Page 129 of Pack Me Up
But here I am.
Alive.
Loved.
Unbreakable.
I step back from the stage and collapse into the waiting arms of my mates. Saint scoops me up first, spins me around, his usually stony face cracked open in a rare, wild grin. Fox buries his face in my neck and just hugs me, shaking. Colton and Cody take turns peppering my cheeks with kisses, then Hunter sweeps me off my feet, swinging me in a circle so fast my head spins.
“You did it, hazel,” Hunter yells, loud enough for the next town to hear. “You did it.”
I laugh, breathless, and let them pass me around like the world’s most valuable trophy.
In the chaos, I find myself looking for Tommy, my best friend, my duet partner, my proof that found family is real. He stands at the edge, hands in his hair, eyes shining.
I cross to him. He lifts me up, spins me once, and then sets me down, forehead to forehead.
“I never doubted you,” he says.
“Liar,” I whisper.
“Yeah, but I never doubted you’d come back.”
I punch him on the arm, and he laughs, then pulls me into a hug so tight I can barely breathe.
Backstage, there’s chaos with the crew, security, and fans trying to sneak in. None of it matters. All I want is to be with my pack.
We huddle in the dressing room, wrapped up in each other, the bond humming at full volume. For a while, nobody talks. We just breathe, together.
Saint is the first to break the silence. “We’re proud of you, omega,” he says, voice gravel and honey. “Thank you for coming back to us.”
I squeeze his hand, then Fox’s, then each of the twins. Hunter’s next, warm and safe and strong.
I look around at all of them. They’re my pack, my saviors, and my world.
I close my eyes and let the feeling sink in, all the way to my soul.
Cody
PHOENIX PACK SECURITY BRIEF #144
HOTEL BACKGROUND CHECK FOR DETROIT
June 12th
We have a whole night off here in Detroit and even a night in a hotel. I heard Jack saying something about recreating a date with Oli, but I’ve got my own plans for tonight.
I’ve never seen someone look so anxious and so hot at the same time, but Brittney’s got this down to a science. She sits cross-legged at the foot of the hotel bed, hoodie sleeves scrunched to her elbows, a half-open bag of gummy sharks bleeding sugar crystals into her lap. Her eyes are glued to the mirror as she applies the finishing touches to her makeup.
I gently sprawl across the other side of the bed, phone face down, doing my best not to stare. The room smells like toffee and chocolate, with a hint of nervous energy, something sharp and sweet that heightens every other sense. I try to play it cool, but my foot keeps jiggling, so I yank the pillow over my chest and squeeze it until the fill crunches.
She finally snaps the palette shut, sets it on the nightstand, and glances over at me while putting a wig on. “I don’t think I’m good at this,” she says.
“Wearing a disguise?” I ask.
“Looking normal. Being normal.” She shrugs. “I think I look like a kid trying to sneak into an R-rated movie.”
I look her up and down. “Nah, you look perfect. No one will recognize you.”
