The Mark of a Gamma

Chapter 2

My reputation might be a little more on the wild side compared to my brothers, but that's nothing new. Women are always hoping to score with us. We called them groupies; women who fawn over men like myself and my brothers. Even if we didn't own BWS, holding the titles of alpha, beta, and gamma come with their own kind of groupies too. Being former Special Ops gives us that added 'oh-la-la' bonus women dream of.

I'm going to have to have HR issue a reminder about the dress code. We're running a business; a very high-tech, highly sought-after business, not a damn playhouse. If she wants to show her breasts off to anyone and everyone that's her bid, it just won't be done here.

"Beta Rowan already here?" I ask sharply.

"Yes, sir," she chirps with a bright smile that I ignore.

I smell coffee wafting down the hall from my office and my body follows the familiar and welcoming aroma. Another scent mingles with it and the fists in my pockets unclench slightly. I already know the sweat that accumulated on my palms during my torture ride is now mingled with smears of blood from where my nails dug in. The indents are already healing and will be gone in a few minutes, but I don't take my hands out of the security of the coat pockets.

My office door is wide open, and the bulky frame of Timber Ridge's beta is already settled into one of the purposefully uncomfortable chairs in front of my desk. I made sure they were uncomfortable in hopes it would keep people from lingering in my office longer than I wanted.

Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn't. This morning though, the comfortableness of the chairs wasn't important. Who was sitting in the next one, was.

Lieutenant Colonel Joseph Dexton was a harsh-looking man and if you didn't know him the way I did, you might mistake his outward appearance as absolutely terrifying. His brash exterior only emphasized his life story, a story he would most likely take to his very own grave one day. Silently.

His fatigues were typical and expected about him, and I don't recall ever seeing him wear anything else except maybe his birthday suit. Nudity was common among shifters, and you get more than your fair share of visuals when you're crammed into narrow bunks with thirty other men and privacy is limited. Fuck, privacy doesn't even exist.

Ahh, the good ol' days of boot camp.

Still, being naked around other shifters wasn't unusual. It's hard to keep your clothes when you go from man to beast in a matter of seconds.

"You're late," Rowan grumbled but I knew from his dull tone he wasn't admonishing me. I got here when I said I'd get here and not a second later.

"Sir," I jerked my chin toward our former CO, whose legs were sprawled out in front of him, too long and lanky to fold up. His tan combat boots were laced tight around his mammoth feet and his sausage-like fingers were interlaced over his toned middle. His signature military haircut looked to be recently buzzed, and of course, his face was as clean-shaven as always.

When I rounded my desk, Dexton tilted his head to the side and eyed me up like I was appearing before him for an examination. His eyes narrowed and a muscle ticked in his jaw while he stared at me as I took my seat, not even bothering to withdraw my hands from my pockets. The evidence of my panic session will have to be discretely dealt with once I'm alone.

I would have rather had this conversation in Rowan's office, but apparently, this was more convenient for our meeting. Eli wasn't coming, not today. His chopper had flown out last night for an important meeting that apparently had to be done face to face with an Alpha in a northern pack.

Pennsylvania wasn't a huge state, and he could have probably driven, but what fun was that? Besides, the whole point of having a chopper at our disposal was so we could use it, not stare at it and drool over the impeccable paint job.