Page 30 of Pack Frenzy
Cassian tells the story about the elevator incident with the Omega pickpocket, embellishing shamelessly. “She was cute,” he lies.
“You hate thieves,” I remind him.
“And elevators,” Rowan adds, voice dry as dust.
Jess laughs so hard she snorts water. When she wipes her face, she stares at the three of us like she’s doing math in her head. “You guys are like the world’s weirdest support group.”
“Better than group therapy,” Cassian says cheerfully.
“And why do you hate elevators?”
“I take the stairs whenever possible. Elevators are a metal box on cables. Not my idea of safe.” He grabs another slice of roast.
Jess glances at the fridge magnets—one’s a chipped ceramic lizard. Growing up, I had a German Shepherd for therapy. Followed me around everywhere.”
Rowan follows her gaze, mouth ticking up. “That lizard is a reminder of my mother,” Rowan says, cutting off a bite of his roast, “She once tried to domesticate an iguana.”
Jess looks up, fork paused. “Domesticate? Aren’t they pets?”
“Not this one. She named him Spartacus and gave him a corner of the sunroom with a heat lamp and a water dish.” Rowan’s mouth quirks. “He bit my uncle twice, my cousin once, and me when I tried to move his rock.”
Cassian snorts. “Tell her about the escape.”
“He lived in the neighbor’s garage for a month. They thought he was a lawn ornament until he moved.”
“Wow. Your mom sounds like chaos.”
“She respects a rebel,” Rowan says, and there’s warmth in it—the kind you only get from someone who’s made peace with their origin story.
“What happened to Spartacus?” Jess asks.
“Animal control. He’s at a reptile sanctuary now, probably terrorizing the staff.”
She grins at him, and there’s the click of two barely tamed things humoring the idea of domestication.
Jess’s gaze makes a slow loop around the room: spice rack color, battered cast-iron hanging from hooks, the pothos vine curling over the window. She doesn’t ask about any of it, doesn’t point or comment, just absorbs. The same way she absorbed Cassian’s tells at cards, the way she watched me and Rowan without judging.
It’s unfair how much I’m attracted to her for that.
“So,” she says around a bite of meat that makes her eyes go wide, “What else are you good at, Eli, besides cooking?”
“He’d be the one who’d help you bury a body,” Cassian says, and she grins.
“Sounds efficient.” She sets her fork down and looks at me—really looks, not through me to the Alphas. “Can I ask you something?”
“Shoot.”
“When you joined them,” she tilts her head toward Rowan and Cassian, “was it weird? Being the… I don’t know. Third?”
The question hangs there, honest and unguarded. No one’s ever asked me that. Not directly.
“Sometimes.” Lying to her just feels wrong. “Mostly it’s just… right. Like finding a space that was always yours but you didn’t know existed.” I pause, trying to find words that won’t sound defensive. “I love Rowan and what we have. But wanting more doesn’t feel selfish—it feels honest. It’s like pie and roast. Both are amazing, but I wouldn’t want just one forever.”
She nods slowly, like she’s trying the idea on for size. Then she does something that stops my breath: she reaches across the island and taps my wrist. “Thanks for explaining that.”
It’s Rowan’s gesture. The one he uses with me when words won’t fit.
She learned it in four hours, and she’s giving it back to me.
