Alpha. Rachel Vincent

we’d done, if they didn’t already.

      He was making a statement. Staking his claim. And Jace and I would have to live with it.

      But with any luck, if I let him have his moment—let him publicly air his grievance—he’d be able to work past some of his anger. Please let him work past some of his anger…

      “Faythe?” my father called, clearly oblivious to the game Marc was playing—so far.

      “Yeah. I’m coming.” Dialing up my courage, I brushed more dirt from my clothes with my free hand, then marched back through the kitchen and into the living room with my head high. Or at least not drooping. Jace followed me and took up a post in the doorway, looking angrier than I’d ever seen him.

      Marc sat on the arm of the couch, watching me, apparently at peace with the world, at least for the moment.

      I leaned against the wall, sipping from my glass, trying to ignore the stares as they roamed down from my hair—evidently disheveled—over my shirt and pants, taking in the smudges I couldn’t get out without detergent. “Okay, as much fun as this awkward silence is…” I had to force my hand to relax around my glass before it cracked. “What’s the plan?”

      My father cleared his throat, mercifully drawing the collective focus from me and setting us all back on track as only he could. “The vote takes place in an hour and a half. When they ask for prevailing business, I’ll make the formal charge against Malone, then we’ll present our evidence. Faythe?” My father turned to me, and for once, I was glad I couldn’t read his expression.

      “Yeah.” I set my glass on the coffee table and lifted my coat from the back of an armchair. From the inside pocket, I pulled a clear, gallon-size freezer bag—the only size big enough to hold two fourteen-inch-long thunderbird feathers—and held it up for everyone to see.

      The south-central cats had all seen it, of course, but Di Carlo’s men had not. They gathered around for a closer look when I laid the bag down on the coffee table. “Can we open it?” Teo Di Carlo asked, and my father nodded.

      “Just for a minute, though. The blood’s already dry, and the scent is only going to fade with time and exposure to air.” And we needed everyone at the vote to be able to tell without a doubt whose blood stained that feather.

      Teo carefully pulled open the seal and held the bag to his nose. His eyes brightened as he inhaled. “That’s definitely Lance Pierce.”

      “I can smell it from here,” one of his fellow enforcers added, from the other end of the couch.

      “There’s no doubt about it, Greg,” Bert Di Carlo said, his voice rumbling throughout the room. “Now, whether or not Malone’s allies will accept the obvious conclusion…That remains to be seen.”

      And that’s what we were most worried about. Michael—my oldest brother was an attorney in the human world—had warned us that our evidence was circumstantial at best. It only proved that Lance Pierce had bled on a thunderbird feather, not that he’d killed the bird. Or that the feather had even been attached to a bird when it was bled on. But since the werecat legal system didn’t mirror the human one, we were hoping it would be enough. I’d been tried for murder with less evidence.

      Of course, I’d been found innocent of that particular charge…

      “Bert, would you mind going to fill Rick and Ed in?” My father asked. “Then we can all meet at the main lodge in half an hour.” My uncle Rick Wade and Ed Taylor—Alphas of the East Coast Pride and the Midwest Pride, respectively—were sharing a cabin on the other side of the main lodge.

      Di Carlo nodded and rose, motioning for Teo to join him. On their way out the door, they let in a frigid draft and a glimpse of the rapidly darkening winter sky, and seconds later their footsteps faded into the distance.

      “Everyone get ready,” my father said, then he disappeared into his room to change into his suit.

      Marc followed me into the bedroom we were supposed to share with Jace and snatched Jace’s duffel from the floor. Before Jace could protest, Marc tossed the bag to him. “You’ve got the first shower. Take your time.”

      Jace bristled, but I only shook my head. “Please, Jace. I’m tired of fighting with my own Pridemates. Let’s just save it for the real fight, okay?”

      Jace spun without a word and stomped off toward the only bathroom.

      I set my bag on the dresser and unzipped it, and was digging for clean clothes when Marc crossed the room and closed the door. “You can change and brush your hair, but don’t you dare take a shower.”

      “Don’t tell me what to do.” I turned to find his hard gaze trained on me, his forehead furrowed.

      “You owe me. Everyone knows you slept with Jace, and Dean will tell anyone who’ll listen that it’s because I couldn’t keep you interested. You’ve turned me into a walking joke, and the least you can do is make sure everyone knows I’m not out of the game yet.”

      “This isn’t a game, Marc.” Why did they both keep referring to it as such?

      “The three of us, all tangled up in knots? Hell, no, it’s not a game. It’s my fucking train wreck of a life. But you walking around smelling like we just had a roll in the shed? That’s just more of you lying in the bed you’ve made. With me, this time.”

      I sighed and sank onto the side of the bed, holding my change of clothes. “Fine, if it’ll make you happy.”

      He snatched his own change of clothes from the dresser and left the room, slamming the door.

      Jace came back a few minutes later, as I was pulling a clean shirt over my head. He stopped cold in the doorway, his hair dripping on his shoulders. “Aren’t you going to shower?”

      “I can’t.”

      “The hell you can’t. He’s doing this on purpose. Punishing us both.”

      I sat on the end of the bed and grabbed my left boot. “Don’t you think we deserve it? We humiliated him, and this is just the beginning. What do you think everyone’s going to be saying behind his back? It’s not going to kill either of us for me to walk around smelling like him for a couple of hours.”

      Except that I hated being marked, and Marc damn well knew it. Which was the whole point.

      I zipped up my boots and Jace dropped his duffel on the floor and stomped out of the room.

      Great. This must be the episode where Faythe can’t make anyone happy. Fortunately, my plans for Calvin Malone had nothing to do with his happiness.

      Clad in jeans, boots, and a plain, snug black longsleeved tee, I grabbed my jacket in the living room, and we headed toward the main lodge as a group. I expected both of the guys to give me the proverbial cold shoulder, but to my surprise, they took up positions on either side of me, only pausing briefly to glare at each other. Not a promising start to the evening. But surely once they had a mutual enemy to focus on, the personal rivalry would fade for a little while.

      The cabin Malone and Mitchell shared was dark when we passed it, and when we got to the main lodge, I realized we were the last to arrive. One of Paul Blackwell’s men met us at the door and led us to the formal dining room at the back of the lodge, where I’d stood trial for my life three months earlier. The room was long, and it normally appeared even larger than it was, thanks to an entire wall of windows. But it felt small and cramped, packed with ten Alphas and a grand total of thirty-six enforcers. I’d never felt such a concentration of testosterone and hostility.

      And I was the only woman in the room.

      The three solid walls of the room were lined in folding metal chairs, most already occupied with beefy toms. The table in the center sat ten, and nine of those spots were filled with the other Alphas.

      An odd hush descended as I entered the room followed by Marc and Jace, and I fought the urge to drop my eyes, which got easier