Page 125 of Knot Her Beta

Emily

My leg bounces with nervous energy as we sit at the conference table in the registrar’s office two weeks later.

A wall-mounted county seal hangs on the wall, the same one that appeared on the forged receipts Auren gave me. Below it sits Mr. Holt, the county registrar who was assigned to oversee this proceeding. He’s middle-aged, his face lined with the quiet exhaustion of someone who has seen enough pack disputes to grow numb to them.

A laptop sits in front of him on the table, ready to take notes.

The window overlooks the parking lot, with the morning sun glaring off windshields. The blinds are half-closed, cutting the light into thin bars that stripe the table between my hands.

Jared sits to my left, and his knee finds mine, stopping the nervous bouncing. He wore blockers today to mute his salt-air pheromones, in deference to the number of people who would be crowded into the small room.

While I understand and had done the same, I could really use the combination of our scents to settle my anxiety. His hand covers mine, thumb sweeping over my knuckles, and it helps, but I keep my attention on the door.

Leif sits to my right, with no hint of pheromones coming from him, either, his periwinkle eyes also on the door. He sits with his spine straight, shoulders back, and hands folded in his lap. If not for his coloring, he could easily be mistaken for an Alpha.

Grady sits on Leif’s other side with his legal pad open on the table, as if preparing for an interview for one of his articles. His cane rests beside his chair, his bad knee propped at an angle.

Dominic sits at the far end of the table. Beside him is the Wright Pack lawyer, Milo Reese. He sets his slim briefcase on the floor rather than the table, straightens, and buttons his jacket. His salt-and-pepper hair appears disheveled, and he wears a discount value suit, though I know he can afford so much better with how much the Wright Pack pays him.

Mr. Holt checks the clock on the wall, the door, and the clock again.

Auren is late.

Grady’s pen taps the legal pad with visible annoyance.

Finally, the door opens, and a man enters first. He carries a slim briefcase and wears a charcoal suit more expensive than our lawyer’s. He takes in everyone at the table in that practiced way of someone who’s learned to read a room.

He crosses to the far end of the table, sets his briefcase down, and offers the room a single nod. “I’m Gerald Pryce. I will be counseling Auren Dovelle today.”

I catch Auren’s crushed violets and honeyed cream pheromones before he sweeps into the room, thick and sweet, without any care for who they might affect.

My knee starts bouncing again, and Leif’s hand curls into a fist on the table.

Auren’s lavender hair is swept to one side, clipped at the temple with a silver barrette that catches the fluorescent light. He wears an oversized plum knit sweater, the collar loose enough to reveal the delicate chain at his throat that accentuates his slender neck. A single silver ring sits on his left ring finger, the implication clear.

His amethyst eyes widen for a fraction of a second when he realizes I’m not alone. Then he spots our lawyer, and his lip gives a little curl of disdain before he masks it and sweeps forward.

Good, let his assumptions about the quality of our representative bury him.

“Emily, I came as soon as I heard,” Auren says, all breathy warmth, his attention on Mr. Holt instead of me. “I want to help however I can.”

Mr. Holt steps forward and opens his folder. “Thank you, everyone, for joining us today. We were asked here to address an alleged discrepancy in our record.”

He turns to me. “Emily Wilson claims that her Petition for Expulsion from the Lavender Sky Pack, which bears the signature of Auren Dovelle, was never submitted to the county registry.”

He turns a page. “As of this date, Emily Wilson remains a registered member of Lavender Sky Pack under Auren Dovelle as pack head.”

He sets a copy of the county’s active record on the table. The paper is thick, with the county seal embossed at the bottom. My name appears halfway down the page. Auren’s name above it. The dates stretch back seven years.

Auren’s expression doesn’t change, but his eyes flick once to me before returning to Mr. Holt, the movement so small that I almost miss it.

“There must have been a mistake,” he murmurs, trailing his fingers over the slender column of his throat. “I signed the petition when I was asked, but then Emily changed her mind about leaving the pack, and we decided on a trial separation instead.”

He gives Mr. Holt a pretty smile. “These things happen, but I’m still hoping we can reconcile.”

Reese reaches into his portfolio and pulls out a single sheet, setting it on the table between us. “Mr. Dovelle, can you confirm that this is your signature on the petition in question?”

“Yes, that’s mine,” he says without hesitation before he turns to me with equal parts fondness and exasperation. “Didn’t you say you’d shred that thing? It was just a fight. Not something to break up our pack over.”