Page 58 of Taken By the Pack

She moves behind the counter, reaching for a tin, but I don’t miss the way her fingers fumble slightly as she scoops the leaves into a strainer.

“You good?”

She exhales through her nose. “Yeah. Just residual...” She waves a hand vaguely. “You know, energy and all that.”

I do. Too well.

The tea’s ready in a few minutes. She hands it over, watching me take the first sip.

“Good?”

I nod. “Yeah.”

“All right. Gimme ten.”

She disappears into the back, leaving me in the middle of her jungle of a shop.

I pull out my phone, checking my reflection in the front camera. Black hair, blue eyes, the same sharp features I’ve seen my whole damn life.

But standing here, with the scent of her pack still clinging to the air, I can’t help comparing myself to them.

They’re not me.

And yet?—

I shut off the screen.

Ten minutes later, she’s back. Clean clothes, lips glossy, hair smoothed into something intentional. The scent of the others is still there, but it’s faint now.

She lifts a brow. “Ready?”

I push off the counter. “Where are we going? If you kill me, I’m gonna be real pissed.”

She grins. “Relax. Three properties. All vacant, all move-in ready. We’ll check them out.”

I grab my jacket. “Lead the way.”

And just like that, we step out, the scent of flowers and sex still hanging in the air behind us.

Grace’s car is a mess. Not like, trash-piled-to-the-ceiling messy, but enough to know she spends alot of time in here.

There are receipts, a hoodie tossed in the back, a half-empty water bottle rolling around when she turns the wheel.

It smells like vanilla, coffee, and something faintly floral.

“I just got it from the mechanic,” she blurts as if that explains the mess. She flicks on the radio, some low indie song playing as we head to the first place.

“The first spot…” she says, glancing at me before focusing back on the road. “It’s got quite a bit of space, a decent kitchen, and the lady who owns it is practically begging for a tenant. You won’t have to fight anyone for it.”

“Sounds promising.”

She snorts. “Wait till you see it.”

The house is… fine.

Two bedrooms, big-ass windows, a porch that looks like it was made for sitting around drinking whiskey at sunset.

The guy next door waves as we pull up—mid-fifties, beer belly, wearing a faded T-shirt that saysWorld’s Okayest Fisherman.

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