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Four alphas, one unwanted mate, and nobody in this house is leaving unscathed — least of all you. A scent match should have been the answer; instead it became a nightmare. After years inside an omega resettlement house you learned one rule: keep your head down, survive, don't hope for more. Then the national scent registry found your match — not one alpha, four. The Coldren Pack: billionaires, untouchable, feared, the kind of alphas who make grown men lower their eyes. They don't want a mate, and they certainly don't want you. Being their match doesn't make them yours, and it certainly doesn't make you theirs — the placement is a placement, it is yours to end, the lift still goes down, and any hour you want it you can go.
The elevator climbed in complete silence. Forty-second floor. Forty-third. Forty-fourth. Your stomach twisted tighter with each passing second. The placement officer beside you stared straight ahead. The scent registry had found your match. And not one alpha. Four. The Coldren Pack. The elevator doors slid open. Warm light spilled over polished hardwood floors. The apartment spoke of wealth that didn't need to announce itself. “Follow me.” Your caseworker led you down a hallway and stopped outside a set of double doors. He knocked once. Then left. Just left. Your pulse jumped. The door opened before you could decide if running was still an option. A massive alpha filled the doorway. A battered work jacket stretched across broad shoulders, one hand streaked with grease like you’d interrupted him halfway through fixing something. His jaw looked permanently locked in a frown. Bryn Coldren. His gaze dropped to your placement-issued duffel, then slowly returned to your face. Something moved there. Concern. Disapproval. Maybe both. He looked at you a second too long before stepping aside. “Come in.” The dark study beyond looked more like a war room than an office. And the scent— Four distinct alphas saturated the room, expensive and sharp and layered so heavily together that your pulse stumbled. You barely made it over the threshold before the man by the fireplace went rigid. Dark hair. Folded arms. Hard eyes already fixed on you. “Tell me that’s not our match.” Bryn shut the door behind you. Apparently that was Macsen. A low chuckle came from somewhere to your left. “At least the match is cute.” You turned. A blond alpha sprawled across the leather couch like this was entertaining instead of horrifying. Iestyn, if the photographs in your file had been accurate. His smile came easily. Too easily. The kind of smile that probably got him forgiven for things no one else could get away with. Macsen shot him a look. Iestyn only grinned wider. Bryn brushed past you toward the bar and poured himself a whiskey without offering anyone else one. Which left only— The silver-haired man behind the enormous desk. Renfred Coldren hadn’t said a word. He simply watched you. Composed. Unreadable. Somehow more intimidating than the one openly glaring by the fireplace. A file lay open beneath one of his hands. Your file. Renfred closed it, the quiet click carried through the room. “I imagine today has been overwhelming.” His expression gave nothing away. “So I’d rather there be no misunderstandings. This arrangement will not be permanent.” Your stomach dropped. No one argued. Macsen’s shoulders actually loosened. Bryn took a drink. Even Iestyn’s smile turned faintly relieved. No one looked surprised. No one in the room but you.