Page 60 of Pack Frenzy
A bottle of amber liquid sits on the counter, with three glasses half-full. The dice are still scattered across the table like abandoned treasure.
No pizza in sight. I check the fridge. Bingo. I pull out the box and open it. Four slices, still in the box, with a note scrawled on a napkin in Eli’s handwriting:In case you wake up hungry. -E
Something loosens in my lungs—something I can’t afford to feel.
I pick up the napkin, running my thumb over the letters. Such a small thing. Such a stupid, small kindness.
Quickly, I shovel in a slice and put the rest back. Then I drink a glass of water. The house is quiet, and I half expected one of them to come out. Or maybe they’re waiting for me to come to them.
But I can’t do that. Not tonight. Maybe not ever.
I head back to my room and crack the window an inch. The sea breathes in with me—salt, wind, the distant crash of waves. Sheets cool against my overheated skin.
I curl on my side, facing the door I left cracked open, and pull the blanket up to my chin like it can protect me from my own stupid heart.
Somewhere behind the wall, one of them laughs again, low and unguarded.
Cassian.
I know it the way I know my own pulse. The way I know all of them, despite spending the hours since I met them pretending I don’t.
My eyes burn. My chest aches.
I fall asleep with my hand pressed to the space above my heart, holding myself together—trying not to imagine what itwould be like to finally let go… or if someone caught me when I did.
CHAPTER 15
JESS
Insistent sunlight pries at my eyelids.
The clock on the nightstand blinks 12:03 PM, and I’ve no idea where I am—just the smell of cedar and the hush of waves filtering through the cracked window. Then memory catches up: the flight, the cabin, the laughter through the wall that I pretended not to listen to. The sound of their voices, easy and unguarded in a way I haven’t felt in months. Maybe years.
I slept for over ten hours, and still I could sleep until tomorrow.
Jet lag, sure. But it’s more than that. The quiet here has weight, pressing me into the mattress, making me aware of every inch of space I take up alone in this tiny bed. Back home, the bed was bigger, but I never seemed to fit in it. Here, the silence is an invitation I don’t know how to accept. Like if I reach for it, it might vanish, and I’ll wake to Mom passed out on the couch and Dad already gone to one of his jobs.
The murmur of voices drifts from outside and doesn’t feel like abandonment—but permission to just... be.
Cassian’s low and gravel-edged laughter echoes, the kind that sounds like it costs him something to give. Eli’s brighter,unguarded, like he’s never learned to hold anything back, and I know without checking that Rowan’s there with them.
I tell myself I’m not smiling when I get up. The mirror says otherwise, and I look away fast, unsettled by the hope in my own eyes.
Since it’s already so late, I take a shower instead of a bath. The water runs hot enough to turn my skin pink, steam fogging the mirror until I’m just a shape, blurred and undefined. When I dress, I pause halfway through smoothing the hem of my navy tee, fingers catching on the lace trim. It’s stupid—this top isn’t special, isn’t anything more than soft cotton and a little detail at the neckline and hem—but I chose it this morning with more care than I want to admit. The fabric smells faintly like laundry detergent and my own scent, nerves sweetening the vanilla undertone that makes my biology impossible to hide.
Since learning I’m an Omega, my body’s been treacherously honest. No subtlety. My scent says what I won’t: see me, notice me. The shame of wanting flushes hot through me, but I don’t change.
By the time I step outside, the sun is a mellow gold spilling across the porch.
The guys are at the kitchen table, half-finished mugs of coffee beside a map of Brightwater Bay unfolded between them. They look like they’ve been there for hours, settled into the morning in a way I envy. Rowan’s bent over the map, finger tracing a route along the coastline. Cassian’s chair is tipped back, balanced on two legs, his face with just the right amount of stubble. Eli’s mid-sentence when he spots me, and the way his whole expression lights up does something dangerous to the careful walls I’ve been building.
“Morning, Sleeping Beauty,” he says, grin immediate and unearned. “Or… afternoon. We took a vote and decided not to wake you. You’re welcome.”
“Thanks,” I say, and affection bleeds through despite my best efforts.
The truth is, I can’t remember the last time someone let me sleep. There was always something--the maids cleaning, the lawn people making as much noise as possible, Mom and Dad yelling, one of them slamming doors.
The fact that these guys let me rest, that they thought about what I might need instead of what was convenient for them, settles deep in me.
