Page 58 of Pack Frenzy
No. “Just tired.”
His hand twitches on his knee, fingers flexing like he’s fighting himself not to reach for me. My chest goes tight with wanting him to—and with terror that he might.
“We’re almost there,” he says instead, and turns to look out the window.
Rowan glances over at us like he wants to say something, but leans back and closes his eyes.
I swallow against the ache in my throat and tell myself this is better.
Brightwater Bay smells like salt and kettle corn. Like the ocean trying to sweeten itself for tourists. The air is softer here with no exhaust sting, no city grit. Just water and sugar looped together on a breeze that makes me want to fill my lungs until they ache.
We exit the Uber. Cassian and Rowan take our luggage up the steps to the porch while Eli thanks our driver and pays him.
The cabin is smaller than I imagined, but beautiful in a weathered kind of way. Cedar shingles. White trim. A porch that faces the bay.
Someone lined sea glass along the railing, green and blue and amber catching the porch light like a string of tiny cathedrals. I touch one. It’s cool and smooth, edges worn from waves—the way people get when they’ve survived too many storms.
It’s too intimate. I can already imagine mornings on this porch, coffee going cold while Rowan does the crossword in the local paper and Cassian argues with Eli about nothing that matters. And I can picture myself with them easily.
The thought makes panic claw up my ribs. My chest locks, breath catching halfway, like my body already knows what happens when things start to feel like home.
Inside, the floorboards creak under our feet. The sofa’s older than me but smells faintly of lemon polish and sun. There’s achipped ceramic bowl on the counter and a folded welcome card with a cartoon crab waving on the front.Enjoy your stay.
Cassian prowls through first, flipping light switches and testing windows until he finds one and opens it wide for a cross-breeze. He moves through space like he owns it, confident in a way that makes me want to submit, want to let him arrange the world while I curl into whatever safe corner he creates.
I hate that I want that. Hate that my Omega instincts haven’t gotten the memo that I’m not doing this anymore. That I decided long ago that I wouldn’t be a statistic, wouldn’t allow an Alpha (or Alphas) to take my heart.
Rowan checks the smoke detectors, the locks, and the thermostat like he’s setting perimeters instead of settling in. Protecting. Providing. My chest aches watching him, knowing he’s doing this without even thinking about it. And I wonder if part of him keeping busy is not to think about our kiss in his office. Does he regret it?
Eli hangs the keys on a nail by the door, the way people do when they already feel at home.
They’re taking care of things for me, and the thought sits heavy in my stomach.
I drift to the kitchen, palm tracing the counter. The surface is nicked, the edges worn smooth. Someone cooked here—burned toast, made coffee, lived. It feels oddly intimate, standing in a stranger’s domestic leftovers. Like witnessing the ghost of something I convinced myself I didn’t want.
A pack. A home. People who stay.
“Three bedrooms, two baths,” Eli announces, reading from the laminated info sheet like it’s scripture. “One with a tub, the other with a shower, and absolutely no parties after ten.” He lifts a brow. “Guess that ruins your plans.”
“I’ll survive,” I try to laugh, but my voice comes out wrong. Too quiet and small. Survival’s all I’ve ever managed. Anything past that still feels like fantasy.
Rowan opens a door off the hall. “This one’s got the tub.”
“I call it,” I say and grab my luggage.
Cassian chuckles, but there’s something careful in it. “She decided that fast.”
“I’m jetlagged.” My voice sounds too thin. Too brittle. “The airplane peanuts are already waging war. I’m showering and crashing.”
What I don’t say:I need space before I do something stupid. Before I forget why I shouldn’t want this.
Eli props a shoulder against the wall, smiling, but his eyes track over my face like he’s reading something I didn’t mean to write there. “Fair. I was going to see if anything’s still open, but you look one breadstick away from collapse.”
“Tempting,” I admit, “but bed wins.”
Even though it’s true, what really wins is cowardice. What wins is the need to put walls between us before they see how much I want to stay.
“Suit yourself.” Cassian digs his phone out of his pocket and scrolls. “I’m ordering pizza. Coupons?” he says, digging around in the bookshelf while on hold for the pizza. Then he tosses a small velvet pouch onto the table…colored dice spilling out like candy. “Anyone up for a game of dice?’
