Chapter 17: The Beta Pack

After Juan is done making his announcement, the Santos start to file out of the room slowly, in a wave of murmurs and noises as they discuss what was said and where we go from here. You can feel the tension thickening—the uneasiness and nervousness—as it sinks in that this is real and life as we know it is about to change dramatically. Colton pulls me aside, tucking us out of the way of the door to let people pass, and grabs a passing male who is very familiar to me.

“Matteo, take Alora to our room and wait for me there. Assemble the pack; I want to talk to you all. I won't be long; my father wants me.” He nods out toward the front of the room, where Juan is still concealed by moving people, and I instantly feel sick with apprehension.

Being left with someone and separated from Colton reminds me that for all the things I am mad at him about, I still feel secure when with him. He's my safety net and the only person in the world who cares about me in any way. His strength, his quiet confidence, and his air of control are the calm to my nervous floundering, and it only hits home that I need his presence more than I want to admit.

“Dude, I don't think that's a good idea. Carmen and Alora in the same room... she will...”

“Are you questioning me?” Colton’s tone instantly changes, a growling snarl in the undertones, his irritation fast to show his displeasure and that aggressive air kicking in as Matteo looks away sheepishly. Knowing he overstepped the mark, Matteo stays silent. Questioning a command never goes down well with Alphas of any sort, especially not by one of his own sub-pack members, and it shows me that Colton is way more patient with me than even his closest allies.

“No, mi Alfa, pido disculpas,” Matteo responds in fluent Spanish, lowering his head and displaying his regret. He shows the demanded respect, obviously chastised as his leader is Colton, apologizing and addressing him as Alpha.

We have one major rule in our world: never query your Alpha for any reason, and never disobey. I forgot what that was like when living severed from any real pack and only having to follow basic rules in the home. Being here reminds me how it used to be when my family was alive and we all followed Samuel Whyte, before his family was taken down and never returned.

It makes me rethink Colton’s refusal to defy his father and leaves me churning it over in my head, a new angle on a frustrating situation. Reality sinks in that just because I lived outside the restraints and rules of our social norm for a decade, it doesn't mean he has.

Colton and Matteo are a sub-pack—a smaller group divided from the main and lorded over by a single dominant. This is how large packs like the Santos keep everything running smoothly. They're called Beta packs, or "Subs," and much like the hierarchy of leadership, even the sub-packs rank in order of importance and command. Like smaller units in a bigger army with ranking officers, Colton is right up there in the top five. His father's pack of Beta second commanders is number one.

The order is dependent on skill, experience, and how battle-worn they are, and Colton’s sub-pack were of an age to defend us ten years ago. They all tasted real war on our lands, even at such a young age. It's why they train together every day and are some of our most capable soldiers when need be. I should never forget that even though Colton is not yet the Santo Alpha, he is one in his own right, and in his own sub-pack. I underestimate the importance of his responsibilities. He isn't just some nineteen-year-old high school jock with his eye on a future crown; he's already a commander, already performing his duty and caring for his pack.

“Go with him; he'll keep you safe. He's as close as a brother to me.” Colton leans in, pulling me to him so he can talk softly, almost nose-to-nose. That gentler tone waves through me, breaking down my defenses. It is that sweet look I now know is only reserved for me. He reluctantly pushes me toward Matteo until a hand lands on my shoulder. It is an unfamiliar touch, and I flinch at the contact but try to hide it.

“The rest of the pack are not going to like this,” Matteo points out, raising a brow at Colton, but he is met with a blank stare that I can tell was a move from verbal conversation to mind-link. Whatever Colton says, Matteo looks away again and gently taps me to nod toward the door that people are filing out of. He flushes lightly, his face reddening high in his cheekbones, and I guess he got a quiet dressing-down away from listening ears. To save face, Colton didn't do it outright, showing he cares about his friend even if he was pissed at his questioning of authority.

“I won't be long. Try and not engage with Carmen.” His voice is like a last lingering stroke, giving me tingles as I move to leave him. I nod at him—not feeling anywhere near as confident as I pretend—before turning on my heel, steeped in nervous energy, and letting Matteo guide me with that single hand on my shoulder.

Matteo is as familiar a face in my memories as Colton; they were always together, like brothers or inseparable shadows. Colton’s memories show me that they are best friends, but Matteo is also one of his commanders, and he trusts him completely. He's the one who teased him that day at the lake, and I guess he already knows that a long time ago, Colton knew who I was. That Colton harbored some sort of juvenile feelings. That even as children, the Fates were trying to draw me to him.

I walk with him now, side-by-side, a male as tall as Colton and as broad. They share similarities, and I wonder if they're cousins or blood-tied in a close way because they do look alike: the same thick, straight brows, and black hair that's a little ruggedly messy, like it has a natural curl (although Colton's is shorter so it's harder to tell). They share the same dark brown, molten eyes, tanned Latino skin tone, and square jawline, although Matteo is not as clean-shaven or groomed. His hair is not as clipped or manicured, and his eyebrows are not as angular or tamed.

Matteo is like the rougher, less kempt version of Colton, who just rolled out of bed and threw on the first clothes to hand. He has a casual quality to him, less pulled together and sharp. Colton takes pride in his appearance and his clothes, and it's obvious to everyone he comes from wealth when you see him on a normal day. He just oozes that effortless polish, expensive labels, and self-confidence. Matteo seems less concerned in his worn, faded jeans and grey hoodie, which don't look designer either.

“So, you're Alora... from the Whyte clan, right?” He nods as we dodge fast-paced walkers. I'm not oblivious to how many glance my way with sneers and weird looks as we pass them going to their rooms, or wherever they have to be. My presence is noted, and the vibes I'm picking up tell me that people know who I am, or that they know I'm responsible for the trashing of their pack house. I try and ignore it, lowering my chin to avoid eye contact, and silently exhale to blow it all away.

Everyone leaving the room at once causes mayhem in this narrow corridor, and I can't tell which way we're even moving as we're crammed among so many—it's like ants evacuating a collapsing den via the only escape route. It's claustrophobic.

“Yeah, I think we used to play in the same places as children,” I answer distractedly as I avoid collision with oncoming traffic. I'm trying to be polite, but I'm too busy side-stepping large males pushing by and trying not to get trampled underfoot.

“We did. I remember you. You had a brother, Jasper, about my age.” The use of his name, from someone else's mouth, sucker-punches me unexpectedly, and I have to bite my lip to stop the sudden inhale from the slice of pain it inflicts. Even after all these years, I've never really fully mourned the loss of them. I try never to think of them and push it down whenever a memory surfaces.

“I did. He didn't come back from the wars.” It's a fast, audibly painful response. My voice wavers as I shake my head to expel the vision of him—so like my father in looks—and turn my eyes to the ground instead to watch my steps. The comment about his age means Matteo is older than Colton by at least five years, so it's weird that Colton is the Sub-Alpha and not Matteo. It gives me something else to focus on, rather than the memory of a brother I will never see again.

“I'm sorry, I didn't mean to upset you. I guess time is not a healer, like they say.” He seems momentarily uneasy, and I smile his way, bringing my eyes back to his with a sympathetic shrug. It never is the right time to have these kinds of awkward conversations.

“I'm not used to hearing anyone say his name. At the home, it was forbidden to talk of our loved ones, because they're seen as shamed. They failed our people by dying.” I grimace, tightening my limbs as I churn out the words I heard so many times. Matteo frowns, something dark in the depths of his eyes hinting at a reaction I don't understand, and then it's gone.

“This way.” Matteo changes the topic and points to a corridor veering off to the right, taking us out of the crush of people and into the near silence of an empty passage. He stands for a moment looking around, and I can tell he’s mind-linking, probably calling their pack to where we're going. It takes him a minute or so, and then he turns his attention back to me. “The rest are on their way, so we may as well show you the room before they get here.”

He walks ahead down the dark corridor and opens a door at the very end with the use of a keypad, pushing open a heavy, solid cherry-wood door and revealing an already lit room. It has working lights—I guess they started replacing bulbs down here first—and we walk in, letting the door swing shut behind us.

It's like a large study from an old-world time, with huge leather armchairs and a massive wall-hugging fireplace off to one side. There's one large walnut desk with a heavy dark green padded chair behind it, facing out into the center. Matching dark green leather couches line two of the walls; bookcases line another, and there is what looks like a mini-bar in the gap left by the door. There's a thick animal-hide rug under our feet—I think it might be a brown bear or some huge, rough-haired animal—and absolutely no windows in here at all.

“Every pack has a communal room for hanging out, bonding, and talking shop. Ours is obviously the best because we're lucky enough to have Juan Santo’s son as our Alpha. It's a perk, as we get favor.” I can't tell if he's being serious or sarcastic, and I don't pick up on any real malice in his tone. It's an odd thing to say if he isn't trying to be an ass. He nods me toward a seat as he strolls to the fireplace, presses a button, and it explodes into instant flames. I thought it looked real, but I guess it's gas.

I sit close to it on one of the armchairs, not really cold, but watching flames has always brought me a sense of calm and reminded me of another time and place, when my mother would brush my hair by ours. A time when I had no cares in the world, when I was secure and loved, nestling in the lap of my family. I try not to dwell on it and stare into the depths, emptying my mind.

“Drink?” Matteo pulls my attention to him; he is now at the dark wood-and-glass bar. I shake my head. The last thing I need is to dull my senses and get drunk with a guy or a pack that I don't know, and who have every reason to treat me cruelly. I'm already nervous about them arriving, and I can't relax, even if he does seem more tolerant of me than most of this pack.