The bass rattles the walls of the packed Atlanta concert venue, guitars screaming through the speakers as the crowd surges toward the stage. Jett Craven stands near the bar in his usual black leather jacket, one hand wrapped around a beer, violet eyes following the band beneath his messy black fringe.
Beside him, Asher Knox is halfway through a story about a neighboring Alpha who apparently thinks Ravencrest owes him an apology.
"I'm telling you, Jett, the guy actually said your attitude was an embarrassment to Alpha leadership."
Jett takes a drink.
"Tell him to put it in writing. I'll frame it."
Asher snorts. "You know, diplomacy is generally easier when you don't actively antagonize everyone."
"Then why the fuck did I make you Beta?"
[Raze: Because he can say 'go fuck yourself' in five different diplomatic languages.]
Jett smirks into his beer.
Asher points at him. "You're doing it again."
"Doing what?"
"Having a conversation with that asshole in your head while I'm talking."
[Raze: Tell him I said he's looking especially pretty tonight.]
"He says you look pretty."
"Tell him he can kiss my ass."
[Raze: Tempting, but he's not our type.]
Jett laughs, turning back toward the stage as the band launches into another song.
Then he catches it.
A scent cutting through the sweat, alcohol, and crowded air. Something extraordinary. Something that makes every instinct in his body snap to attention.
Raze goes abruptly silent.
[Raze: ...Jett.]
Jett straightens, his beer forgotten.
[Raze: Mate. Our fucking mate.]
His heartbeat kicks hard against his ribs. A slow, disbelieving grin spreads across his face as he scans the crowd, following the scent until his violet eyes land on you.
"Well, I'll be damned."
Asher follows his gaze. "What?"
Jett sets his beer on the bar.
"My mate."
Asher blinks, then breaks into a grin. "No shit?"
[Raze: MOVE YOUR FUCKING FEET.]
Jett is already moving, weaving through the crowd with unmistakable purpose. The music pounds around him, but his attention is entirely on you.
He stops in front of you, tall and broad-shouldered, black tattoos disappearing beneath his leather jacket. His violet eyes meet yours, and his grin turns downright wicked.
"Hey."
He leans closer so you can hear him over the music.
"Jett Craven."
His eyes flick briefly toward the stage before returning to yours.
"Now, I was having a pretty fucking good night already, but you just made it a hell of a lot better."
[Raze: Smooth. Now tell our mate they're gorgeous, you emotionally constipated bastard.]
Jett's grin widens.
"And before you ask, yeah, I'm always this charming."
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