Page 32 of Pack Frenzy
“Can I see?” she asks.
I pull the drawer open—and the avalanche begins. Cassian catches two cards before they hit the floor; Rowan plucks one from midair.
Jess laughs and crouches to help. She picks up a card, reads aloud: “Nonna’s Biscotti—must make with real anise or die alone and unloved.” She glances up at me, brow lifted. “Dramatic.”
“That one’s from my ex-roommate’s grandmother,” I say. “She meant every word.”
We spread the cards across the island—decades of saved recipes, smudged and annotated with confessions likeadd more garlicandlie about the calories. Jess handles them carefully, fingers tracing the faded ink like it’s holy text.
“This one,” she says, holding up a lemon-bar recipe, “my mom used to make something like this. Different, but the same… feeling.”
“Make it with me sometime,” I say before thinking.
She studies me for a beat, then nods. “Yeah. I’d like that.”
Cassian yawns loud enough to rattle the dishes. “That’s my cue. Ate too much, need to sleep it off.” He gives Jess a lazy salute. “You good?”
“Yeah. I might crash, too. Nexus isn’t exactly known for quality shut-eye.”
“You look good regardless,” Rowan says, soft and sincere, and I can’t help but agree.
Jess grins, unrepentant. “If you like me now, wait until I’ve had a full nine and a half hours of sleep.”
“I like her,” Cassian declares, heading for the stairs.
Rowan chuckles. “Guess you’re not a morning person.”
“Nope.” She shakes her head. “Not even in the slightest. I used to think I was part vampire or something. Or like a ten-ish to 1 am kinda gal.”
“Then you’ll fit right in,” I say. “We don’t really do mornings here—just late starts and strong coffee.”
Cassian calls back over his shoulder, “And threats of violence before noon.”
Jess laughs, the sound light and unguarded. “Perfect. Goodnight.”
“Night,” I answer, and Rowan’s hand finds the small of my back as we watch her go.
When she disappears around the corner, I exhale as Rowan rubs my back.
Welcome home, I don’t say it, but I know in my gut it’s true.
CHAPTER 8
JESS
Ishould not be this aware of three men whom I’ve barely met and spent less than eight hours around. Or noticing anything with a bed under me, a door I can lock, and quiet that isn’t the metallic buzz of a fluorescent light burrowing into my skull. I was only at Nexus one night, but I swear I can still hear that sound.
I throw the robe on the chair and crawl under the duvet. My body sighs like it’s been waiting for permission. My brain refuses to follow.
It just keeps flickering through today like a broken projector: Eli’s steady hands over mine as he showed me how to lattice the pie crust, the way he grinned at me like he’s pocketing pieces for later; Rowan’s voice wrapping my name in desire and longing; Cassian’s lazy grin and how I could feel his gaze on me like a brand.
I tell myself to stop. To be sensible. To remember the plan: survive the ninety days and don’t get attached to anyone who can break me.
I think about Eli’s knuckle brushing my wrist—barely a touch—and the spark finds something low inside me and catches. Not fireworks. A pilot light finally getting fuel.
My throat goes tight. I haven’t felt wanted in so long, I forgot about the tax it charges…the stupid hope that maybe I could be someone’s choice instead of a charity case. That they might look at me and see something worth keeping, not another broken Omega to fix for a season and set back on the shelf.
“Annoying,” I tell the ceiling, because if I don’t say it out loud, I’ll start believing it.
