Page 7 of Pack Larsen

With a sigh, I opt not to get into it. This is a good day, after all. We’ve got cocktails, abs, and cocktails. “Nothing at all, my soft, little kitten. How about we simply spend the rest of your time here relaxing and enjoying the view, huh?”

Juno eyes me carefully, but she relents, clanking her own glass with mine. We spend the next hour relaxing and laughing, ignoring my weird, little bodily reactions to sexy guys, and it’s honestly one of the best days I’ve had since meeting my polar-opposite bestie.

Chapter 3

Silver

So much for my house feeling like a home as soon as I had roommates. In fact, it feels more barren and sterile than it did before. If I were to step into the hallway right now, I’m sure I’d be able to hear a mouse sneeze, it’s so quiet.

As soon as pack Larsen were done unloading Juniper’s truck, they all disappeared into their respective rooms, nary to be seen for the remainder of the day. Juno and Geo only stuck around for half an hour more before they left for their sweet sunset date, and I’ve been left to amuse myself for the evening. I gave up the ghost with the cocktails, still sober and regretting it now that I’m by myself and bored.

Not even pizza lured pack Larsen from their new lairs, and I resent the loneliness that has swarmed around me after an hour of sitting in the breakfast nook alone, eating cooling pizza despite my attempts to knock on their doors and invite them to dinner. In my weak desperation for company, I even knocked on Munro’s door. It’s no surprise there that it went unanswered.

I’m a girl who can take the hint. I’m not their friend, and they’re not mine. They’re simply here for a place to stay, and nothing more. Thinking I could reach out for an olive branch with pizza was dumb.

Message received.

Cleaning up after myself, I stack the boxes on top of one another, four still containing untouched pizza. I place them in the fridge before finding a stack of pastel sticky notes in a nearby drawer, and scribble a note that declares, ‘Pizza in the fridge. Ordered plenty and couldn't eat it all. Help yourselves.’ before stamping it to the fridge. It’s the last nice thing I’m doing for those ungrateful asswads.

Shoulders slumped, I chew on my lip as I walk up the stairs on silent feet, feeling sorry for myself. It was stupid to think they’d want to have dinner with me, really. They’re only here out of desperation. They don’t even want to be here, and I blame the cocktails for blurring that tidbit of information from my mind. I mean, they don’t owe me anything just because I agreed to let them crash here. They’re going to pay their way, keep to themselves, and get on with life, apparently. Good for them, I guess.

Trudging to my studio on the third floor, the conversion spanning half the floor while the other half is occupied with a sunroom to die for, I mentally tattoo the wordidiotto my brain with the decision that I simply won’t try again. Rejection for anyone stings in general. Rejection for a lone omega offering a formed pack a place to stay is a sucker. Not that our designations mean anything, but past trauma makes me a bit of a pussy bitch sometimes. I don’t take rejection well, even small rejections such as this. After spending most of my life being rejected by the pack that I’ve never been good enough for, it leaves scars. I have my own issues, but hell, it’s one dinner. Pizza and small talk. I now regret wanting to know the guys now living under my roof, thinking it would be a good way to break the ice now that the confident barrier Juno brought with her has been removed.

Shutting the door and wincing when the thud echoes through the silent house, I sigh and wander over to my piano. It’s different from my keyboard, the gorgeous, dark-stained, medium grand piano stationed in the corner of the room with my song book sitting open on the music desk.

Since it’s still early in the evening and I’m not in the slightest bit tired, I take a seat on the bench and flex my fingers with a sigh. Without much thought, I begin playing a song Meemaw would sing to me when I was a kid, humming under my breath along with the tune.

In a matter of seconds, I’m relaxing, loosening with every note played. Music has always been a source of happiness and contentment for me. It’s my passion, my soul, and the only good thing my parents ever forced me into. Classically trained in piano and violin, I was shoved into lessons as soon as I was able to read sheet music, forced to learn all throughout my childhood. It’s the only thing I’ve clung to since separating myself from my parents, my piano, guitar, and violin the only things in the world aside from my grandparents that provide me some sense of solace and peace.

Playing and creating music has been an outlet since I can remember, and it serves me well now, my fingers flying over the keys with a comforting familiarity. I have no idea how long I spend in my studio, but by the time the last note reverberates through the room, my fingers ache in the good way and I no longer feel stupidly dejected and ridiculous for my olive branch offering.

Closing the fallboard of the piano now that my spirits have lifted some, I check the clock that hangs on the wall to my right. My eyebrows raise when I find the arms claiming it to be just past one o’clock in the morning, and I sigh with relief that I had the forethought to soundproof the room when it was designed. They might not have left their rooms for pizza, but I’m sure pack Larsen would have a bone to pick with me for playing the piano all night and into the early hours of morning.

With a yawn, my mind now catching up with the hour, I opt for bed. So, with a pat to my piano, I leave my studio and navigate my house easily until I’m walking through the hallway that will lead me to my room on the left side of the house.

Unfortunately, one of the spare rooms is in that hallway, too, and just as I pass, I hear it. A faint whisper, a muted conversation being had behind the closed door I knocked on a few hours earlier, only to be left ignored and unanswered.

You know what, it’s fine. If that’s the kind of relationship they want while they live here, then I’ll grant it. I’m more than happy to act like they’re not here, go about my days and business, and live my fucking life. Whatever.

Sweeping away my wistful ideas of a warm home full of chatter, laughter, and all things that would make it homey, I walk the remainder of the hallway before entering my nest, slamming the door a little harder than necessary. Oh, well. It wouldn’t have been an issue if I were living alone, which is how I’m pretending now. A petty omega, I am, and I have no qualms treating them as I’ve been treated. This Bubblegum Batman takes no shit from any man. Not anymore.

Surrounded by the comforts of my nest, plush cream-and-beige blankets and the softest matching pillows all built into a cloud-like pile in the middle of the room, I take a deep breath, inhaling my scent that’s ingrained in everything in here. I fall at ease instantly, and whatever troubles ailed me before disappear.

Shucking my clothes and throwing them near the door, I expertly navigate my way through the overload of comfort, finding my favorite spot before dropping my body into the comfort cloud, groaning the moment my body is hugged by soft, fluffy blankets.

I sigh deeply as I throw several blankets over my body, cuddling into my nest with a yawn, and close my eyes as I wait for slumber to drag me into its dream realm. I wait, and I wait, and I wait.

When it feels like an hour passes and my subconsciousness isn’t dreaming of abs, food, or both, my eyes snap open and I frown. I’m tired enough that sleep shouldn’t be evading me so efficiently, and yet, here I lie, still awake, with abs on my mind, only they aren’t a figment of my imagination. The sight of Haze and Rage with their tatted torsos on display is etched into my mind like an engravement in stone. I can still picture the slope of their spines, the way their muscles would literally ripple when they picked up something heavy. I have rewound the single drop of sweat that slid over Haze’s left pectoral too many times to count, and before I know it, sleep is the last thing on my mind and I’m stinking up my nest with the sugary-sweet bubblegum of my perfume.

Groaning, I roll over and bury my face into the mountain of pillows, doing my very best to ignore the way a certain part of my body wakes up at the mere thought of the twins half naked and sweaty. I certainly try to ignore the way my betraying coochie leaps to life, clenching over nothing while a bolt of arousal hits me so right that my groan quickly turns into a moan.

Knowing my body well enough at the ripe age of twenty-one, I recognize that I won’t be sleeping until I take the edge off. I feel almost wired, like I’ve been suddenly dosed with five shots of adrenaline, and the only way I’m going to tire myself out is by a little self-love session. I mean, why not? Just because my house now has more occupants, doesn’t mean I’m suddenly a nun and can’t get myself off. I’m an omega, for fuck’s sake. I like sex as much as the next one, so I’ll be damned if I go without Merlin and his magic vibrations. Anyway, what better way to act like they’re not here than to go about my usual life?

And in my usual life, I allow myself several orgasms if I can’t sleep. So, fuck them, but more importantly, fuckme.

Retrieving the box from the back of my nest, hidden by several comfort items, I pull out Merlin the Magic Wand, thanking my past self for charging the battery only a couple of days ago. With my weapon of choice, I find a spot in my nest and grow comfortable before switching Merlin on.

Instantly, the room is filled with a rattling vibration from the wand, and since I’m already free from my clothing, I glide the wand over my already hardened nipples before leading it to the apex of my thighs.

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