Page 33 of Pack Owned
The laundry room is bigger than most people’s apartments, and she gasps when we walk inside. I toss a crooked smile as I lean against one of the dryers.
“Talk about overkill, right? But hey, an Alpha’s gotta have clean clothes, especially after a dust-up like tonight.”
She stands in the doorway, clutching Dane’s bloodied shirt, her dark blue eyes wide, trying to process everything.
“Here.” I take the shirt from her, adding detergent. “Just toss it in.” I start the machine.
“How many washing machines and dryers do you need?”
I can’t help but chuckle at her reaction. “What, you think it’s overkill? Trust me, when you’re an Alpha who gets into as many scrapes as I do, you can never have too many machines.”
My gaze drifts over the top-of-the-line appliances, and I feel a swell of pride. This luxury is a far cry from the youth shelter days of fighting over the single, rickety washer and dryer. Those crappy machines were always breaking down, leaving us to hand wash our clothes in the bathroom sinks when we were lucky enough to have soap.
Having amenities like this, no longer having to scramble and ration, is a privilege I don’t take for granted. Maybe Ryker was right, and I go a bit overboard compensating for those lean years, but can you blame a guy for wanting plenty of spare machines to handle emergencies and not having to wear dirty clothes?
“Don’t knock it until you try it.” I shoot Kayla a wink. “I think everyone with more than two people living in a house needs their own industrial-sized laundromat.”
A smirk tugs at the corner of her mouth, but she schools her features like she’s holding back laughing, though I don’t know why.
“Thankfully, Ryker has enough cash to buy a house full of these things. And he did it when he heard my sob story of having to walk a mile to the laundry mat only to find out I didn’t have enough money to dry my clothes.”
“That was thoughtful of him.” She looks away, and I change the subject, knowing it makes some people uncomfortable, and that’s the last thing I want to do with Kayla.
“Did the Omega Institute teach you how to dig out bullets? ‘Cause you handled that like a pro.”
She leans back against the vibrating machine, pressing her palms against the surface.
“No. Honestly, I didn’t think I could do it, but I wanted to try. Wanted to be helpful. Especially since he saved me from getting shot.”
I step closer, watching the tremor in her fingers, seeing the way her breath comes too fast. She’s strong, so damn strong, but everyone has their limits. My chest tightens, protective instincts flaring up like wildfire.
“Look, I know what it’s like to be thrown into a fire and tossed a can of gasoline,” I begin, my voice barely above a whisper. “When I was younger, I went through some tough times. The kind that makes you question if you can ever trust anyone again.” Her gaze is locked on me, attentive. “I had to learn to survive. My foster parents got off on beating the shit out of me daily like I was some modern-day whipping boy.
“Sometimes, I still wake up thinking I’m back in those days, fighting for every scrap of peace, every piece of food. Until I fought back and gave my foster father a ride to the hospital. I took off after that, taking care of myself on the streets, working whatever I could to buy my way until Dane and I got in a brawl outside a bar. When I held my own up against him, he offered me a job to work as a bounty hunter with him.”
Kayla’s lips part slightly, and I can tell she’s holding back a sea of her memories. It’s the look of someone who’s been dragged through the mud. A look that, damn it, hits a little too close to home and one I used to see in the mirror every fucking day.
But I won’t force her to open up. Not yet, anyway. I want her to feel safe, to want to talk with me about whatever she’s holding back.
“So, you helped design the laundry room. Did you do the kitchen, too? There are gadgets in there that I’ve no idea what they are.”
“Nope, all that’s Dane’s lair. Cooking isn’t exactly my forte. Though, I can whip up a mean protein shake if you’re desperate.”
A ghost of a smile plays on her lips. “Desperate measures for desperate times, huh?”
“Exactly.” We stand in comfortable silence for a moment, the only sound the rhythmic thrum of the washer. “Look,” I begin, choosing my words carefully, “I know being tossed into a new situation can be… fucked up.”
She nods curtly, her gaze fixed on the spinning laundry.
“If you want to ever share anything, I’m here to listen. Nothing else, no judgment.”
Her lower lip, a soft pink against the white of her skin, gets caught between her teeth. She chews on it, a silent battle raging behind those blue eyes.
“My dad passed away from cancer when I was just a kid. Mom remarried, and...” She hesitates, a shadow passing over her face.
My gut clenches. No Omega deserves that.
“Reading and hanging out with my friends became my escape,” she continues, a wistful note creeping into her voice.
