Page 181 of Psycho Pack

He looks away, but he nods stiffly.

We rejoin the others, who've stopped to wait for us near the station entrance. The neon lights of the city paint their faces in harsh reds and violets, so different from the soft glow of Surhiira. Above the urban sprawl, the animated sign for the Alpha's Alpha club dominates the skyline against the light of the full moon.

It's clearly the main attraction.

A massive stiletto heel grinding down on a snarling wolf's head in an endless loop. Every time it stomps down, the wolf's tongue lolls out and its eyes roll back into its head.

Subtle.

Then again, as garish as it is, its complete lack of subtlety is how I've been able to find as much information as I have, so who's complaining?

I can only hope Raven wasn't exaggerating when he said Monty Filch is punctual and predictable. Because of everything our resident snake just put us through, we missed the date he recommended. Having to bump it up to the following Tuesday is a risk, but now that we have a new base to return to, if he isn'there, we should be able to get the fuck out and try again some other time.

Theoretically, at least.

I hate that everything's up in the air like this.

My stomach churns as I take the lead and we make our way through the crowded streets. Every instinct screams that we're walking into a trap. That we should grab Ivy and run, find somewhere safe to hide.

But we can't.

For one thing, she'd never forgive us.

I force myself to breathe slowly, to project the calm confidence expected of a wealthy pack leader.

We've planned for every contingency.

We're as prepared as we can be.

But as I watch Ivy's fiery hair catch the neon lights, her small frame dwarfed by the alphas surrounding her, I can't shake the abject terror wrapping its claws around my heart, digging in, hissing that we're about to lose everything.

I just pray Wraith is fast enough if it comes to that.

I lead my pack through the neon-lit streets, keeping my stride measured and confident despite the dread. Around us, the city pulses with gaudy excess that barely covers the grime.

It's hard to resist the compulsion to scan for threats as I usually do. I have to be subtle. We're supposed to be wealthy alphas, not battle-hardened soldiers.

The distinction feels paper-thin.

"Look at this fuckin' place," Whiskey mutters beside me, tugging at his collar again. "Makes me wanna take a shower just walking through it."

"Stop fidgeting," Plague hisses. "You're drawing attention."

He's right. A few passersby are already giving us curious looks.

We need to blend in better.

This is dangerous enough with a marked omega, let alone one who's unmarked. She's wearing a spray to suppress her omega scent just enough that it isn't obvious we're trying to hide anything, but a few alphas are already glancing her way.

I didn't want to bring that up to Ivy before the mission. I was afraid she'd feel pressured into it. That she'd accept our marks just to keep us safe.

Protecting her doesn't just mean protecting her life. It's about protecting her autonomy, too.

And when—if—she lets us mark her, I want it to be special.

She deserves nothing less.

I catch movement out of the corner of my eye. A group of alphas stumbling out of a nearby bar, clearly drunk. Their gazes lock onto Ivy, nostrils flaring, and my hands clench inside my pockets.