Pack Darling Part One

by Lola Rock

  Sweet, sweet internet finally connects on my tablet.

  I do a happy dance, wiggling my ass, then flee to the garden. The Wi-Fi reaches the gazebo, which isn’t my favorite place, but I relax as soon as I’m out of the house, away from the cameras and scents and never-ending feeling that I’m being watched, judged, and found wanting by the men my body insists are meant to be mine.

  I don’t need men. I need money. Which, unfortunately, means I need work.

  Thanks to my goal of failing every class at the OCC, I’ve taken a million-and-one subjects. Most were for grooming pretty, happy omegas who know how to thrive in a pack. Subjects like nail care, fitness, and nutrition.

  After dance, my favorite class by far was pack management. It taught budgeting for girls graduating to manor homes and million-dollar checkbooks, so we spent weeks on finance.

  Who knew? I love money math.

  I couldn’t get an official accounting certification before, but now the only thing stopping me is the cost of the program. If I can cover that, I’ll be in business. In the meantime, I’ll take any bookkeeping work the internet can deliver.

  I spend the next few hours posting resumes and responding to ads on job boards. I’m desperate enough to take anything.

  By twilight, I’m shivering and near starving.

  I dread going back in the house. I dread smelling a single one of those alphas, feeling their eyes on me, let alone Craig and the surveillance cams.

  But as much as I want to avoid everything, I do not camp.

  The basement steps feel like the walkway where beef cows get lined up for their electric shock.

  Inside, I pause to listen. Thankfully, the house is silent. I turn over my laundry and give in to the urge to tidy, holding my breath as I start another load of their clothes.

  If their scents are poison, their dirty jeans and T-shirts are radioactive. I want them de-scented and gone. While my stuff tumbles dry, my eyes wander the gym.

  Thick workout mats cover the floor. The gym’s stocked with weight benches and cardio machines as nice as the ones at the OCC. Punching bags take up a whole corner, and I’d spend hours working out my frustration if I could stomach swimming in Hunter’s scent.

  The far wall cupboard is stacked with protein bars like the pack’s preparing for a siege, so I don’t feel guilty stealing from their stash. I nibble at a cardboard-tasting bar and squeeze into the space between the washer and dryer, where I finally feel less exposed. The warmth and rumble take the edge off. The closest thing I’ll ever have to an alpha’s comforting purr.

  I can stick this out.

  I’ll pay back my debt and bounce as soon as I can, and not one of the Wyverns will ever realize the deep, dark truth that has to be a lie.

  Their scents say we belong together.

  That’s why I can never let them taste mine.

  Sixteen

  HUNTER

  I’m glad I didn’t drink last night because a hangover would be the shit icing on this day. My knuckles clench, aching for a bag or a face to smash. While the Redfang cartel tears up the city, looking for revenge, our pack leader digs at Finn and me like we’re the enemy.

  “You shouldn’t have taken her out,” Atlas growls for the twentieth time, angrily flicking the turn signal as the four of us head home from Wyvern House.

  “She was already out,” Finn says beside me. “We just took her farther.”

  “She needed help,” I clarify instead of ripping into him the way he needs.

  Also, she was bleeding every-fucking-where.

  We may not want the omega, but we can’t neglect her to death.

  “Craig stocked the kitchen. Leave her in the basement where she belongs.” Jett rides shotgun, looking like ice, but the hum of tension through our pack bond won’t let our brother lie. He’s wound way too fucking tight.

  “It’s all empty,” Finn says, oddly passionate. “And it smells like mold.”

  Atlas growls. “Fucking Craig.”

  The guy is an ass, but an ass we’re stuck with.

  If we’re talking about asses, I’d rather be stuck with Lilah’s…

  But we’re not talking about Lilah.

  We’re not talking about the pack or the problems we need to address, because my brothers love them some denial. I see every fucking issue. Every fucking thing.

  Don’t get me started on Orion.

  I’ve tried leveling with Atlas. But truth hurts. He didn’t want to hear shit when we were fifteen and he crushed Orion’s heart.

  He doesn’t want to hear shit now when he’s doing the same.

  Calling these assholes out never works. Never.

  When Finn was spiraling, I called him out hard. Told him to stop mixing booze and bikes. Stop with the booze altogether, because that shit would get him killed. He needed therapy, not another hit of adrenaline and oblivion.

  And what did Finn fucking do?

  He said I didn’t understand. He said I was overreacting.

  Then he picked a fight with an MC, stole a bike, and crashed into a fence high off his ass, lucky he lost a tooth and not his entire skull.

  What worked?

  Beating the shit out of him and promising to do the same again and again and again if I ever caught him high on any substance stronger than tap water.

  Talking doesn’t solve shit.

  I could tell my pack brothers their problems all the livelong day. Finn’s desperate, Atlas keeps choosing duty over his mate, and fucking Jett is so far in denial, he needs a pickaxe to dig out of his own ass.

  And Lilah…

  I can still picture her, passed out in the back of my truck. Bleeding. Not asking for help. At first, flinching away from touch, then soaking up attention like an omega starved.

  She’s too vulnerable, too sweet, and way too much fucking trouble.

  Lilah is the match that’ll set every one of us on fire.

  We stop to pick up Chinese, and the air between us stays suffocatingly thick. We need to clear it, or I need to pound a bag until my knuckles are hamburger.

  When we get home, Atlas and Jett stomp inside, leaving Finn and me to carry the bags. Most nights, we’re back too late to eat as a pack. Tonight, Orion waits for us in the doorway.

  “Rough day?” he asks, rubbing his arms against the tension vibrating through our pack bonds.

  When no one answers, he deflates and his scent goes sour apple.

  I feel like the only one with basic senses. Or a conscience. I grab Orion around his shoulders and steer him toward the kitchen, wishing the guys would see how he perks up at the smallest touch. “Day’s over. Want to eat together?”

  “Yeah.” Orion gives this happy, heart-breaking smile that the others don’t register.

  Finn rips into the takeout bags as soon as we hit the kitchen, and everyone pulls out their food while I side-eye the cleared-off countertops. “Did Craig clean?”

  “Not exactly,” Orion says, not meeting my eyes.

  “Did you?” Atlas asks, already rumbling. “That’s not your job.”

  “Lilah did.”

  We all freeze, mid-bite.

  “Why the hell was she upstairs?” Atlas knocks back his chair with an angry screech.

  “I gave her the Wi-Fi password. We talked. She’s not... She’s not awful.” Orion pokes at his sweet and sour chicken. “She promises she doesn’t want to stay.”

  “What if I want to keep her?” Finn asks dreamily, oblivious when Orion flinches.

  “Not happening.” Fucking idiot. I smack his shoulder.

  I was worried for about thirty seconds last night when Finn started obsessing. But he didn’t mention Lilah once today unless someone else brought her up, and he conveniently forgot she existed when he put in our dinner order. He only sees her as a toy, switchable with any one of his bikes.

  “Craig told her to put shit away,” Orion says.

  “We need to get rid of them both,” Jett says through gritted teeth.

  “Soon.” Atlas s
tares toward the basement like he’s going to bull down there and drag the girl out to the curb. “We can’t push back right now. As soon as we deal with the Redfangs, we’ll have space to negotiate with Scorpio.”

  Now it’s the Redfangs.

  Next week, we’ll be dealing with some other shit.

  There’s always something, always some reason to push off making the hard changes. Numbskulls need to realize this.

  I wolf down dinner, then give in to the itch in my veins and jog downstairs. I’m taping my hands for a marathon punch-shit session when I spot the too-thin girl squeezed between the washer and dryer.

  Lilah holds a crumbled protein bar wrapper, and a crumb of chocolate clings to the corner of her lush lips. A protective rumble builds behind my sternum. I pull in my diaphragm until the sound dies the way it needs to.

  She might not smell omega. She sure as fuck doesn’t act omega, but instinct doesn’t lie. Even if she’s not my omega, I can’t leave Lilah alone.

  I wish she were a bitch. Like one of the gold-digging snobs at the Center who licks their lips and pants over dollar signs when Wyvern Pack rolls through. The salty, whiny, spoiled ones who believe they deserve the best of the best.

  I honestly thought all omegas were like that, which is why I co-signed quick when Orion awakened. Wasn’t looking forward to a hormone-fueled harpy owning my ass. Or my soul.

  But then Lilah.

  I knew she was trouble when I saw her dance. Her silky, sensuous moves. The way she slid her hands over her smooth skin made me want to cover her fingers with mine.

  Show her exactly where to touch and how hard.

  Then in the gazebo. She didn’t submit easily. She’s fucking candy, making me imagine just how sweet it’ll be when she gladly bares her neck and gives herself to me.

  Even when she needs help, she won’t ask.

  I find Lilah in her swimsuit on the roadside with torn-up feet, and she wants nothing to do with me?

  My alpha instincts weren’t having it, but I shouldn't have given in so hard. I may as well stick a tiara in that gorgeous hair and start calling her princess.

  Lilah’s all huddled up in a protective ball, but her feet peek out. A splash of dried blood darkens her gauze, making that rumble kick up inside me again.

  At first look, the girl is shit at taking care of herself.

  Then my goddamned intuition chips in, because if hiding is her safe place, if suffering in silence has helped her get this far, I can imagine how badly she’s been treated.

  Ah, fuck.

  That’s not a truth I need rattling around my brain.

  I already want to wrap her in a blanket and haul her into her nest.

  No blanket. End this now.

  I move to grab the crumpled protein bar wrapper. It crinkles, and she jolts like I was lunging for her throat. Her skull thunks the washer and she throws out fists.

  “Whoa.” I lift my hands, hating that she wakes up so defensively. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”

  “Hunter,” she sighs breathily, her soft, sexy voice stroking my name like satin. She’s still tense, clutching her arms against her body, and uncomfortable this close to me.

  I take the wrapper and use the excuse to step away, tossing it in the trash.

  “Sorry.” She ducks her head. “I’ll leave.”

  She squeezes from between the machines, wincing with stiffness.

  Only I don’t mind Lilah in my space at all. I like seeing her here.

  Lilah’s cute. A welcome break from the lifting equipment and metal. She’s all softness, even when she’s trying to hide. And better her than staring at my pack brothers’ ugly asses.

  Except for Orion.

  I struggle to picture them standing next to each other. They’d be all sunshine, rainbows, and snark. Two angels with smirks.

  I brush off that never-gonna-happen image. “Isn’t there food in your room?”

  “There’s baking soda.”

  Fucking Craig. I stalk past her into the basement unit we half-assedly cleaned out when Scorpio announced he was sticking us with a second omega.

  Finn’s right about the mold. And Lilah’s right about the empty cupboards.

  “I’ll take you grocery shopping. Tomorrow?”

  She makes a noise at the back of her throat. “That’s not necessary. I’m in enough debt.”

  I slam the cupboard, wincing when she jumps. Why is she so jumpy?

  I would never hurt her. But I’m realizing that plenty of people would.

  What the hell are they doing at the Center?

  Yeah, Darlings are their own shitty case, but I’ve never met a female so standoffish. Omegas flirt and touch like nymphos.

  I’ve clocked it. One cougar started rubbing all up on me in five seconds flat.

  Omegas can’t help seeking alpha attention.

  But Lilah doesn’t want my attention at all with the way she hunches, her gaze darting toward the exit. She doesn’t look me in the eye.

  “You won’t owe us anything. The least we can do is keep you fed.”

  She chews her plump lower lip.

  I twist, praying she misses the bulge in my shorts.

  “I could grocery shop for the pack…” She tenses, then the words flow out too fast. “If it’s not overstepping, I mean. I saw what Craig brought home and there’s no real food in the house for Ori—for you guys. Sorry. I know it’s not my business.”

  “No. That would be sweet. Do you cook?” We eat absolute shit because we all studied covert ops instead of culinary arts. We’re relying on that douche Craig to pick up incidentals and run errands until Orion’s hormones level out enough to hire actual help. The man thinks gummy bears form the base of the food pyramid.

  Turns out, the asshole can’t even be trusted with groceries. He was supposed to leave the basement stocked.

  “I’ve taken a few classes,” Lilah hedges.

  “Better than nothing.” Any hot food will taste better than more beef jerky for shit’s sake. And the thought of Lilah in our kitchen, all tied up in a frilly apron makes me all primal. “Is seven too early? We can hit town before work.”

  “Just us?” She chews her lip again.

  “Just us,” I repeat. “Why?”

  “The others don’t like me.”

  “Even Finn?” I watch her closely, testing her answer.

  Lilah doesn’t disappoint, even though I wish she would. Just once. It would be easier to boot her if she acted anything how we expected.

  Lilah rolls her eyes. “He likes females. That doesn’t mean he likes me.”

  Good instincts.

  “And me?” The question slips out before I realize what I’m asking.

  Lilah tilts her head, and her innocent attention has me swallowing hard. “You don’t hate me, but I don’t think you like me either. That’s honestly how I hope you all treat me until I’m out of here.”

  I frown, finding myself eager to argue the other side. “You won’t stay? If you awaken—”

  “I won’t,” she bites out.

  “Sure.” I’m not here to argue, even if my alpha instincts keep acting up around the girl. Speaking of which. “How are your feet?”

  “Fine now.” She curls in her toes. So cute.

  “I’ll bring you some dinner.” I head upstairs, workout forgotten, frustration re-purposed.

  “You don’t have to—”

  “But I’m going to.”

  She laughs softly. But when I turn, she’s darting into the nest, hiding in the darkness. Maybe I imagined the sound.

  No one bothered to put away the leftover Chinese, so I make her a plate of beef, broccoli, and rice, and nuke the shit out of it. Juggling a soda, a few bottles of water, and a fortune cookie, I head back to her.

  “Lilah?”

  She peeks out of the nest, all big eyes and puffy, tangled hair.

  So. Fucking. Cute.

  And shit.

  I can’t start thinking of her like this. It’s a slippery slope
that goes from feeding to fucking, and then I’ll be following the girl like a puppy dog, begging her to take my mating bite.

  Orion already wears my mark.

  You can have more than one, my lizard brain chips in. I damn near snort. A pack with two omegas?

  Like we need another target on our asses.

  Another soulmate to protect.

  It’s hard enough keeping Orion safe, and he’s spent more than a decade training as a Wyvern House agent. Guns. Combat. Tech. Kid can defuse a bomb in ten seconds, smelling like applesauce and sin.

  Not for the first time, probably not for the hundredth time in so few hours, I wonder what Lilah will smell like when she perfumes. She will, no matter what she thinks, no matter what games she’s playing to slow her hormones.

  Peaches? Maybe cake batter.

  Whatever it is, you know she’ll taste sweet.

  “Dinner.” I set down the food like we haven’t just been staring at each other this whole time.

  “Thank you.” Instead of sitting at the two-seater table, Lilah snatches the plate like a mouse stealing the last crumb of cheese and scurries back to her nest.

  I don’t think she’s afraid of me, specifically

  I think Lilah Darling is afraid of everyone.

  “See you at seven.” She disappears into the dark nest, pushing the heavy door shut behind her.

  “Good night,” I say too late, left staring at the door.

  If Orion did the same, I’d pound that shit down until he let me in. That hasn’t changed. Back in the day, even before he awakened and perfumed, the guys and I always felt protective of him.

  It only clicked years later.

  Why the four of us—raised together from birth and tighter than brothers—were so quick to bring new blood into our fold.

  I think we always knew what Orion was. I watched out for him, whether guys at the academy tried to start shit, jealous at his position in our pack, or Atlas shot him with another casually heart-crushing barb.

  I gave Orion my cheese sticks at lunch. I reminded him to pack an umbrella when the weather said rain.

  Finn is my hetero life-mate, and I’d never remind that asshole to dress warm.