Chapter 3 : the triplets

Sloane

I opened my eyes slowly, letting them adjust to the bright light spilling across the room. I sat up and took in my surroundings. I lay on a king-size bed, the drapes drawn tight. Tonight I wore a nightgown instead of the dusty lingerie I'd fallen asleep in.

Where is this place? Where is Dean? I must've passed out after we spoke.

I swung my legs over the side and stood, moving toward the hallway. Halfway there, glass shattered somewhere beyond the door. I froze, listening for what would come next. More crashes came and two men came flying out from the room, one throwing a glass cup at the other.

One had red hair, with tattoos on his left arm, while the other had hair black as midnight, with piercings on his lip and eyebrow and ink covering his whole body. His hair hung down, covering part of his forehead.

The one with the red hair ran and suddenly hit me, causing both of us to tumble and him to fall on me.

“Urgh!” I screamed in both anger and pain.

His body was heavy above mine. It felt like I was smashed against a gigantic rock, feeling nothing but warmth that I tried to ignore. For one humiliating second, I stared at him, my hands splayed against his chest as I tried to process what had just happened.

He groaned above me as his huffs of breath brushed my face. Instantly, I caught the sharp scent of manky sweat and cigar.

“Get off me,” I snapped, shoving him back.

He raised his head. Red hair fell over his forehead, and for a second his expression shifted from shock to something that looked like interest.

“Well, hello to you too,” he said, his voice rough, with a raspy undertone.

I glared at him, my heart still hammering. “Are you insane?!”

Finally, he pushed himself off me and rose to his feet in one fluid motion as if he had not just tackled me to the floor. He held out a hand toward me, trying to help me up.

“I can get up on my own,” I muttered, rolling to my side and pushing myself up.

The dark-haired one had already turned back toward the room, muttering something under his breath. His posture was rigid; shoulders tense, jaw locked as if he was fighting the urge to kill someone.

The room behind him looked like a boxing ring, with glasses shattered everywhere.

What exactly were these guys playing in there? And what is wrong with men and breaking things?

My gaze flicked from one man to the other. They looked alike; it was uncanny, but not so identical that I couldn't tell them apart.

The redhead was still watching me, his mouth tilted with an amused glint in his eyes, as if he found my irritation entertaining. The black-haired one, on the other hand, looked at me once and then dismissed me like I wasn't important enough to hold his attention.

That annoyed me, but I turned my gaze away the moment I heard footsteps approaching us in the hallway, hurried steps that from far off carried the kind of command an alpha would have. The two men straightened with serious faces as Dean appeared.

He walked toward us like he owned the whole place. His blonde hair fell to his neck, little strands touching his forehead. He looked bigger and broader than the last time I had seen him. Stronger, too.

He looked older as well—his resemblance matching that of the other two men—but not enough to have lost the handsomeness that made my heart do backflips whenever he came close.

I used to have a crush on Dean when I was still a teenager. The first day he came to the house with Kris, I remembered offering him my cupcakes and begging him to play princess and prince with me. It was so stupid, and a stupid offer for a man of nineteen at the time. I was so enthralled I composed a romance playlist in his name.

“Dean,” I whispered.

He nodded, his gaze drifting over me once, briefly. “You're awake. Good.”

That was it? No welcome? No sympathy?

He started toward the room I had come from and I followed behind.

“You brought me here?”

“Yes, I did, Sloane.”

“That's it? I have no clue where I am and you're just going to answer with that?” I spat.

A corner of his mouth moved upward, a short smirk. “Would you prefer a speech? You called me and I answered.”

The red-haired one made a low sound behind me, something between a cough and a laugh. The black-haired one was leaning against the wall now, arms folded, watching the exchange like he was enjoying himself a little too much.

“Can you stop looming?” I snapped, turning my head. “All three of you are starting to look suspicious.”

The redhead barked laughed, “She’s got teeth.”

“I’m sorry,” I shot back, “was that supposed to be an insult? Because after the day I’ve had, you really should do better!”

The black-haired one’s brows lifted a fraction. “She bites too.”

“Hunter,” Dean warned, his voice sharper now.

So that was him. Hunter. The name fit him too well. Yet there was something in the way he stood that made me think of a man who did not chase but waited until the kill was in front of him.

Then Dean stepped closer, drawing my attention back to him. “We need to talk,” he said.

“We talked already,” I said. “I called you and you said you’d help, and now I wake up in a strange house surrounded by your very aggressive family members.”

“We are triplets,” the red-haired one muttered.

Dean didn’t look away from me. “Logan.”

Triplets?

So the redhead was Logan. I looked at him properly then, taking in his arm tattoos and his rough energy. He looked like the kind of man who would smile while breaking someone’s nose.

Lovely.

Dean’s voice turned low. “This is not the place for all of this.”

“Then take me home.”

The three of them paused as if I had said something abominable.

“I can't, Sloane.”

“Why?” Even though it seemed like I didn't have a home, he could try talking to Kris and all of this could be resolved.

“You can't go back there,” he said slowly.

“The situation at Crimson Pack is unstable and your name is being dragged through the mud.”

“My name has already been dragged through the mud,” I snapped. “I was exiled, remember? My brother looked at me like I was filth.”

A muscle ticked in his jaw. It was something raw, dark, and controlled. It wasn't pity or softness but raw anger.