Page 72 of Pack Larsen

I park in a spot next to Juno’s sparkling, brand-new truck before picking up my cell and asking, “You saw Pace’s car? Passing where?”

Alek sighs, and I hear the scrape of his hand brushing over stubble as he likely brushes his palm over his mouth, before he finally says, “What car does Pace drive again?”

“A beat-up Nissan Sentra. Why, dude? What the hell?” I blurt, growing a little worried.

Alek blows out a breath. “That’s what I thought. I definitely think I saw him driving to your mom’s, Silver. I was just leaving there because I needed a signature from Cynthia for the paperwork for the vacation at the Bahamas she won. She missed a spot, so I had to take it over today. When I left, I saw Pace’s car driving toward Cynthia’s house. I could be wrong, though, kid. It could have been someone else driving the same car, you know? Don’t listen to me.”

Instantly, my heart shrivels before it starts beating rapidly beneath my ribcage. I’m staring out the drivers side window, trying to comprehend what it is Alek is telling me, when Juno steps out of the house in a pair of black leggings, a band shirt with the name Sueco scrawled over her chest, and her purple hair pulled up in a funny ponytail that doesn’t hold all of her shoulder-length strands.

Waving at me from the doorway with a look that says, ‘You coming or what?’ I can do nothing but stare while Alek says, “Sorry, kid. It’s probably a mistake. There’s no reason Pace would go there, right?”

So one would think.

My entire body shuts down so suddenly that I grow numb and a buzzing starts up in my ears as memories of my childhood come back to me with a vicious bite. I’ve been down this road before. I’ve experienced the hurt, the misery, and the disappointment that comes any time Cynthia Gage is mentioned. I’ve lived through my mother getting her way with her money and power. It’s why I quietly mutter, “There’s only one.”

“What was that?” Alek asks, having missed what I said. “Silver?”

“I have to go,” I say a little louder, monotone while dread swarms my body like a hive of wasps, stinging at my flesh repeatedly. My heart is aching already, my thoughts rioting while I try to come up with any other reason for my alpha and omega to be visiting with the woman that stole my childhood and used me as a pawn in her elaborate game of politics and power.

I come up empty for anything other than money.

My parents paid off one guy to leave me alone before, they wouldn’t hesitate to do it again. I know them well enough to understand that they’re a diabolical pack not meant to be fucked with. They’re snakes. They strike you when you’re not looking, slithering in the tall grass to remain hidden before they attack. There’s no reason to speak to them at all unless you’re looking for something from them.

Hanging up on Alek before he can continue the conversation I’m checked out of, I roll my window and shout to Juno, “Raincheck. Something came up.”

“Wait, what?” she rushes, stepping onto the porch and placing her hand over her eyes to block out the glaring beam of the sun. “Pixie, what’s wrong?”

“I have to go. I’ll call you later,” I tell her lifelessly before I reverse the car and pull straight back out of the spot I parked in, leaving my best friend behind while I gun it down her driveway, spitting gravel and dust in my wake.

Without much conscious thought, I’m already navigating my way toward my mother’s estate, back to the house that brought me better memories to replace all of the shitty ones I suffered growing up. Back to the place that felt like a prison, never a home. The house where I was forced to wake up at five in the morning, where I had to work out for two hours as soon as I woke up, only a kale smoothie to drink as my breakfast. Where my entire day would be planned for me from start to finish and only my dreams were mine alone. It’s where all of my birthdays were celebrated with a new dress that didn’t suit me, a party with all of my mother’s socialites, and no birthday cake in case I got fat.

It’s the house that I escaped from for a fucking reason, and now I find myself driving back there, with my pulse thrumming painfully, my palms sweating around my steering wheel, and my heart lodging itself in my throat.

Stomach turning and praying I’m wrong, begging for any deity that exists that I won’t find what I think I might, I drive like a madwoman to my mother’s house in record time. My wheels crunch over the gravel driveway that leads to a roundabout that wraps around a fountain I would sit at for a single moment of reprieve before the house staff would find me and demand I return to whatever hellish thing my parents demanded I learn.

I feel like I’m about to break apart, splitting at the seams, when I spy Pace’s car already parked just outside the front door to the overtop mansion.

Clenching my teeth to stop a sob from crawling out of my throat, fighting against the damn tears that come with the sight of his car, I grip my steering wheel tightly as I drive the remaining the length of the driveway.

I’m almost at the fountain when my cell rings.

I ignore it.

It rings again.

It goes to voicemail.

When I park and my cell starts blaring a third time, I peer over at it, finding Munro’s number flashing on the screen. Of course, because Juno would have told him I was acting weird. She would have told him that something was wrong, and that I looked like I was going to throw up.

Reaching for my cell, I swipe the red button on the call before turning the phone off completely. I discard it back on the passenger seat before climbing out of the car, heartbreak and dread already slathering me in its sickly, tart scent. I can smell the stress in my usual bubblegum scent. I can already feel myself trying to shut down the feelings I have for the guys, trying to bottle it all into a numb state so I can deal with the inevitable.

Wrapping myself in mental armor, I climb out of my car, leaving the door open as I walk steadily to the front door. I don’t bother knocking, there’s no point. I know the door will already be unlocked, because my parents are bold and confident enough to assume their house will never find itself broken into. With the security they have, the confidence is warranted.

Reaching for the door handle and bracing myself for what I might find, I push the door open and step into the lavish house full of minimalistic decor and white, bland walls. I ignore the family portraits that line the wall, all black and white and severe. There’s one missing between my mother and one of my fathers, the space empty where mine used to be. I didn’t notice it was gone when we were here last, worried about other things. It’s funny how I notice it now, when my world is on the brink of going up in flames.

Stepping into the ornate entrance, uncaring about the sound of my scuffing feet, I look for my mother. I don’t find her here, so I move further into the house. My feet are already guiding me to the office I know she keeps downstairs, years of memory coming back with the force of a tidal wave, bringing with it the foreboding sense of agony.

I can hear voices before I reach the doorway of her office, my mother’s nasally tone flatly commenting, “You’re not the pack for her. I won’t allow my daughter to slum it and drag our name through the mud with her. Take this and be done with it.”

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