Page 63 of Found by the Pack
I shift forward on instinct, but the second my weight leaves the couch, she flinches. It’s tiny, but it’s there—like a ghost of muscle memory telling her to brace.
That does more to me than anything she’s said so far.
So instead of crowding her, I drop to one knee in front of her, making sure she can see my hands before I rest them loosely on my thighs. No reaching. No cornering.
“Sadie.” My voice comes out rougher than I intend. “I’m so damn sorry you went through that.”
Her eyes flick to mine for the first time since she started talking. There’s something raw there, a mix of disbelief and—just for a second—relief.
“I get why you’d be wary of me,” I say, “and of Boone. Of anyone like us. I get it. And I’m not asking you to change that overnight.”
The urge to promise her she’ll never have to deal with something like that again sits heavy on my tongue, but I don’t say it. I can’t guarantee it, not in a world that keeps proving it doesn’t care what Omegas endure. But I can make damn sure she knows I believe her. That I’m not looking at her like she’s broken.
She draws her knees up slightly, curling inward. “You don’t get it,” she whispers.
“Then make me,” I say, softer now.
Her throat works like she’s swallowing glass. “You can’t fix what they did. You can’t make it so I’m not—” She cuts herself off, eyes squeezing shut.
I lean back a fraction, still at her level. “I’m not here to fix you,” I tell her. “I’m here because you matter. Not what you can paint, not what you survived. You.”
Something shifts in her expression then, not quite trust but not the complete wall I’ve been getting since we met.
“Why?” she asks, and it’s not cynical—it’s curious, almost childlike in its quiet disbelief.
Because no one should have to go through what you did. Because you deserve to feel safe without earning it like some damn reward. Because if I’d known you back then, I’d have burned that whole pack to the ground.
I keep all that inside. What I say instead is, “Because I see you trying to make a life here. And I want that to work for you.”
Her gaze lingers on me for a beat too long, then drifts away. “I’m tired,” she admits.
I nod, rising slowly so she can see every movement before I stand. “Then I’ll get out of your hair. You want me to lock the door on my way out?”
She hesitates. “Yeah. Thanks.”
I take that for the small victory it is.
When I step out into the cool night air, I can still feel the tremor in her voice rattling in my chest. Boone’s right—she’s been through hell. But hearing it from her… it’s worse than I imagined.
And if I’m being honest with myself, I think it’s going to be a long time before I stop imagining what I’d do if I ever ended up face-to-face with Scott.
CHAPTER 15
Boone
Shepard leans against the doorframe of my place like he owns it, a coffee mug balanced in one hand, the other shoved into his jeans pocket. “I really think you should go to the bonfire tonight,” he says, like he’s casually suggesting I pick up milk on my way home.
I snort. “You’re not going.”
“That’s different,” he says, lifting his mug for a sip. “I’d go, but I’ve got to finish sorting the back room at the library. Marjorie wants the whole local history section reorganized before the fundraising board meeting.”
“Which means you’ll be buried in dusty ledgers until midnight.”
“Probably.” He grins, the calm and steady kind that’s impossible to get mad at.
Boone’s voice comes from the kitchen table, where he’s nursing his second cup of coffee and scrolling on his phone. “And Gabe’s not going either, so why should I? I’m not going to some town event alone.”
Shepard shrugs. “Because you need fun. It’s not healthy to work all the time, Boone.”
