### Chapter 9: Oscar “What the hell is wrong with him?” Paxton's voice cut through the air like a jagged knife as he flopped down into one of Sterling's plush armchairs, filling the room with his familiar aura of frustration. I was sprawled on the floor in a corner, my gaze glued to the glowing screen of my laptop. I was acutely aware that the head alpha was making himself comfortable, oblivious to the fact that I was too exhausted to give him my undivided attention. The numbers on my spreadsheet swam before my eyes, blurring, thanks to the exhaustion that clung to me like a second skin. Yesterday’s unplanned shopping trip combined with another sleepless night had left me in this state of delirium. With my feet planted firmly on the floor and my knees bent just so, it was the only way I could type properly without succumbing to discomfort. The hardwood floor beneath me was solid enough to provide some support, with just a bit of give to avoid pressure points that would make me squirm. Sterling had chosen wisely when designing his office—a functional, efficient space where many of our pack’s dramas unfolded in whispers and tensions simmered beneath the surface. But Paxton’s angry fumes were invading the sanctuary now, and ordinarily, his scent was a comforting blend of spicy cinnamon and sweet vanilla, a combination I found intoxicating. In this moment, though, it twisted into something almost unbearable, assaulting my senses and causing a knot of anxiety in my stomach. With my jaw tensing instinctually, I prepared myself for the storm of Paxton’s frustration. My scent glands were pricked with the urge to release something calming, to counterbalance the chaotic energy he radiated, but tonight, I wouldn’t let it happen. I was scent-neutral—just as I always was, and he needed to recognize that. His eyes flicked to me, and he exhaled sharply as if he expected something from me, something that wasn’t going to come. The tension hung in the air like a storm cloud, heavy and oppressive. “Who?” Sterling finally asked, his fingers still dancing across the keyboard as he responded to a report he’d just reviewed. I couldn’t help but roll my eyes at his lack of awareness—he clearly didn’t grasp that Paxton's ire was aimed at someone else entirely. But I stayed silent, knowing the only other person in the room who could possibly be under Pax's scrutiny was Uri. “Uri, obviously,” Paxton erupted, frustration bubbling over. “The fucking prick has canceled all his meetings today and had the audacity to snap at me when I asked him why he needed me to take over one of his.” I snorted, not bothering to hide my amusement. “Jealous as hell. Why can’t I just bail on all my meetings too?” Both Sterling and Paxton shot me incredulous looks, eyebrows raised in disbelief. “What? I had to endure forty-seven questions during my presentation today, and I’m telling you, at least six of those people had an IQ lower than a potato,” I huffed, cracking my knuckles. “Mr. Remington, is there any wiggle room in the budget for this quarter?” “Was there?” Sterling’s voice carried a hint of amusement, his focus drifting from the screen to me. “Of course there wasn’t!” I snapped, throwing my hands up. “I’d already given him an increase from last quarter, even though it’s likely he’s going to squander it. I ran the numbers he suggested, and he was not pleased with my laughter in response.” “Who is this ‘he’ you’re referring to?” Paxton asked, his curiosity piqued. “I don’t know his name. He’s the Media Buying Director,” I explained, rolling my eyes. “He wanted more money for some ridiculous billboard promotion. What do we even need a billboard for? He’s lucky I even approved an increase after he blew half his budget on a ‘high-visibility’ campaign that tanked—definitely not on my watch.” A smirk played on Paxton’s lips as he raised an eyebrow. “And did you tell him this?” “Of course,” I affirmed, unable to suppress my pride. “I made it crystal clear that I’m keeping a close eye on how he manages his funds, and he was less than thrilled to learn that his incompetence cost the company a hundred and fifty grand.” Sterling burst into laughter, his amusement echoing in the room. “Fuck me, I can’t wait to read the HR complaint on that one, Oscar.” I grumbled, letting the irritation simmer beneath my skin. They didn’t care about my contempt for the HR department, nor did they understand my frustrations with their collective cowardice. I often believed we’d function much better without the HR shackles, free to confront our colleagues’ failures, no dummies crying foul every time someone made a mistake. But alas, I was outvoted when it came to budget cuts and ignoring HR reports. As this frustration churned within me, I couldn't help but muse over Emmeline's absence. I had checked on her status after our run-in yesterday, discovering she was on leave for her heat, which struck me as peculiar. She had drenched herself in scent-neutralizer and had given me no indication, no plea for my knot—behaviors that were anything but typical for an omega in heat. The numbers added up—at least according to her file, which I had most definitely not been authorized to access but had done so nonetheless out of sheer curiosity. Her last heat had been three months ago, one hundred and twenty-three days to be precise, and by her pattern, she took three days off before and after her heat. This discrepancy hung over me like a heavy fog. The stats were fascinating—it was a mystery that consumed my thoughts, and if I could just untangle it, perhaps I could return to my life devoid of all these omega complications. Except, of course, for Odelia—she didn’t count. My fingertips tingled at the thought of checking in on my sister. But she was still airborne and wouldn’t be reachable for some time. As I pondered the enigma of Emmeline, I caught Sterling redirecting the conversation back towards Paxton, who still simmered with aggravation. “So what’s Uri done to vex you so much?” Paxton crossed his arms defiantly. “It’s not just that he canceled his meetings, though that is irritating. It’s the attitude—a dark cloud hanging over him for over a week now.” I chimed in, “Can’t say I’ve noticed.” Both Sterling and Paxton turned to me, their expressions a mix of disbelief and annoyance. “Yeah, yeah, fuck off,” I muttered, dismissing their looks. Paxton continued, “He’s been in a foul mood, short with the staff, and people are starting to take notice.” I detached myself from his words, distracted by my own interactions with Uri over the past week. “Wait, he hasn’t even let me sleep with him.” The admission slipped out before I realized what I was saying. “I crawled into his bed on Monday and Thursday, and both times, he snuck out as soon as I fell asleep.” Paxton turned to me, his anger flaring visibly now. “Why didn’t you mention that?” I shrugged, a flicker of annoyance rising in me. Instead of answering, I redirected my attention to the numbers on my spreadsheet, trying to drown out the tensions crowding the room. Then, there was a comforting weight on my shoulder, and I jolted slightly at Paxton’s sudden presence kneeling beside me. He disregarded the likelihood of creasing his meticulously chosen loafers as he bent down, concern radiating in his dark brown eyes. His scent enveloped me, intensifying, practically suffocating me with the blend of his anger and that same vanilla undertone I had found so calming. Asshole. As if he could command me into compliance. “You’re always welcome in my bed, Oscar,” he murmured, his voice dropping to a low, persuasive tone. “Don’t force yourself to sleep alone just because Uri’s being an ass.” It was a reminder that we were pack—and his words were laced with a veiled demand. While I needed that sense of belonging, the knowledge that one of our own was pulling away hit hard. I would not let him dictate my actions; I shook my head defiantly. “It’s not a big deal. I don’t need a babysitter.” Despite my conviction, the tension in my scent glands surged, a hint of my own fragrance escaping the neutralizer, just enough for Paxton to catch. His grip tightened on my shoulder, the mark of his alpha-like assurance brushing against my skin. Dammit. The urge to retreat from this confrontation slapped hard against my rational defenses. Uri’s growing distance mattered, and we all knew it. I was among the more… troubled members of our pack, plagued by restless nightmares that seemed like ghosts, never allowing me a peaceful night's rest. The memories were as vivid as ever, the day my sister had lain in her bed, pale and still, while I had believed she was dead. To an eight-year-old, that moment etched itself into my very soul—a moment that brought paralysis before I could scream for help, for my parents, for anyone. Eighty-two therapy sessions did little to diminish the anxiety that clung to me over the years. What soothed me was simply being near someone and ensuring they were breathing, alive, nearby. I needed that connection, that closeness to temper the anxiety that hung like an ever-present shroud. My pack—my brothers—kept me grounded in ways I could scarcely fathom. “I will speak to him about this,” Paxton vowed, his voice low but firm. “As a pack, we don’t let anyone struggle alone.” “If that’s what you believe,” I replied, shrugging nonchalantly. “I think it’s ultimately a waste of time.” “Why do you think that?” Sterling questioned, now fully invested in our conversation. I closed my laptop, shifting to sit upright against the wall, stretching my legs across the intricately inlaid wood floor. I could feel the circles beneath me—patterns intended to enhance focus, but right then, they were just a distraction. “Why do you think talking with Uri would be a waste of time?” Sterling prodded again, the chair creaking as he shifted his weight. My eyes fell to my hands, grappling with the words that threatened to spill out. I couldn’t share what I had discovered beneath Uri’s pillow, nor the things I had done with those shocking pieces of information. The scent had knocked me sideways, rich and fragrant, so intoxicating it overwhelmed my senses. There had been something in her aroma, something I recognized, something that should have remained foreign to me. I had instinctually reacted, longing to dive into the depths of whatever mystery she’d brought with her—a desperate drive that currently clawed at the edges of my thoughts. Fortunately, the sound of the door creaking interrupted my spiraling thoughts. A familiar scent of black pepper and honey flared to life, surrounding me and drawing me back to the present. I inhaled deeply, heart easing slightly, as Uri strode into the room looking disheveled. “Why was nobody informed about a pack gathering?” he demanded, gaze skimming over the room, wild curls in disarray and clothing wrinkled almost as badly as mine. “We’re discussing you,” I replied with a bright tone. “Heard it’s a no-no to talk about someone in front of them.” Uri’s expression darkened, catching the undertones of the conversation like an uppercut. “What are you on about?” He glowered at me, cutting through the tension with a chill that felt familiar and dangerous all at once. “Your attitude,” Paxton answered bluntly, his gaze unwavering as he took on Uri’s challenge. It was risky territory, and honestly, I wasn’t entirely sure it would end well for any of us. I was oscillating between feeling protective of my pack while also craving distance from the whirlwind of emotions swirling around. “Breathe, Oscar,” Sterling’s soothing presence was suddenly looming over me, hands firmly on my shoulders. “Why don’t you take a moment to step outside?” “It’s too bright.” Paxton exchanged a glance with Sterling, concern etched across his features. Uri’s expression shifted to one of guilt—completely misplaced, in my opinion. None of this was his fault; I couldn’t fathom why he seemed hell-bent on carrying that weight. “We’re unhappy with your attitude, Uri,” I spoke up, meeting his warm brown eyes calmly. His scent intensified—sharper, defensive, emitting a familiar tension that twitched at my nose, telling me everything I needed to know. But I would not bite; I wouldn’t be dragged into whatever maneuvering he had in mind. “I don’t see how my attitude is any of your concern,” he retorted, the edge of his voice constricted with thinly veiled hostility. Standing tall, Sterling interjected, his scent coiling around us like a protective barrier. “Pack performance metrics have plunged by eighteen percent this week,” he said, his tone intentionally neutral. “You’ve forced me to mediate three arguments between you and Pax, and Paxton’s stress levels are alarmingly elevated.” Uri clenched his jaw. “And this is my fault, how?” A chuckle escaped Paxton. “So, you’ve been tracking our arguments now?” I paid little mind to the inflection in his voice; I was merely stating facts, but Uri was clearly rattled. I’d always been the number-cruncher among us. “I’ve noted it. It’s my job,” I countered, maintaining my focus on the numbers as I typed. Uri exhaled heavily, plopping himself down into a chair, the oversized cushion yielding slightly under his weight. “I’ve just been… preoccupied.” I snorted, challenging the excuse as I flicked my gaze back to Sterling, whose expression suggested discomfort. Another layer of secrecy winding its way between our pack members. We were slipping, and with every unspoken truth, our bond weakened. Paxton chimed in, “You know that we lead a multi-billion-pound marketing firm, right? Preoccupation doesn’t excuse complacency in our pack.” This tension felt heavy, and the air crackled with unsaid things, fragile and volatile. Uri finally yielded, palm brushing across his forehead, his demeanor pivoting into humility. “You’re right. This isn’t a work-related thing—it shouldn’t affect me here. I’m sorry. I’ve been dragging you down.” Paxton rolled his eyes, irritation flickering in the air, but his shoulders softened slightly. “You know I don’t care about that.” “I’m just a bit pissed off that you get to cancel meetings while I can’t,” I interjected, trying to lighten the mood. Sterling chuckled, but it was Paxton who delivered the retort. “Oscar, you attend maybe one actual meeting a week—and that’s a stretch. I probably sit through more meetings in a week than you do in a quarter.” “If this is a competition, you should know you’re wrong,” I shot back, rallying. “Last quarter, I attended twenty-seven meetings. Even when you were at your best, you only hit eighteen, with a half-off score for the one you exited early due to food poisoning.” “Okay, but my job is more than just meetings,” Paxton said, grinning with a lightness that eased the tension. “And I care about our pack.” “I’m not competing,” I smirked, turning my laptop to face me again, pulling up the latest reports Gemma had sent over. “Uri,” Sterling began, shifting into a serious tone, “I have a question for you.” The palpable pause hung in the air, feeling significantly longer than our usual conversational lulls. I kept typing, but my peripheral vision caught Uri’s subtle shift in body language; an unconscious attempt to deflect. “What?” Uri asked, an edge creeping into his demeanor. “In reviewing the security files, I’ve seen you’ve been spending a lot of time on the creative floor,” Sterling stated pointedly. Another charged silence filled the room. “We have three major campaigns launching next month. The layout is due soon,” Uri replied, his voice steady, yet cloaked in defensiveness. “That’s true, but you’re averaging only five minutes per visit. That’s hardly enough time for any oversight,” I piped up, my focus sharpening. “Hit the brakes, Oscar,” Paxton warned, yet I couldn’t stop myself. “Don’t act surprised. I keep track of everything around here.” I sensed the tightening of Uri’s posture, his fists clenching in response. Lifting his gaze, he dropped into frustration, all while his scent morphed into something darker—sharper, pungent. “Some secrets are essential,” he snapped. “They are,” Paxton agreed, a note of solidarity vibrating in the air. “Yet there’s something going on in the creative department that I’m not privy to,” I cooled down, looking around the room. “Figure it out, alpha, and you might just unlock the mystery behind what’s affecting our pack.” Everyone’s scent shifted, a chill creeping through our circle. Uri’s expression darkened, emotions working from deep within him. “Oscar,” Paxton said slowly, “exactly what are you suggesting?” I clicked my laptop shut, feeling a swell of resolve. “I know our pack is fracturing. We’re all keeping secrets, and there’s an omega somewhere in this building whose scent matches all of ours perfectly.” Rising from the chair, I gathered my things and stepped out, buoyed by a sensation of frustration but also the need for clarity. But I couldn’t leave without my parting shot. With my hand resting on the door handle, I added, “Oh, and Uri? You might want to find a more secure hiding place for certain items—your pillow isn’t as concealed as you think.” The change in his scent was instantaneous—panic flooded him, coupled with a fierce protectiveness. I left the room, thick tension trailing behind me, punctuated by Paxton’s immediate demand for answers, and Sterling's tentatively soothing attempts to mediate. At that moment, I felt torn between deep love for my pack and an undercurrent of frustration that accompanied their silence. I had enough on my plate with Lia returning today, while the mystery of the omega tumbled through my mind like a relentless storm, gnawing at my sanity. The numbers didn’t deceive. They never had the ability to lie. And right now, they whispered the grim truth that our pack had less than seventy-two hours before everything—the fabric of our shared existence—began to unravel. I just hoped we were strong enough to endure the fallout when it came.