Twin Alpha Bond

Preston POV

I stifle a yawn as Alpha Jordan drones on about territory boundaries, his gravelly voice scraping against my last nerve. These annual Alpha gatherings are a special kind of torture, but Russell insists we attend even though we won't officially take over Silver Moon Pack until next year. The whole exercise seems pointless when we can't even vote on anything yet—like being forced to watch porn with your pants stapled shut.

At least I'm surrounded by family. The Kane bloodline dominates the werewolf hierarchy around here—my aunt Lauren sits with her mate Derek from Crescent Pack, her hand casually tracing the scarred muscles of his forearm beneath rolled-up sleeves. My sister Lydia's two mates flank her like bookends, Travis' calloused palm resting possessively on her thigh beneath the table while Dominic's fingers twist a lock of her hair around his knuckles. Audrey's practically sitting in Caleb's lap, the Red River Pack Alpha's beard brushing her neck as he whispers something that makes her bite back a grin. My mother watches from her usual corner spot, observing everything with those calculating eyes that once made her the most feared Alpha Queen in the region—eyes that miss nothing, including the way my gaze lingers a beat too long on the sway of a passing she-wolf's hips.

Three other packs round out the gathering, including Alpha Jackson from Black Creek Pack, though I couldn't care less about remembering the names of the others. What's the point? Most packs are run by my relatives anyway, and the remaining few wouldn't dare challenge a family of hybrid wolves—especially not with my brother Russell being the Alpha King, his throne built on equal parts strategic genius and the kind of raw sexual magnetism that makes betas wet themselves when he walks by.

I feel a sharp kick under the table and glance over at Adrian, who subtly nods toward Alpha Jackson's mate. The redhead's cream silk blouse strains against curves that would make a fertility goddess jealous, nipples pebbling under the fabric from the conference room's aggressive AC.

"Check out the rack on her," he mind-links, teeth digging into his lower lip hard enough to draw blood. "Fuck, I'd let her smother me with those milk bags."

I roll my eyes. "Wipe your chin. You're drooling all over the goddamn table."

"Just imagine what I could do with those," he replies, shifting in his seat to adjust the growing bulge in his jeans. "Bet she's got strawberry nipples to match that hair."

"That's disgusting. She's old enough to be our mother," I shoot back, though my traitorous cock twitches at the mental image.

"Doesn't change the fact she's stacked," he persists. "Think they're real?"

"Why don't you ask her mate and see what happens?" I reply, turning my attention back to Russell, whose biceps flex as he spreads territorial maps across the round oak conference table. The movement makes his wedding band glint—a constant reminder of the mating bite hidden beneath Rhiannon's collar.

"Not possible," Alpha Jackson's voice cuts through my thoughts. I realize I've missed something important as his cold gaze locks onto me. "Why would they need all that land when they aren't even running the pack yet?"

Russell glances at Adrian and me before nodding us over. I rise and approach the table, the scent of aggression and testosterone thickening the air. Studying the map he's pointing to—open fields along the river that divides our territory from Black Creek Pack—I notice Jackson's mate shrink back, her full bottom lip trembling under the weight of her Alpha's rage.

"I'll buy it from you," Alpha Jackson offers, his tone suggesting he expects compliance. His knuckles whiten around the edge of the table, veins popping in a forearm decorated with old mating marks—crude bites that look more like punishments than pledges.

"Not interested," I reply flatly, mentally kicking myself for not paying attention earlier. We've already designated that area for new training grounds—grounds where I plan to work off the constant tension coiled in my groin every fucking time some she-wolf struts past in skin-tight leathers.

"What could you possibly want with it?" he demands, his tone condescending as his gaze flicks to the prominent bulge in my jeans. "Building a brothel for your underdeveloped pack?"

"None of your damn business," I snap back, leaning forward until our faces are inches apart. His breath reeks of whiskey and failure. "You want more land? Go bother someone else. I'm not giving up a single inch of our territory."

"He has plenty already," Derek interjects, leaning back with arms crossed over his barrel chest. The crescent-shaped scar peeking above his collar tells its own story—a mating night gone feral. "He's just being greedy." Alpha Jackson's reputation precedes him—arrogant and archaic in his pack management style, the kind of Alpha who still believes in public punishments and bed slaves.

A warning growl rumbles from Jackson's throat, but one stern look from Russell silences him instantly. My brother's power rolls through the room like thunder, making every hair on my body stand at attention.

"Enough," my brother commands, the deep timbre of his voice vibrating in my bones. "He said no, and that's final. It's their land, their pack. Moving on."

"They're barely seventeen!" Jackson explodes, slamming his fist on the table hard enough to make his mate jump. Her movements send her breasts jiggling obscenely under thin silk, and I catch Adrian's tongue dart out to wet his lips. "They know nothing about running a pack! This is ridiculous—your family controls half the territory in the region already!"

His mate—a timid redhead with her hair pulled into a tight bun that stretches the skin around her haunted eyes—places a trembling hand on his arm. The fear in her eyes is unmistakable as she tries to calm him, her thumb brushing over the ragged scar tissue of his mating bite. He yanks his arm away, glaring at her with such intensity that she physically recoils, her back hitting the chair hard enough to make her tits bounce. Something in me twists at the sight—no Luna should fear her Alpha that way, shouldn't flinch when her own mate moves.

"Fine," Adrian says, rising to his feet with predatory grace. The conference lights catch the dusting of dark hair trailing below his navel, visible above his low-slung jeans. "You want it so badly? I'll challenge you for it."

I lean back, crossing my arms with a smirk. The old man would be insane to accept. Adrian towers over him, all muscle and raw power, making Jackson look like a child in comparison. My brother's scent shifts subtly—pride mixed with something darker, more possessive—as he watches Adrian's display.

"Think you're something special, don't you?" Jackson sneers, though his Adam's apple bobs nervously.

"You want the land, old man? Come take it," Adrian taunts, rolling his shoulders in a way that makes his pecs flex. A collective inhale sweeps through the she-wolves in the room.

Russell sits back with a satisfied grin, his hand disappearing beneath the table—probably gripping Rhiannon's thigh hard enough to leave bruises she'll secretly enjoy. "The offer's on the table, Jackson. You want the land, challenge him for it."

"Sit down, love," his Luna whispers, terror evident in her voice as her fingers flutter near the bruises peeking above her lace collar. Jackson may be arrogant, but he's not stupid. Challenging Adrian wouldn't just mean losing the fight—it would mean losing his pack...and his personal punching bag.

Recognizing his predicament, Jackson reluctantly sits. Adrian turns to return to his seat, but Jackson mutters under his breath, "Fucking hybrid mutts."

Adrian growls, ready to launch himself across the table when Rhiannon suddenly stands. In one fluid motion, she reaches across, grabs Jackson by the hair, and slams his face into the table. The crunch of his nose breaking echoes through the room, followed by blood spattering across the polished surface. Her leather pants creak with the movement, stretched taut over the round swell of her ass—a lethal weapon in its own right.

My mother snickers from her corner. She always preferred diplomacy during her reign as Queen, using reason to defuse tensions. Rhiannon, the current Queen, clearly favors a more direct approach—something I suspect she's picked up from my brother's bedroom antics.

Jackson leaps to his feet with a roar as his Luna shrieks, blood staining her cream-colored blouse pink. The wet fabric clings to her erect nipples, and I don't miss the way Adrian's gaze lingers.

"You fucking—"

"I dare you to finish that sentence," Russell warns, pulling Rhiannon onto his lap before she can fully unleash Athena, her wolf. His large hand splays across her stomach, fingers dipping below the waistband of her pants. "See where it gets you."

But Jackson stands his ground, refusing to back down. Rhiannon leans forward, and I notice Russell's grip tightening around her waist as her claws emerge, digging into the wooden table. Her cleavage heaves with each angry breath, sweat glistening in the valley between her breasts.

"Sit down, bitch, or I will make you," she hisses, her voice dropping to that husky register usually reserved for private moments. Jackson's remaining courage visibly shrivels.

Alpha Jackson finally relents, sitting down and resetting his flattened nose with a sickening crack. Rhiannon looks almost disappointed that she didn't get to tear him apart—the same look she gets when Russell edges her for hours. My brother whispers something in her ear that makes her thighs clench, his teeth grazing the shell before placing a gentle kiss on her shoulder. The room suddenly feels ten degrees hotter.

"Can we wrap up this shit show, or does anyone else want to start unnecessary drama?" I ask, glancing around the table. My jeans feel uncomfortably tight, and I subtly adjust myself. Fucking pheromones.

When no one speaks up, I stand, eager to escape the thick cocktail of aggression and arousal. My mother joins Adrian and me as we exit the conference room, her heels clicking in time with the sway of her hips—a dangerous metronome that still makes fathers hide their daughters.

"Excited for your seventeenth birthday tomorrow?" she asks, falling into step beside us. Her perfume wraps around me like smoke—bergamot and danger. "You'll finally be able to find your mates. I thought it might have happened last year, but better late than never."

"More excited about having everyone together," Adrian replies, draping an arm across her shoulders. His bicep flexes against the silk of her blouse. "It's been too long since the whole family was in one place."

"Feels like yesterday you were tiny babies," she says with a wistful smile, her gaze dropping to Adrian's crotch before snapping back up. "Now look at you, towering over me just like your brother."

Our conversation is interrupted by the sound of footsteps racing down the stairs. Leila appears, her unique green and amber eyes lighting up when she spots us. At twelve years old, she's all coltish limbs and budding curves that make betas trip over their own feet.

"Grandma!" she exclaims, rushing over to hug my mother. The neckline of her tank top gapes slightly, revealing the first swell of puberty that has Adrian subtly angling his body to block the view from passing pack members.

"Hey princess," Mom says, embracing her. "Where are you headed in such a hurry?"

"Looking for Dad. I want to go to the creek with Marissa and Jasmine," she explains, bouncing on her toes. The movement makes her developing chest jiggle, and I make a mental note to burn every fucking tank top she owns.

"Dad's busy, sweetie. You'll have to tell them no today. Maybe tomorrow after the birthday celebrations," Mom tells her gently, tucking a stray curl behind Leila's ear.

Leila's face falls, but before she can turn away, I interject, "I'll take you. Go put on your swimsuit." The words taste like regret, but her smile could melt Antarctica.

Her face brightens instantly as she races back upstairs. My mother gives me a pointed look, her crimson nails tapping against her bicep.

"What?" I ask innocently, leaning against the wall in a way that accentuates my V-line. Old habits die hard.

"Rhiannon wants her home. You two always give in to her," she says with a sigh that smells like a lie. She spoils Leila rotten when no one's looking.

"We'll have her back before dark," I promise.

"Fine, but if Rhiannon rips your head off, I'm not helping you," she warns before walking away, her asscheeks clenching rhythmically beneath pencil skirt. I make the mistake of looking—Adrian catches me and grins.

"As if," Adrian scoffs. "Rhiannon will just be glad Leila's not getting into trouble."

He heads upstairs to grab our swimming gear, and I follow. Despite our best efforts to teach her, Leila sinks like a stone in water. Russell usually takes her swimming for that reason—the girl is completely bottom-heavy, her ass somehow defying both physics and common sense.

I push open our bedroom door and grab a bag for our things. Leila doesn't have a wolf—her biological father made sure of that when he forced her to shift at age eight, killing her wolf and awakening her vampire side. She died during that shift before coming back as a hybrid without a wolf...and with a morbid sense of humor that's currently biting me in the ass.

"Here, take these," Adrian says, tossing me his board shorts. I stuff them into the bag just as Leila bounds in with her towel and swimsuit. The neon pink bikini makes my eye twitch.

"Who are you riding with, Adrian or me?" I ask her, already knowing the answer.

"Adrian," she replies without hesitation. "Your wolf is too fast." Her nose wrinkles. "And you get all sweaty."

I nod, handing her the backpack. "Hold this. I need to pee first."

She takes the bag, and I head down the hall to the bathroom. Flipping up the toilet seat, I unzip my pants and start to relieve myself, only to realize something's wrong. Opening my eyes, I see my stream ricocheting off fucking cling wrap stretched over the bowl. That little brat!

"Leila!" I yell, hearing her giggle from the hallway as I try to stop mid-stream. Piss sprays everywhere—the walls, the floor, my fucking boots. I grab a towel to clean up the mess, muttering curses that would make a sailor blush. When I finish washing my hands, I check my reflection—and find dick-shaped lipstick drawings on the mirror. That little...

I burst through the door to find her halfway down the hall. "Get back here, you little monster!" I call, chasing after her. My wet boots squeak against the hardwood, dick swinging uncomfortably in pissed jeans.

She races down the stairs, but Adrian catches her and darts away, both of them laughing like hyenas. His muscles ripple under his thin t-shirt as he hoists her over his shoulder, her ass smacking his chest with each step.

"Were you in on this?" I demand through our mind-link as I track them by scent—Leila's strawberry shampoo and Adrian's stupid cedarwood cologne.

"No, but it was fucking hilarious. We're out back," he replies, mental voice thick with amusement.

I follow them to the back patio where Leila is hiding behind Adrian, using him as a shield while giggling uncontrollably. The sun highlights the sweat dampening the hair at the nape of her neck, and I make a mental note to have someone install AC in the fucking forest.

I growl playfully at her, and she growls back, baring her fangs. The sight still unnerves me—pearly white incisors where baby teeth should be.

"Eyes closed, Lei. I need to shift," Adrian tells her. She turns around, covering her eyes with her hands while he strips off his clothes. His cock swings free for a heartbeat before he shifts—a dick move (pun intended) he knows makes the she-wolves swoon.

I take the bag from Leila. "You can open your eyes now."

She turns around as Adrian's wolf, Atlas, nudges her with his nose. She climbs onto his back, grabbing handfuls of his fur to steady herself. Her shorts ride up, revealing the dimples just above her ass—fuck, when did she get those?

"Hold on tight. I'll catch up," I tell her. She nods, gripping Atlas's fur as they dart into the trees. The muscles in Adrian's haunches flex as he leaps over a log, and I don't miss the way Leila's thighs tighten around his torso.

I strip off my clothes, the cool air kissing my bare skin. Just as I'm about to shift, a sharp slap stings my asscheek hard enough to leave a handprint.

"Need some sun on that pasty ass, bro," Derek says, emerging from the back door. He leans against the railing, watching his daughter Amelia on the swings. At fifteen, she's all long legs and pouty lips, talking to some beta punk whose eyes keep dropping to her tits. "Fucker's gonna lose his tongue if he keeps looking at her like that."

I shift into my wolf form just as Derek lets out a fierce growl. Looking over, I see Amelia walking toward the forest with the boy, her hips swaying in cutoff shorts that should be illegal.

"Over my dead fucking body is she going off with that prick," Derek snarls, storming down the steps. His claws unsheathe as he stalks toward his daughter, the promise of castration hanging heavy in the air.

I chuckle to myself—or as close as a wolf can chuckle—before racing across the yard. The wind carries the scent of chlorine from the creek...and something darker, primal. My muscles bunch as I leap over a fallen log, the thrill of the run pushing all thoughts of cling wrap and teenage rebellion from my mind. For now.