Page 7 of Pack Choice
“No way,”my elder brother, Axel, says, looking up from the laptop he has positioned beside his plate of eggs. Scrambled eggs with burned bacon. His favorite kind. Cooked by me, in hope of buttering him up. “Absolutely not.”
I sigh. “And why not?”
“Why not?” he asks in exasperation. “Why not?”
“You don’t need a job, Moll,” my middle brother, Angel, says, shoveling blueberry pancakes (also made by yours truly) into his mouth.
“I do if I want my own place.”
Angel’s fork clatters onto his plate, and Axel chokes on his eggs.
“Your own place?” Axel repeats. “You don’t need your own place.”
“You’re about to have a baby,” I point out. “You don’t need me hanging about.”
“We’re gonna need your help with the baby,” Angel says.
I smile at them both. “No, you won’t. There’s seven of you and only one baby.”
“You can’t live on your own,” Axel says in a gruff way that means he’s not intending to lose this argument. “It isn’t safe.”
“Well, I’m not moving anywhere yet. I need to save up some money first.”
“We have money, more than enough money. Plus, you have the money from your trust fund too.”
“One, I’m not scrounging off you guys for the rest of my life. Two, I don’t want to dip into my trust fund unless I have to.”
“It’s not scrounging, Moll. You’re family. It’s our job to look out for you. And that includes making sure you’re safe.”
“Nothing’s going to happen to me.”
My two brothers glance at each other in that infuriating way, which means they’re not telling me something.
“You don’t need a job,” Angel says.
“Urgh,” I say, scowling at them both. As usual, they aren’t listening. “I know I don’tneeda job. But Iwanta job.”
“You can come work for us,” Axel says, twisting his head back to his computer, indicating he’s done with this conversation.
“I’d rather boil my own head.”
Angel chuckles. “Then how about you volunteer in the dog shelter or the old people’s home? Most omegas do that before they find their pack. It’s safe and well guarded–”
“And I am not most omegas.”
“You’re telling me,” Axel mutters.
“I just want … I want a chance to feel normal.” These last few months have felt anything but. “To work, save money, find my own place. If I hang around in this house a day longer, I will lose my mind.”
“Omegas don’t work.”
“Bea works.”
“Bea is–”
I glare at my brother. “Look, I’m sorry if I gave the wrong impression here, but I’m not asking for your permission. I already have a job sorted. I’m starting later this morning.”
They both stare at me, probably only registering for the first time that I’m dressed in a blouse and a pencil skirt, with my hair twisted up into a bun, and not my usual yoga pants and tee.
