Home > Alphas Like Us (Like Us #3)(7)

Alphas Like Us (Like Us #3)(7)
Author: Krista Ritchie

One that has been unequivocally contentious from the start.

I study the escalating argument between Maximoff and the organizer. The middle-aged man seethes, his face beet-red, and he sneers a response through gritted teeth, slicing the air with his arm at Maximoff.

As though to say no.

And then he clutches Maximoff’s shoulder—that’s enough. I leave my position and head down the red-carpeted left aisle.

Several rows of wealthy pricks had been snapping photographs of Maximoff instead of the string quartet, and their lenses start to swerve towards me.

“Price to Farrow.” The Alpha lead’s voice blares through my earpiece. “Return to your position at the entrance.”

Maximoff’s muscles flex. He places a palm on the organizer’s chest to keep the man at arm’s length, but they’re both speaking over each other. Violinists drown out their verbal fight.

I never reach for my mic to reply.

“Price to Farrow,” Price repeats. “Maximoff has a bodyguard on his detail tonight and it’s not you. Return to your position.”

I’ve seen the SFA bodyguard hovering ten feet from Maximoff.

I even know that bodyguard. Bruno Bandoni is a fifty-two-year-old silent type with the stature of a heavyweight champion. Bald and bearded. I used to work alongside him in Alpha, only because he’s the 24/7 bodyguard to Loren Hale.

I don’t hate Bruno, but he’s one of the more regimented men and he’s not fond of me. Tonight, that’s definitely not changing.

“Akara to Price.” Akara speaks through comms. I’m too far away now to hear the Omega lead without my radio. “Let Farrow check on Maximoff. He’ll only take a minute.”

The event organizer hoists a threatening finger at Maximoff, one angered motion from grabbing his face.

Motherfucker.

“Omega isn’t making these calls at this event,” Price says through comms while my stride lengthens. “Alpha is in charge, and Farrow, if you reach Maximoff, then you’re officially off-duty tonight. You can stay here as security or as the boyfriend to Maximoff Hale. Choose—”

The forty-year-old’s freckled hand clutches Maximoff’s sharpened jaw, and I’m close enough to hear the man spit, “Listen.”

Instinct rams me, and I sprint the last two feet, wedging my body between them—just as Maximoff tears the unwanted hand off his face and then swings. I catch his fist in my palm and walk him backwards.

Come on, wolf scout.

Bruno yanks the organizer back by the collar, every movement a snap-second. Shorter than a breath.

Maximoff fumes, chest rising and falling heavily, and his red-hot fury still drills into the organizer behind me.

I open his fist that I caught and clutch his hand with my hand. Squeezing.

Maximoff blinks, his attention almost, almost mine.

Our chests press together, his gray Camp Calloway shirt, green jeans, and Timberland boots unlike the suits and tuxes in the orchestra hall. It’s his way of gaining a modicum of control during an event that’s completely out of his hands.

With my other grip on his shoulder, I walk forward, forcing him to keep walking backwards down the aisle. Nearing the stage. “Look at me,” I say, my voice husky. “Wolf scout.”

His chest falls, muscles still flexed.

My pulse thumps.

I skim his striking but also tensed face, and my hand slides across his broad shoulder and rises slowly up his neck. I hold his jaw; I tighten his hand in my hand, and my lips veer to his ear. “Maximoff Hale, will you marry me?”

He flinches, eyes widening and brows knotting with a thousand questions, and even more philosophical queries.

 

 

2

 

 

MAXIMOFF HALE

 

 

I overthink.

About every fucking thing. You know that. But in this second, I let out the first thing in my head. “What?” I ask, too edged.

Farrow stands an inch taller, black hair pushed back, his know-it-all smile stretching to gorgeous drop-to-your-damn-knees levels. “Take a breath, wolf scout.”

Am I holding my breath like I’ve just plunged into the deep-end of a freezing pool?

Maybe.

Probably.

Alright, definitely. I can’t even think about the idea of marriage, not here; it’s something I haven’t discussed with anyone but Jane—wait…

Farrow raises his brows at me, near laughter.

I start nodding, knowing before Farrow says, “Man, I’m fucking with you.” He needed to catch my attention. I won’t admit out loud that it worked, but it fucking worked.

I try to force a grimace. “Thanks for that, asshole.”

Farrow whistles. His grin has to be hurting his face. “He calls it like he sees it.” He holds my jaw, his tattooed hand warm but silver rings cold.

The moment quiets.

Our eyes roam one another, and I breathe and breathe, the pent-up rage trying to deplete with his relaxed presence pushed up against my rigid body.

He hangs his arm over my shoulder, all cool confidence, his fingers skimming the back of my neck before disappearing in my hair.

I inhale a deeper breath. I’ve let another captain inside my ship, and everyone—the security team, We Are Calloway production crew, my family, the world, you—knows it.

Right now I’m aware that we’re in an orchestra hall, so close to the stage that the classical music overpowers our voices from eavesdroppers.

But Farrow and I are standing in direct view of two-thousand sets of curious eyes.

Our relationship has been public for about two weeks, and this—touching my twenty-eight-year-old boyfriend with a crowd in sight—still gets to me. Most of the time in a good way, other times…I find myself watching the people watch me, something I almost never do. Cameras have always been scenery to my colossally strange life.

But I notice them more now, and I worry a bit that they’re bothering Farrow. He just lost his fucking privacy, and this is only the beginning.

He said he’d tell me if the press or fans piss him off, and so far, he hasn’t said anything about it. I trust him, so I’m not going to overanalyze.

My muscles try to unbind, blood still set to simmer from Douglas Cherrie, the patronizing event organizer that I almost punched.

I’m not proud of it.

I shake my head, jaw aching from clenching. “I thought I could reason with him,” I tell Farrow. “Remind him that Luna is only eighteen and she doesn’t want this…” I lift my gaze to meet Farrow’s understanding. “I asked to switch places with her. He said no. I offered to buy Luna back—and Jesus Christ.” I cringe at those words.

Buy Luna.

Like my little sister is property.

“Hey,” Farrow says, drawing me closer, his hand shifting to the back of my head. Camera flashes spotlight us, and we both rotate our backs to block the harsh glare.

Farrow lowers his voice, and I strain my ears to hear him over the music. “Price is on Luna’s detail for the charity auction,” he says. “It’s a little bit disturbing that a sixty-year-old fucker won the bid for her, but you don’t need to be paranoid. Your dad and mom have been breathing down security’s neck all night, and almost everyone in SFA is watching her.”

My shoulders just won’t loosen, my neck strained. I’ve been in DEFCON 1, damage control mode for the past hour and a half.

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