Page 16 of A Pack of Mistletoe
The house reallyissmall. But after a night here, I have to admit, it’s… cozy. Warm. The kind of space that feels lived-in, like it has a heartbeat. Fuzzy blankets, worn rugs, patterned wallpaper that somehow works.
Rose slides into a chair at the breakfast table when she comes back in. “I’m so sorry. That was—” She gestures wildly, searching for the word.
As she does, my eyes betray me. Her camisole flashes a sliver of soft stomach when her arm lifts, the lace edge brushing skin. My gut tightens. I want to dropto my knees and taste her, which is precisely why I squeeze my eyes shut, count to three, and then look toward Harlan and Evander.
Harlan’s gathering his things, paying no attention. Evander, though, has his gaze fixed exactly where mine was a moment ago. I let out a breath. Of course. Evander and I have similar tastes. And Rose fits that bill.
Kai’s watching from the kitchen, pretending not to. If he wants her, he should make a move. It’s not like we haven’t talked about bringing an omega into the pack. Usually we’d look for someone who fits withallof us, but everyone knows Kai’s thing for Rose. He’s talked about her for years. Even when he thought she was a beta, he made it clear she was his priority.
We’d never met her but we figured they’d end up together, and we’d find an omega later. He sought her out two years ago, right after we formed a pack. But she’d disappeared. He’d said her parents wouldn’t tell him where she’d gone. He hadn’t mentioned who her parents were, likely knowing Harlan wouldn’t take it well. He has known conflicts with Enrique Morales.
Now that we know she’s an omega, everything’s different. If she’s scent-matched only to Kai, fine. None of us would stand in his way. Scent sensitivity is so rare as to be almost myth. The fact that my brother found it is insane, and likely means it's statistically impossible for me to find it. Though apparently this town is lucky in the scent sensitivity department.
Still… she’s intriguing. Too much so.
I wish we knew if we were matched. But until the drug wears off, I’m left guessing and pretending I don’t care.
“Are your friends going to say anything? To reporters, or anyone else?” The question comes out sharper than I intend, but controlling my alpha instincts in this cramped little house, with both my alphas and this growing-brighter-by-the-minute omega, is damn near impossible.
Harlan gives me a sidelong look.
“No,” Rose answers, thankfully oblivious. “They’re going to spread the word that I was always an omega. Just on heavy suppressants. Everyone knows that.” She winks.
Wyatt snorts into his coffee. Harlan almost smiles. Even I can’t help a quiet chuckle.
“Those are good friends,” I say. “I can see why you wouldn’t want to leave them.”
Regret lingers like a bad aftertaste. The alphas in this pack are my friends and my lovers, and I let them down with my arrogance and my secrets.
A hand slides up my spine. Evander. My constant. My forgiveness before I’ve earned it.
Rose glances between us, reading more than I’d like her to. Her smile turns teasing, knowing. I have the sudden, childish urge to stick my tongue out at her, but manage to restrain myself.
“They’re the best,” she says. “I’ll do almost anything to stay here with them.”
The words land heavy. They sound like a confession that hurts to speak.
We scatter after that, each finding something to busy our hands with. But every so often, I catch Rose’s eyes on me. Steady, curious, like she’s trying to figure me out. I hope it doesn't hurt her when she does.
Rose
Wyatt is my first lookout of the day.
I have work to do on my computer. I told them it was fine and that I could handle things myself. No one would hear of it. And if I’m honest, the confrontation with the reporterdidrattle me. As much as I like to pretend I’m the fiercely independent beta I’ve always claimed to be, it’s… nice. Nice to have someone else take on the world for a minute.
Wyatt sits across the round kitchen table from me. Every so often, I peer over my screen at him. His brows pinch in concentration, his gaze fixed on his own laptop.
On the third—or maybe eighth—time I look at him, he catches me.
“Everything alright, Sugarplum?”
The pet name rolls off his tongue like thick hot chocolate, warm and slow, curling my toes.
“N-no,” I stammer. “I mean—yes.” I shake my head and force my attention back to the screen.
But when I glance up again, he’s still watching me.
I try to ignore him. After a few long minutes, the clacking of his keyboard resumes.
