The car—a sleek black Hellhound X9 with windows tinted darker than sin—pulled up to the curb like it owned the road.
The engine gave one last guttural growl before falling silent.
Max Royal Enigma was the first to step out, tossing his sunglasses onto the dash. His shoulders squared the moment his boots hit the pavement. Silas Enigma followed with a quiet sort of confidence, all sharp edges and smirks. Sam True Blood slid out last, hoodie up, head down, the faint scent of burnt coffee curling behind him like smoke from a dying fire.
They'd arrived.
And waiting for them—leaning against the school fence like they were posing for a magazine cover—were the five childhood friends Max and Silas had never grown apart from.
Axel Vaughn (Alpha, Dominant) – The unofficial leader. Black hair, cold steel eyes, and a jawline sharp enough to cut glass. Calculated, possessive, and protective of the group like a wolf guarding his den.
Damon Hart (Alpha, Dominant) – Always smirking, always dangerous. The flirt of the group, but only when it benefits him. His moods turn like wind, but his loyalty runs deep for Max and Silas.
Reese Takahari (Alpha, Dominant) – Calm, intellectual, rarely speaks unless it matters. The strategist. Keeps the others grounded. Wears glasses, but no one dares call him "soft."
Jett Mason (Alpha, Dominant) – The wildcard. Loud, aggressive, lives for the thrill. He has a laugh that can be heard down the hall and a temper just as big.
Aria Lane (Omega, Female) – Beautiful, intuitive, and the emotional glue of the group. She's gentle with Max and Silas but gives Sam and Oliver a look that could curdle milk.
Aria's nose twitched the moment Sam stepped into the breeze, her lips curling slightly at the edge.
"Still smells like burnt coffee," Jett muttered under his breath.
"Maybe he needs to be roasted like one," Damon added, just loud enough for Sam to hear.
Max didn't say anything, but his jaw clenched. Silas was already scanning the lot, probably hoping Oliver hadn't shown up yet. But it was too late for that.
Because down the sidewalk, wearing an oversized denim jacket and sipping something from a metal thermos, came Oliver.
Male. Omega. Trouble.
Sam's scent curled darker for a split second—burnt and bitter.
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