Page 107 of Taken By the Pack

She leans up, kissing Jake and Rowan softly before turning to me.

“Let’s go.”

I take her hand as we step outside. She squeezes lightly. “You okay?”

I exhale. “I just want today to go well.”

She stops, looking up at me. “It will. I’ll be there.”

Then she kisses me—soft and slow, steadying me in a way I didn’t realize I needed.

I smile, pressing a kiss to her forehead before she slips into the car. Then, with dread curling in my gut, I get in and start the drive to whatever hell awaits.

It takes almost an hour to get there, and the longer we drive, the more tense Grace gets. When we finally arrive at the restaurant, she’s avoiding my gaze.

“I should’ve brought something,” she says, fiddling with the hem of her dress. “A gift or something.”

I glance at her. “I feel bad for subjecting you to this at all.”

She turns, eyes sharp, before cupping my cheek. “We’re a team, Ash. A pack. I’m your Omega. The only opinions that matter are yours and the pack’s.”

I study her, my chest tightening. How did I get so damn lucky?

I lean in to capture her lips in a kiss that turns wild almost instantly. My grip tightens on her waist as her nails rake down my back. My Alpha surges forward, desperate to claim.

Grace pants against my lips. “We can’t,” she gasps when I nip at her jaw. “We’re late.”

I exhale, resting my forehead against hers. “Okay.”

I help straighten her dress, brushing my hands over her waist. As she smooths her hair, I watch her, the realization hitting me like a freight train.

I love her.

I am so fucking in love with her.

It claws up my throat, but I bite my tongue. Not here. Not now.

As soon as we step into the restaurant, the air shifts.

The maître d’ barely glances at us before giving a tight-lipped smile. “Right this way, Mr. Bennett.”

I don’t correct him. My name still carries weight, whether I want it to or not.

Grace walks beside me, her fingers brushing mine. I resist the urge to take her hand. Not because I don’t want to, but because I know my family.

If I give them one more thing to pick apart, they will.

The restaurant is dimly lit, all dark wood and low conversation. Servers move with precision, balancing silver trays and gliding between tables like ghosts. It’s high-end, the kind of place meant to intimidate.

And then we’re led through a set of glass doors onto a private terrace.

My mother sits at the head of the table, poised and immaculate. My father is beside her, straight-backed and cold. Liam and Rachel sit across from them, with matching expressions of entitlement.

Grace steps slightly behind me, her posture tight.

I clear my throat. “Mom, Dad, you remember Grace.”

Liam smirks. “Oh, we remember.”

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