberal amount into the glass beside it before knocking it back with a burning swallow.

Yeah, way too sober.

Several swallows later, the bottle of bourbon was empty, leaving him feeling overwarm. He sighed, his senses finally dull enough to silence the racing of his thoughts. Logan collapsed backward, into the couch, hand lifting to sink into the rich, chestnut hue of his bangs. He gently brushed them up and aside, revealing his forehead—the action self-soothing and entirely self-indulgent. His mother had often done the same for him when he’d curled up beside her to rest his head in her lap.

He missed her.

More than that, he missed the way she had smelled—like a clear spring day, like saltwater against skin, warm and inviting. Affectionate.

His Omega mother may not have loved his Alpha father, but she had served her purpose. She’d given him two Alpha sons - a perfect, older son, and a spare for his pharmaceutical empire. He thought perhaps, at one time, his father might have loved his mother. After all, he’d sat solemnly next to her bedside as she wasted away to nothing, the result of a pheromone overdose, a cruel penance for ignoring her heats.

It seemed, in the end, not even her love for her children could overcome her distaste for his father’s touch.

Ha.

He needed another drink.

He also needed to not be alone.

Grunting, Logan peeled himself away from his couch, retrieving his phone from where it lay abandoned on the floor.

[text to: Amelia Pham]

LOGAN: brick & barrel. 15mins.

Amelia responded immediately.

AMELIA: It’s two in the afternoon. On a Wednesday.

Logan rolled his eyes.

LOGAN: ur point ?

AMELIA: I don’t have time for you today.

LOGAN: aw dont b like that sweetheart

LOGAN: u kno u love me

LOGAN : ill buy

LOGAN: dont make me beg

Read: 2:05PM

LOGAN: ur leaving me on read ? srsly ?

LOGAN: fine

LOGAN: u leave me no choice

LOGAN: ill buy u that louis bag u wanted

LOGAN: the japanese one or w/e

AMELIA: Two Bags.

LOGAN: r u srsly haggling with me rn ?

AMELIA: Two. Unless you want to drink alone like the loser you are?

LOGAN : y r u so mean to me :’(

AMELIA : We wouldn’t be friends if I were a good person.

Logan snorted.

LOGAN: fine, 2 bags.

AMELIA: See you in 15, loverboy.

Logan’s phone clicked shut as he shoved it into his pocket, his free hand raking through his hair in a vain attempt to tame it. He tugged the collar of his black V-neck up to his nose for a quick sniff test—not too bad, though he supposed Amelia would still complain.

Whatever.

He snatched his car keys off the counter, slipped into his white Nikes, and ambled out the door. His apartment was close to campus, which certainly accounted for the high price tag. Brick & Barrel was on the south side, near the FLL. Their parking situation sucked, so Logan decided his game plan would be to park at FLL and walk across the street.

He found his car easily in the parking garage, backed neatly into his personal space-a luxury most didn’t bother with. But hey, if his father was going to be a rich bastard, Logan wasn’t above taking full advantage. What Richard Knight lacked in affection, he made up for in outrageously expensive guilt-gifts. Case in point: the sleek silver Porsche 718 Boxster, handed over without a second thought.

He’d even managed a whole six months of good behavior after receiving her.

But, old habits die hard. It didn’t take long for him to get drunk and crash it into a tree—the repairs had been pricey and had taken two months to complete, but she was finally back in his hands.

Humming a nondescript tune he couldn’t quite place, Logan vaulted into the driver’s seat, grateful he’d left the top down. He hit the ignition, skipped the seatbelt, and peeled out of the garage with a screech of tires.

He grinned, the edge of his buzz chasing away the remaining sting of loneliness. The ache of it lived in the hollow of his chest, an ever present torment. But, a few more shots and he’d be free of it completely.

Logan needed that relief, craved it, and felt dangerously too present in his body without it.

So, yeah, as he pulled into the FLL parking lot, his mind was elsewhere, alright? It was on a glass of bourbon, on Amelia’s disapproving, judgmental stare. Which was probably why he missed the bright brake lights ahead-missed the subtle shift of the truck easing out of its spot.

The vehicle jolted to a stop, narrowly missing his Porsche.

A horn blared. A middle finger shot out the window. “Asshole!”

Logan snorted.

“Fuck you, dumbass!” he shouted back, flipping a bird or two. This worked out anyway, he’d just back up, let the uppity asshole out, and swoop in to steal the parking spot. Without further thought, he threw the Porsche into reverse and hit the gas—no glance behind, no hesitation, just pedal to the floor, accelerating backwards with a jolt of power, the momentary win canceled out by the sudden, sickening crunch of impact.

Shit.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he hissed, slamming the gear into park. Two days. He’d had the damn car back for two days and already he’d wrecked it. Excitement stirred in his chest like a live wire. Oh, his father was going to love this.

Logan laughed—sharp and humorless—as he climbed out, surprisingly graceful for someone whose blood alcohol level was more bourbon than brain.

First things first: charm the poor bastard he hit.

He rolled his shoulders, adjusted his posture, and strolled toward the other car, practiced half-smile in place.

What he wasn’t prepared for was the furious, electric-blue gaze that pinned him in place—intense, scalding, and so full of bite it nearly took Logan’s breath away.

The guy’s hair was sun-bleached and wind-tousled, his jaw cut sharp, mouth downturned in unmistakable irritation. He wasn’t traditionally pretty—no, he was all long limbs and lean muscle, arms flexing as he shoved a hand through his hair. Something about the angles of him, the sheer physicality, was alarming in its appeal.

And then there was the scent: like salt water, the sting of his anger cloying, overwhelming and citrusy, bright like a perfect spring day.

Omega.

Logan’s mouth went dry.

“What?” he asked dumbly, completely missing whatever the guy had just said.

The Omega sighed, clearly trying not to lose it. He rubbed the back of his neck, jaw clenching as he met Logan’s gaze through a fringe of dark lashes.

“I said,” he repeated, voice tight, “are you okay?”

Ha. Maybe he was drunker than he thought. Surely he wasn’t so far gone that a stranger asking him if he was okay had his chest tightening, heart stuttering as it awoke a familiar, aching loneliness.

Unable to help himself, Logan stepped forward, his own scent flaring, mixing headily with that of the Omega’s. “And if I’m not?” he challenged, leaning forward to place his palm flat against the steaming, crumpled hood of the other’s car, loosely caging him up against it. He didn’t touch him, though—even Logan wasn’t that much of an asshole.

Pretty boy went rigid, his mouth pressing into a flat, angry line. His scent spiked, pushing back against Logan’s own Alpha pheromones. He held Logan’s gaze—he didn’t cower, didn’t bare his neck in submission, didn’t so much as flinch.

When he did speak, his voice was steady. “You done?”

Interesting.

A thrill shot through him. “Done with what?”

The Omega huffed, like he couldn’t believe Logan’s audacity. “Done being a pathetic, posturing asshole?” He leaned forward, damn near nose-to-nose with Logan now. “Cut the pheromone bullshit. Now.”

The smile that cut across Logan’s lips was knifelike, edging on predatory. “Why should I?” he asked, his scent thickening, excitement flooding his veins as he goaded the Omega further: “After all, you were the one who rear-ended me.”

A bald-faced lie.

But, without a witness, it sure as hell looked like Logan had been rear-ended. Not the other way around.

“Are you being fucking serious right now?” the Omega seethed, shoving Logan forcibly away from him. ”You backed into me.”

Logan stumbled back, surprised by the strength behind the shove—but his grin didn’t falter. If anything, it sharpened. ”Prove it.”

The anger in the Omega’s gaze turned savage, festering to a boil as his hands clenched into fists at his side. His scent was intoxicatingly thick and incensed. Each breath came heavy—labored—like he was one word shy of breaking. Good. Logan was going to take such pleasure in shoving him over the edge.

The Omega’s face twitched. He pinched the bridge of his nose, eyes shut, and sighed—loudly. ”Fuck this,” he muttered, deflating. “Campus police can figure this shit out.”

He shot Logan one last withering glare before he turned to go.

But Logan wasn’t finished with him. Not by a long shot.

He then did something extremely ill-advised. He matched the Omega step for step, closing the distance between them to seize him—roughly—by the nape of his neck.

The reaction was as immediate as it was violent.

One moment he had him by the neck, mouth open to spew more bullshit, the next he’d wrenched himself free, turning on his heel with shocking swiftness.

Before Logan could react, the Omega decked him—square in the nose.

GREYSON.

*

Grey didn’t think—he reacted.

The moment that Alpha bastard touched the nape of his neck—his unbitten, openly vulnerable neck—he saw red. White-hot rage seared through him. He swung around, fist connecting with flesh before he even registered what he was doing.

Crack!

Pain bloomed across his knuckles as the Alpha staggered back, blood gushing from his nose, hazel eyes gone wide with shock. For a single, liberating moment, Grey felt a surge of unfiltered satisfaction.

His return to reality, however, was harsh.

He’d broken the prick’s nose. Broken it.

He was so, so fucked.

Worse still, the bastard was laughing.

Grey suddenly wished the ground would open up and swallow him whole, because if his mother ever got wind of him punching an Alpha in the face again, he’d never hear the end of it.

“Wow,” the Alpha laughed, words wet and wheezy. “I think you broke my nose.” He actually sounded impressed.

He certainly smelled impressed. His pheromones were overwhelmingly heady, with rich notes of vetiver, smoke, and earthy leather. The more pain he was in, the woodsier it became. It reminded Grey of a scorching fire, leaving him burnt, overly sensitive, and raw.

It had been worse earlier, when he’d been closer—his scent cocky, obscenely arrogant. Grey had held his breath, mortified by how drawn in he was. It didn’t help that the asshole was unquestionably attractive. Grey disliked Alphas on principle, but he wasn’t blind.

This Alpha was much broader than Grey, towering over him by at least a couple of inches. His hair was a touch too long, a mess of chestnut curls that partially obscured his gaze; his angular nose and wide-set mouth lent themselves to a distinctly charming face.

A face that was, apparently, also punchable.

“I did break your nose,” Grey snapped. How did he always manage to get himself involved in bullshit like this? If this prick hadn’t gone full asshole, they could’ve already exchanged insurance like normal people and been on their way.

He should just leave the asshole here, bleeding nose and all.

However, against his better judgment, Grey held out his hand. “Give me your keys,” he demanded. “Now.”

Instead of doing so, the bastard grinned. “Logan.”

Was this guy fucking for real?

Grey glowered at him. “I asked for your keys, not your name.”

Logan chuckled wetly. “Yeah, you did.” He leaned to the side, carelessly spitting blood onto the pavement, his gaze boring into Grey as he lazily wiped some of it from his mouth. “Your name?”

Grey swallowed, feeling oddly flustered. What was wrong with this guy? He was acting like Grey hadn’t just punched him, like he wasn’t bleeding because of him. Most Alphas would’ve fucked off already.

He gritted his teeth, but relented. “Grey,” he ground out, looking away, feeling flushed and ... angry? Yeah. Angry.

Logan stepped closer, boots scraping against the pavement—close enough for Grey to feel the heat of him. He stiffened, muscles locking as Logan slipped the cool weight of his keys into his palm, their fingers brushing the barest amount.

His scent—smoke, leather, earth—coiled around Grey like a noose, making him feel lightheaded and off-kilter.

"Good boy.”

Grey was going to fucking kill him.

By the time he blinked, he’d already turned—free hand twisted in Logan’s shirt, yanking him down until they were eye to eye. “Keep that bullshit up,” he hissed, “and I’ll break your jaw, too.”

Logan looked more pleased than fearful. “Promise?”

This. Fucking. Guy.

Grey’s blood pressure couldn’t take much more of this.

Disgusted, he shoved Logan away. “Just get in the fucking car.”

Without waiting for a response, Grey stormed off toward his own vehicle, intent on retrieving his backpack. While hunched over in the passenger seat, he paused—gaze catching on the glove compartment. After a moment of deliberation, he popped it open. Annoyed with himself, he grabbed the stack of napkins he kept stashed inside and then made his way back to the Porsche.

As he approached, he found Logan was already sitting obediently in the passenger seat, tracking him with a heavy, hooded gaze. It pissed Grey off to see him looking so relaxed while sporting a bloodied, broken nose.

He was just reaching for the driver-side handle when Logan spoke.

“So, where are we going?” he drawled. “Your place or mine?”

Grey inhaled. Exhaled. Glared. “I’m taking you to the ER,” he said tightly—only then realizing he’d never actually told Logan why he’d asked for his keys.

And Logan had just handed them over.

Was this guy some kind of psychopath?

Grey waited for a response. A beat passed. Then another.

Something flickered across Logan’s face—too quick to name, but enough to make Grey frown.

“Mm,” Logan exhaled. “Alright.”

He turned away, hand coming up to rest against his mouth, brows drawn like he was trying to hold something in—or keep something from slipping out.

Whatever it was, it wasn’t Grey’s business.

Grey tossed his backpack into the Porsche and slid in after it, silently thankful the convertible’s top was down. Being trapped in an enclosed space with Logan’s pheromones likely would’ve fried what was left of his nerves. He was already on edge as it was.

Not to mention, he still had his own damn car to deal with.

With a sigh, he pulled out his phone, silently apologizing to Mason before he fired off a quick text.

[text to: Mason Monroe]

GREY: Got into a fender bender. I’m okay but my shitty car isn’t. Could you do me a favor and get it towed out of the FLL parking lot? Taking the guy I punched to the ER.

Mason Monroe is typing...

Grey shoved his phone back into his pocket. He didn’t need to read the string of texts he knew Mason was sending. He had more pressing problems at the moment.

Like the suspiciously silent Alpha sitting right beside him.

“Here,” he said awkwardly, holding out the napkins. “For your nose.”

Rather than take them, Logan simply stared at him. Intently. In silence. In a way that made Grey feel incredibly on display—which he shouldn’t be surprised by, not with how long he’d been exposed to an unfamiliar Alpha’s pheromones. Try as he might to brush it aside, Grey was an Omega at the end of the day.

It was something he was very, very aware of.

He didn’t need—nor want—an Alpha’s undivided, silent attention.

Which was why he relaxed somewhat when Logan finally took the napkins from his grasp.

“Hope you know how to drive a stick,” he drawled. ”Grey.”

He really, really shouldn’t have given this bastard his name.

“Respectfully,” Grey said, anything but, “put your damn seatbelt on and shut the fuck up.”

LOGAN.

*

The adrenaline had faded—and hell, did Logan’s nose hurt.

It throbbed in time with the beat of his heart—thump, thump, thump—a steady and constant reminder of the Omega sitting cross-armed in the chair opposite him. He looked beyond pissed to be there and yet, there he sat anyway, the picture of dutiful.

They were strangers.

Grey shouldn’t care about him.

But he did. He did care.

Logan had never been the sort to let sleeping dogs lie. Everything he touched became messy—complicated.

And there was nothing he wanted more than to complicate Grey.

Not when he kept stealing glances at him, only looking away with a flush and scowl once he’d been caught. Logan wanted him to keep looking, wanted to further tangle their lives together, to make it where, even if Grey wanted to rid himself of Logan, he wouldn’t be able—

“Where the hell is your friend?” Grey finally looked him in the eye, brows furrowed. That wasn’t what caught Logan’s attention, however. No, it was the hand still resting at the nape of Grey’s neck. A protective gesture. A nervous one.

One Logan immediately honed in on.

“She’s on her way,” he answered, not bothering to cover up what he was staring at—Grey’s neck. “Why? Does being around me make you nervous?"

Grey’s expression soured. “Are you always this fucking insufferable?”

“Only when I’ve been physically assaulted,” he returned, ridiculously pleased with the way Grey instantly paled.

“Look, I’m—” Grey huffed, like he was irritated by his own words. ”I’m sorry about punching you. I brought you to the damn hospital to make up for it, alright?” He paused, once again averting his gaze. Which Logan disliked. A lot. “You—are you going to press charges?”

Ha. As if he would. Originally, he’d been elated at the opportunity to piss his father off. But, now that he’d found something much more interesting to occupy his time, he needed to stay off his radar. Filing a police report would mess that up.

But, Grey didn’t need to know that.

“I wonder,” Logan mused. “Should I?”

Grey’s face flushed a deep, tempting red. His gaze focused on Logan once more, piercing into him with a familiar intensity. Good. He wanted to keep it that way, needed him looking at him like that—with anger, with disgust, with anything, Logan didn’t care. So long as it was him he was looking at.

Grey’s hand moved from his neck, tangling instead in his messy blonde locks, exuding anxious frustration. As he swallowed, Logan tracked the movement, cataloging the exact way his Adam’s apple bobbed. “Fuck it,” he mumbled, eyes shut tight as he sagged forward into a sigh. “The repairs—I’ll pay for them.”

He peered up at Logan from beneath his lashes then, appearing just a dash pathetic.

It was a good look on him, Logan decided.

Logan couldn’t give less of a shit about Grey’s money. That wasn’t what he wanted at all. But, by offering to pay for the repairs, Grey had gifted Logan something else entirely: opportunity.

“Alright,” he agreed. “Give me your last name. And your number. Otherwise, you might weasel out of this little agreement.”

Grey tensed immediately.

For the first time, Logan was a bit sorry about his broken nose. He would’ve given just about anything to know what Grey smelled like at that moment. Did he smell of fear? Embarrassment? Anger? Interest?

Logan had to know.

“Fine,” Grey snapped. “It’s Fox.”

“Grey Fox?” Logan laughed. ”Really?"

Grey flushed, clearly embarrassed. ”Greyson Fox,” he clarified through clenched teeth.

Which, yeah, it suited him.

“Give me your phone,” Grey continued, holding out his hand, purposefully avoiding his gaze. “I’ll put my number in there.”

“So you can put a fake number in there? Do you think I’m dumb, Greyson?” Logan stood up, sauntering over to casually place a hand against the wall above Grey, leaning down as he caged him in where he sat. Logan held out his free hand, making a gimme motion. “Your phone.” He flashed a smile. ”Pretty please.”

Grey didn’t shrink away from him. Not that he would. He wasn’t the sort to make himself smaller simply because an Alpha was standing over him, exuding pheromones. His eyes flashed, nostrils flaring, the back of his neck flushing as his breath quickened, affected even as he pretended not to be.

The urge to shower him in his pheromones was nearing irresistible.

But, Logan did have some restraint.

He eased off a bit, watching as Grey shifted, discomforted, slipping his hand into his pocket to retrieve his phone.

Once he had it, he grimaced and shoved it into Logan’s waiting hand. His perceptive eye didn’t miss the slight tremble of Grey’s hand as he inhaled haltingly, eyes widening a fraction, pupils blown wide. “Your pheromones,” he forced out. ”Do something about them.” A shaky inhale. ”Or else.”

He was sure Grey meant it to come out as a threat, not a breathy plea.

Logan ignored him.

He continued to tower over Grey, purposefully boxing him in with his scent and navigating through his phone with an intentional laziness. In the process, he made sure to save himself as My Alpha❤︎ if only to piss Grey off later. Once done, he gave himself a call, leaving a record of Grey’s number in his own phone, and tossed the phone back.

And then, because she had impeccable timing, he spied Amelia walking toward them.

She looked as put together as ever, her black hair expertly coiffed, not a strand out of place. She was wearing a green sundress, which complemented her skin tone nicely. He’d have to compliment her on it later. Logan leaned back from Grey, his attention briefly diverted.

He opened his mouth to greet her, but she was quicker.

Amelia was short in stature, especially for an Alpha, but her heels gave her enough height to grab Logan’s face and tug him down for a better look at the damage.

She frowned, her sigh one of dejection. “What a shame. Your face really was your only redeeming feature.”

She tilted her head, finally seeming to notice Grey. “You did this?”

Grey squinted up at her, still flushed. “Yeah.”

Amelia hummed, her gaze taking on a calculating edge as she looked back at Logan. “I should thank you,” she mused. “Because now he owes me three bags and a Cartier bracelet.”

“Exactly when did I agree to three bags?”

“When you stood me up,” she answered matter-of-factly, releasing his face. She sidestepped then, hooking her arm in his to pull him away from the wall and, more importantly—Grey.

Ah.

So she had noticed.

That was quick.

Logan couldn’t say he was surprised. Amelia was perceptive, which ordinarily, was something he quite liked about her.

It made sense to note Grey’s unease. He’d gone from one to two Alphas in his space. That alone was more than enough to unnerve any Omega. Amelia, unlike Logan, was a polite and respectful Alpha. The moment she realized Grey was an Omega, she had neutralized all of her pheromones.

Grey didn’t seem any less leery of her for it, though.

The gaze that Amelia fixed on Logan was one of reprimand. “He’s sweating,” she pointed out, tone neutral, likely trying not to embarrass Grey. “Did you not notice? Too busy leaking your pheromones everywhere, like a child?” Her gaze narrowed a fraction. “Get it together, Logan.”

"Amelia—”

“Thank you,” she said, ignoring him as she addressed Grey. “But you can go now. You’ve humored Logan enough.”

Grey nodded as he stood, fishing around in his pocket for something. Amelia hadn’t lied. Grey was sweating, his skin flushed a pretty pink, his demeanor much more subdued than earlier. “His keys,” he said, handing them to Amelia, not Logan.

He turned to go, walking off without a single glance Logan’s way.

That irked him.

“Word of advice?” Amelia’s grip on his arm tightened. “Leave that boy alone.”

Logan had every intention of doing the opposite.