When He's an Alpha (The Olympus Pride 2)

He tossed her a dark glower that promised retribution.

Just then, the waitress appeared and set down their desserts.

Havana thanked her and then picked up her spoon. Alone again with Tate, she cast him a brief sideways look. “Something bad is going to happen.”

He frowned. “Why do you say that?”

“Okay, so can you hear the song that’s playing right now?”

“Yeah. Something Wicked This Way Comes.”

“Right. Well, as we were passing the café, I saw someone through the window reading a book with the same title. And I saw a poster in the bookstore advertising the Wicked musical. It said, ‘Coming soon.’”

“Okay,” he said carefully.

“The universe is warning us. The least you could do is acknowledge it.”

“I’m acknowledging that, coincidentally, you came across the word ‘wicked’ in virtually the same context three times today.”

Oh, he was beyond help. “If you want to ignore the signs, fine.”

A smile playing around the edges of his mouth, he spooned some of his ice cream. “Does it come as a surprise to a lot of people that you’re superstitious?”

Havana’s head almost jerked back. “I’m not superstitious. I get why some people are—it helps them feel more in control of their lives, and if something goes wrong, they can blame it on a black cat that crossed their path or whatever. But they have to know it’s impractical to view the world that way.”

“And it’s not impractical to believe that the universe sends out ‘signs’ to guide or warn us?”

She blinked. “Why would it be?”

Tate just shook his head. “No one would guess looking at you that you have this streak of whimsy in you. I kind of like it, even though I find it somewhat neurotic at times.”

“Neurotic?”

“I say that with affection. I probably shouldn’t find it cute, but I do. I don’t know what that says about me.”

Just then, the music changed. And Kylie Minogue’s Tell Tale Signs began to play.

Havana grinned. He just sighed.

Once they’d finished their desserts and Tate had paid the bill—she’d wanted to go halves on it, but he’d insisted on paying—they left the restaurant. Standing on the sidewalk, she said hi to Luke and Farrell, who’d been waiting there the whole time.

Spotting Aspen and Bailey further along the street chatting to some Olympus cats, Havana smiled. The girls gave her a brief wave. Havana’s smile faded as she caught side of Ashlynn on the opposite side of the street, holding hands with a male Havana hadn’t before seen.

Ugh. This seemed to be Ashlynn’s new thing. Parading males in front of Tate. She allegedly hadn’t reacted well to hearing that he and Havana were mates. In fact, Ashlynn had apparently thrown a tantrum right in the middle of the pride’s flower shop—ranting that Tate had to be mistaken; that he could do better; that Havana would never hold him.

The female hadn’t confronted either he or Havana, though. She’d done nothing but smile at them each time they crossed paths—and she was always cozied up to a guy. Havana would love to think that Ashlynn had given up on Tate and was ready to move on. But anyone could see how often the bitch glimpsed at Tate, as if needing to witness his reaction to her touching another male … just as she was doing right then.

“That girl is such a tool,” said Havana.

Tate slid an arm around her shoulders and began leading her along the sidewalk toward his cul-de-sac. “Just ignore her. I do.”

“Either she hasn’t yet accepted that we’re mates, or she simply doesn’t consider it a deterrent to her plan to win you back. But then … her own mate failed to claim her, didn’t he? Maybe that would be enough for her to cease from viewing you as a lost cause.”

“I honestly couldn’t give a shit.” Tate kissed her temple, breathing her in, wishing he could bottle up her scent, looking forward to it mixing with his own. “She doesn’t matter. You matter. What we have and what we’re building matters.”

“Oh, I agree.”

Tate frowned as a glint of metal caught his eye. Several things registered at once. A dark blue Charger cruising along the road. A window partially lowered. A face covered in a balaclava. A gun aimed at Havana.

“Fuck.” Tate pushed her to the ground, taking cover behind a parked car, while Luke’s body blanketed them both. Gunfire rang through the air. The vehicle shielding them jolted as bullets thudded into metal, windows smashed, and air hissed out of a tire. Then the fuckers were speeding away. Tate looked up to see the shooter firing at the enforcers that tried stopping the car—then it was gone.

Tate looked at Farrell. “Follow them!”

The Head Enforcer pulled his phone out of his pocket and shifted into his avian form. The bird shook off the torn clothing and took to the air in a flash, his talons clutching a cell phone.