Page 3 of Pack Me Up
Some people think the night is quiet. They’re idiots, or at least they’ve never worked security for rockstars, let alone a fucking pack with an omega. Night has its own rules. Just because you can’t see the freaks, the creeps, and the nutjobs doesn’t mean they aren’t out there, lurking in the black between the lights. That’s why the Hart mansion perimeter is my personal marathon. No matter how many times I circle the property, every muscle in my body is as tight as a snare drum, every sense straining for the next nasty surprise.
It’s my turn to work the perimeter for Oli Hart and her pack. Things have been quiet lately, but that doesn’t stop the paparazzi from showing up. There’s a line of them pressed against the east gate with fingers jammed through the bars and lenses glinting under the security floodlights. I catch them whispering to each other, voice recorders raised, hoping I’ll do something for their social feeds. I want to give them what they want, bare my teeth, and let the Phoenix Pack legend live up to its name, but Saint says professionalism is the only thing that keeps the Hart Packfrom firing us. Instead, I settle for a silent glare and start my next circuit, boots eating up the distance across the gravel.
The lights cast long shadows, stripes of silver and black over the perfectly trimmed hedges as Oli and Jack get home and go through the front door with a simple wave to me.
I’m halfway through a mental inventory of possible perimeter weaknesses when it fucking hits me:that fucking scent. It’s the same one that’s been driving me insane since last July. It comes on suddenly, shattering my concentration like a sucker punch to the gut. I inhale, and the world narrows to a single fragrance. It’s sweet, sharp, and hot, with the kind of dark edges that make my mouth water and my brain short-circuit, but I can’t get any real notes from it except the slightest hint of hazelnut. My nostrils flare so hard it stings. Instantly, every cell in my body starts screaming for something I can’t name, only want.
I look around every corner for the source, but like always, it evades me. I know it’s not Oli or Jack, but the scent shows up around them and their pack. I’m too far from the press for it to be any of them.
It’s so sweet and perfect. I gulp down air for one more trace of it, but it’s already gone.
Like always, it’s there one second and gone the next, leaving me in an almost feral state looking for it.
I clamp down on the feeling and try to reset, but it’s no use. Hands trembling, I plant them on the stone post and exhale slowly. None of it does shit against the memory of the scent. It’s like it’s wound around my spinal cord, yanking me closer to the source.
I force myself to do another sweep, but I can barely see straight as I mostly look for the culprit. My pupils are dilated, and my heart is hammering so loudly I’m shocked the press can’t hear it over the gate.
I grip my phone in my fist to keep my hands steady. My instincts are firing in every direction: protect, hunt, claim. All at once. For a second, I have to stop pacing, brace my shoulders against the chill, and breathe through the burn.
Fuck. Cody would laugh himself stupid if he saw me like this. Fox would try to fix it with tea and platitudes, which might work if I had a single beta bone in my body. But I don’t. I’m the youngest Phoenix brother, but right now I’m no one’s baby, just a jacked-up alpha with a singular obsession that refuses to let go.
I check the time and it’s one in the morning. Most of the mansion is dark, except for a few windows on the second floor.
I keep hoping that if I can pinpoint the origin of the scent, I’ll be able to think straight again, but all it does is make me more desperate.
The press shifts, murmurs. A camera flash goes off, and it’s almost a relief. It gives me an excuse to move, to do something. I stride up to the gate and stare down the nearest idiot. “You want to get a shot of something? How about I show you the inside of a holding cell?”
He grins, teeth yellow and slick. “Rumor is that Oli Hart might be going on tour again.”
“No comment,” I snap, and my voice comes out way more guttural than I meant. The guy’s face falls a little. He must’ve heard the edge, the way it’s not a joke or a threat but a promise.
“Suit yourself,” he mutters, but the crowd inches back anyway, a ripple of fear or respect or both. I savor it for a second. The Phoenix Pack’s reputation is at least good for something.
Even if it has taken a dip lately.
I’m about to resume my circuit when the wind shifts, carrying the scent right into my face from the direction of the mansion. My pulse skips, then doubles down. It’s like someone took the memory of every rut I’ve ever had and distilled it into a single inhalation. My mouth goes dry, then slick. I want to howl.I want to break every professional rule and climb the wall to chase that scent until I find who it belongs to.
But I don’t. I stand there, locked in place with hands vibrating and knuckles white. The urge is so strong my eyes blur like a metallic fizz at the edges of my vision. All the while, I can feel the heat of the cameras behind me. I have to play it cool, or Saint will ruin me for adding to the negative press our business is already getting.
I clench my jaw so hard it hurts. I can’t let this become a thing. I have to be smarter, colder, and better than my instincts. But the scent lingers, a molten thread wound tight around my throat, and I know it’s not going anywhere.
Not until I find out who she is. Not until I find out who my hazelnut, myhazelis.
I trudge back toward the guard shack, gravel grinding under my boots, and pause for a second just outside the pool of light leaking from the mansion window. The night’s cold, but the yellow spill of the lights makes the whole place look warm, almost welcoming.
Inside the mansion, someone’s playing piano. Not well, considering they’re musicians, but with enough feeling to make me stop and listen. I let my eyes unfocus, just drinking in the moment. I hear voices murmuring and laughing. Their pack is like a family.
When was the last time my own pack felt like this?
My oldest brother, Saint, runs the pack like a tight ship. He’s a perfectionist who wouldn’t know what fun was if it bit him in the ass. Then Fox, always working twice as hard to make up for being a beta. Not that he needs to, it’s all in his head.
The twins, Colton and Cody, are two sides of the same coin who like to pretend they’re identical in every way.
And at the youngest, we have me.
Five perfect pieces, but they only fit together when there’s work or an emergency, never just… for comfort.
I slide my hands into my jacket pockets, pulse finally returning to baseline, and tilt my head back to look at the stars. It’s an old habit. After our parents died when I was a kid, Fox used to point out the constellations, saying they were the bones of the universe, holding everything together. I don’t believe in much, but sometimes I think about those stories and wonder how the hell my own bones are supposed to hold up when it feels like my family’s turning to dust.
