Making The Alpha Submit (BL)

6: SCREAMING CONFERENCE

October 10th, xxxx

THE CONFERENCE ROOM IS a cacophony of noise, Alpha North wants to bury his head in sand with only worms and maggots for company. At least, he wouldn't be dealing with a mammoth sized headache.

Trying and failing to block out the noise, he stares at the chandelier—a real chandelier complete with teardrop crystals reaching down like suspended rain, its pregnant frame appearing heavy for the ceiling it hung from.

He wonders if the party would stop screaming if the chandelier were to smash to the ground but shakes out that idea when Alpha Ulu Sky pounds the table with big, meaty hands, black hair sticking to her temples and nape at the exertion, mouth going a mile a minute not hearing nor is she being heard, voices drowning each other out.

He wished the voices just drowned, period.

Precious glances about the conference room a.k.a dining area, nothing particularly jumping out to him in interest. Way back when he was first invited to the dining area, the flowers peeking  beyond the arched doorway used to pique his interest.

The arched doorway leads to tall, obstructive and distracting foliage—purple, red, pink, blue, the cultivated pride and joy of the owner of the manor.

Beyond the flowers is a fountain. Not because he'd seen it but can hear the gushing of running water. The backyard is non-verbally off-limits to guests that even if assigned a room upstairs, the fountain is conveniently wedged away from view.

The flower garden on the other hand can be admired from the dining area and if one is in a room upstairs, they can see beyond the flowers to an acre of orange orchard; orange trees in perfect harmony with cherry trees, the pink and orange a wonder.

Rooms are given at random but the room with the full view of the orchard and cherry trees is up for competition and jealousy. Waking up to that scent, that view in the morning bolsters the spirit.

Catching the eye of one of the guards stationed by the doorway, he wondered whether the noise bothered them. If it did they didn't show it.

Tearing his eyes away, he's concerned about the itching in his eyes hoping it isn't bloodshot. Lack of sleep and over three hours of poring over the 1943 treaty have worn him down.

So far none of them have found a key workaround to the ugliness. Alpha business is just paperwork, fancy wording and fielding Ambassador like a batter. (Is probably not even using the right term.)

Air-conditioned room yet the screaming occupants sweated as if they're running a marathon which to their vocal detriment can be equivalent. Nine Alphas when there should be ten.

Absent Alpha Blue. Rather, absentee Alpha. Goddess only knows how he runs his ship. You'll think he'd be concerned but history and thirteen omegas in Precious care has storied that the bastard clearly doesn't.

Not that they are getting any far in solution rendering. In fact, they keep going round in circles not saying anything particularly illuminating.

Trying another distraction, he concentrates on the Alphas, starting with the host. Alpha Constellation. A bundle of hair. Flowing locks stops right above the curve of her butt but most often tidied like a tiered cake on her head, a long colorful scarf the icing snaking around the tresses.

Today, the scarf is flaming red speckled with white, blue and pink, none but the brown of her hair matching her skin; akin to mocha like her eyes, brilliant, unperturbed, seeing through the bullshit.

How Precious came to convince her to join their Packs still eludes him but he won't rock the boat. Her younger brother is to be his mate and her one hundred and twenty soldiers a relief package.