Author's note (3 Aug): Minor edits to the conversations.

‘I gave him your number,’ Thalia says casually, as she passes the chips to Talon.

Blaise rolls his eyes, as Cas’s head snaps up.

‘Why would you do that?’ his older brother asks, frowning.

‘Because our Blaise regrets not giving Hector his number now, doesn’t he?’ she retorts smugly.

‘Isn’t he some sort of playboy?’ Cas asks.

Iris snorts, smothering their chicken pita with hot sauce. ‘He does have that image, but which young virile alpha in Hollywood doesn’t get accused of that once in their career? I wouldn’t worry—it’s probably just baseless rumours. Matter of time before the rags spin a story about Thalia and Westbrook once they figure out you two are in Hollow City movies together.’

Blaise throws his balled-up napkin across the kitchen table, hitting Thalia on the forehead. ‘I can’t believe you didn’t tell me you got the role!’

‘I only got the text in the middle of the party, and I couldn’t find you because you were cosying up with Hector Westbrook,’ she smirks. ‘And after that, well, I couldn’t bloody well tell you in case you figure it out before we’ve had our fun, could I?’

‘I wouldn’t have thought it was him anyway,’ he mutters, taking a savage bite of his chicken wing. ‘You lot are arseholes.’

Iris raises their perfectly shaped brow, and he amends: ‘Except Iris, of course.’

‘Why would Westbrook want Blaise’s number?’ Cas demands.

Thalia shrugs. ‘I reckon that’s for Blaise to find out.’

Cas shakes his head disapprovingly. ‘Well, there’s a reason Blaise didn’t give him his number in the first place, isn’t there?’ He glances at Blaise, who shrugs: ‘It was instinct.’

His brother continues: ‘Still, you should have respected his wishes. It’s rude, innit, to give out someone’s number without their permission.’

‘Oh, Cas,’ Thalia sighs, patting him on the shoulder. ‘Did you hear me? This is Hector Westbrook.’

Cas makes a face. ‘Is that supposed to mean something? Blaise doesn’t need an alpha.’

He levels Blaise with a stern warning look. Blaise rolls his eyes and continues munching on his pita.

His older brother is beta like the rest of the family; Blaise is the first omega in four generations of Thorns, so no one understood what it means to be omega—until a creep tried to kidnap Thalia and Blaise on the way home from school in Grade 2, and Cas discovered that his little brother is to be protected, no matter how old they get.

He took up the job at the Office of Veteran Affairs so that he could be with them in London—Thalia has essentially been adopted as their sister—and that is how Blaise, at twenty-eight, is still getting nagged about dating alphas and eating his vegetables: a duty that Talon the traitor jointly shares, anything to please Cas.

Blaise, Thalia and Iris have a running bet on how long it would take for his brother to realise how Talon feels about him. Iris is increasingly bitter that their bet of two years is coming up in a few months. His scent is so bloody obvious! It’s literally bursting out of him. You two smell it too, don’t you? Damn Cas and his beta senses!

Iris is asking him now: ‘How did you figure it out anyway, Blaise? His voice? His body?’

‘His scent. Bloke’s so fucking blatant with it. He is not helping the alpha stereotype.’ He raises his eyebrows at them. ‘I’m rather surprised. I would have thought as an actor, he would do better to control it in front of the paps. Wouldn’t want them writing about how he smells, would he?’

Thalia blinks. ‘He’s scentless to me. We were in a meeting room with him all day—did you smell him, Iris?’

The auburn-haired alpha shakes their head. ‘Didn’t catch a whiff. The meeting would have gone quite unpleasantly otherwise. There were perhaps two other alphas in that meeting. I am surprised to hear that. Westbrook is always in control.’

Their eyes, the impossible light blue of Arctic ice, are narrowed, considering.

‘Oh. Well.’ Blaise looks down at his plate, his fingers red with hot sauce.

He doubts Westbrook would actually text.

They are only strangers who shared a drunken conversation as ephemeral as gaiety induced by sweet wine. It best remains a single shining night, when Hector is the nerd disarmingly obsessed with Greek tragedy and the overwrought angst of a web novel. Hector Westbrook, People magazine’s Sexiest Man Alive, could not be that Hector, and he would not text.

Blaise is in the pantry on another Thursday morning, watching coffee drip into his cup, when his phone buzzes. He looks down, squinting at the screen through eyes still half-gummed shut.

An unknown number has sent two messages. The first reads: Hullo, this is Hector. A minute later: We met at the Halloween party last week. Thalia and I are working together now and she gave me your number. Hope that’s all right. He stares, bewildered, his thoughts moving slow as sticky caramel. Thalia’s voice from a few nights ago: I gave him your number.

The coffee machine chirrups, and he jerks. His coffee cup sits beneath the nozzle, gently steaming. He picks it up and takes a sip, sighing with relief at the first bitter touch on his tongue. It takes a few more sips, his tongue slightly scalded from the burning hot liquid, before he dares look at his phone again.

Hullo, this is Hector.

Impossible. A joke, Thalia taking her amusement too far again.

Talon calls for him, and he shakes his head, stuffing his phone into his pocket, swallowing the rest of his coffee, sweat beading his forehead from its heat. He tries not to think about it: answering the shop’s phone, marking the appointments on the Google calendar, having a consultation with a new client, finishing up the chrysanthemum-and-koi-fish back piece.

‘That hurts like a bitch,’ the client hisses.

‘Well, the whites usually are. The effect is subtle, but worth it, you’ll see. That will be £200.’

Avoiding his eyes, she says: ‘Isn’t it £100? I paid £150 for the first session, and we agreed on a total of £250?’

Blaise continues smiling. ‘You could check the emails, but the total is £350—this is quite a big piece—and I also emailed you the receipt after the first session, you did pay £150, so it’s £200 now.’

Scowling, she grudgingly pays and stalks off with a ‘You are too blooming expensive. I doubt I will be able to afford another tattoo from you like this.’

‘Good-bye,’ he calls after her, and mutters beneath his breath: ‘Mean twat.’

Talon pats him sympathetically on the back. ‘Time for lunch.’

Blaise runs a hand over his head, exhaling gustily. ‘I’ll pick up the usual. Do you want a coffee or anything?’

‘Nah, I’m all right.’

He pulls out his phone as he waits in the queue for the banh mi food truck. After replying a few messages from Thalia, he sees again: Hullo, this is Hector. He chews on his bottom lip, thumb hovering over the screen, staring long enough for the letters to dissolve into multicoloured speckles. Fuck. He shakes his head once, savagely. Takes a photo of the food truck, and sends it to the unknown number: i always imagine the sandwiches from nireus's village as banh mis.