Page 98 of Taken By the Pack

I follow her gaze, and my blood turns cold.

There’s a bright red eviction notice pinned to her door.

She rips it down, eyes scanning too fast, lips parting. “This has to be a mistake.”

I don’t like the way her voice wavers.

“What the hell is this?” I ask, stepping closer, looking over her shoulder.

It’s official, the kind of legal shit that isn’t just an empty threat. It says “Notice to Vacate” at the top. Effective immediately. The name scrawled at the bottom is one I recognize.

Harold fucking Whitmore. Her landlord.

Grace is already digging her phone out of her pocket. “I need to call him,” she mutters, pacing as she presses the phone to her ear. “This doesn’t make sense. I pay my rent on time. I?—”

She stops, her landlord answering on the other end.

“Harold, what is this?” she demands, no preamble, just raw confusion. “I just got home, and there’s a notice on my door saying I need to vacate? That has to be a mistake, right?”

I listen, my Alpha pacing in my chest, tension coiling as she goes quiet, just nodding, swallowing hard.

Then—

“You’rewhat?”

I step closer, feeling the shift in her energy.

She’s not just confused. She’s stunned.

“You’re putting the house on the market?” she repeats, like saying it out loud will change the reality of it. “You—Harold, I’ve been a good tenant. You didn’t even warn me. You can’t just?—”

She stops again. My fists clench.

“New real estate company?” she asks tightly. “Who? What company?”

There’s another pause, then she lets out a sharp exhale, fingers digging into her forehead.

“That’s—no, this isn’t fair,” she says, voice breaking just slightly. “You can’t just decide this out of nowhere.”

I don’t like the way Harold must be answering, because her face twists in frustration, her chest rising and falling faster.

She closes her eyes. “Who are they?” Then, quieter, “Maybe I can talk to them.”

Another pause. Then she nods, grabbing a pen from her bag and scrawling something onto the back of the eviction notice.

“Fine,” she says. “Thanks.”

She hangs up, but I don’t miss the way her hand trembles.

I reach for her, but then I see the name she just wrote down.

And my whole fucking worldstops.

Westwood Holdings.

My blood runs cold.

Grace turns, eyes locking on mine. “Ash?”

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