Page 129 of Pack Frenzy
Something that makes my throat tight with an emotion I can’t name. Pride? Awe? The ache of realizing I get to be here, in this moment, with him? “Sothisis what you wouldn’t let us see?”
He lifts a brow, eyes glinting. “What’s the point of a reveal if you ruin the surprise?”
I sip my soda just to have something to do. “You could’ve warned me before dressing like every teenage dream ever animated.”
Eli smirks. “Let them.”
Rowan grabs the keys off the hook. “All right, let’s move before the parking fills up.”
The doors shut, and their scents rush in like a tide. Rowan at the wheel smells of sandalwood and rain—steady, clean, the kind of scent that makes my chest unclench without permission.
Cassian’s warmth rolls forward from the passenger seat, leather and amber edged with black pepper; it’s reckless and comforting all at once. His black tattoos peek out from under his T-shirt’s sleeves.
And Eli… Eli’s bergamot and fresh linen, bright enough to slice through everything else, the spark right before a storm breaks.
My own scent curls softer in the middle of them, vanilla and jasmine touched with citrus that sharpens when my pulse skips. The air feels too small to hold all of it, and suddenly I’m hyper-aware that I can’t hide here.
Not from them. They can smell what I’m feeling—the want, the fear, the way my body responds even when my brain is screaming to stay guarded.
I want to crack the window wider, dilute the intimacy before it becomes too real. But loneliness tugs the other way, urging me to sink into it and finally stop pretending I don’t need anyone.
The radio hums low, some indie pop beat blurring under the sound of the car on the road. Rowan cracks the window, and coolair slides in to mix with us—an impossible blend of earth, ocean, and Alpha.
Eli’s fingers brush mine on the seat between us. Once, twice. Then he just threads them together like that’s how the world should sit—his thumb tracing lazy circles over my palm until my breath forgets its rhythm.
His hand is warm and steady, no games, no pressure. Just there. And for once, I don’t overthink it. I let myself enjoy the quiet between us—the hum of the tires, the sunlight, the simple fact that his hand fits mine.
The city grows denser, streets crowded with people in wigs and armor, banners fluttering above the stadium ahead.
When we pull into the lot of a concrete stadium, the air practically vibrates—music, chatter, the shimmer of sunlight on every shade of hair dye imaginable.
When Eli squeezes my hand before letting go. For a second, I don’t want to let go. I want to hold on and pretend we can stay in this car, in this little bubble where nothing bad has happened yet. Where they don’t decide that I’m not worth the trouble.
But he’s already pulling away, and my scent spikes with a fresh hit of citrus—sharp, almost bitter. I hope he doesn’t notice. I hope he does. I don’t know what I hope.
Then Cassian opens the door for me, offering his hand. I hesitate—just a second—before taking it. The gesture feels too careful, too considerate, like I’m something fragile. I’m not sure if I want to lean into that or prove him wrong.
His grip is steady as he helps me out. My “thanks” gets swallowed by the noise of the parking lot. It shouldn’t be this hard to just take someone’s hand.
I glance at the line snaking toward the entrance and grin despite myself. “Okay,” I whisper. “Let’s do this.”
Inside is a wall of sound—music from half a dozen speakers, the squeak of sneakers on linoleum that echoes in the concretestadium, a thousand overlapping voices shouting over each other about photos, meetups, and limited-edition merch.
Bright banners flap overhead, each one advertising some anime I’ve never heard of:Celestial Drifters,Blade Circuit Zero,The Spirit Engine Chronicles.
And the air smells like sugar and sunscreen and the ozone tang of too many electronics running at once.
It’s chaos. Glittery, unapologetic chaos.
And I kind of love it.
Cassian tips his head back, scanning the entrance where cosplayers line up for badge pickup. “Jesus. It’s like Comic-Con and Mardi Gras had a baby.”
Rowan smirks. “And gave it caffeine.”
Eli, of course, just glides past both of them like he was made for this. Heads turn as he walks—jeweled earring catching light, shirt open just enough to make everyone in a ten-foot radius forget what they were doing.
Even surrounded by a hundred cosplayers, he doesn’t look like he’s playing dress-up. He looks like he stepped out of the screen.
