Page 40 of Claiming the Pack's Omega

Killian Graylock. The youngest councilman in the city council’s history. I know this how? Because one of my clients wouldn’t stop talking about him.

That client happened to be the one who tossed a stack of loose bills on my naked body as I lay there, trying to catch my breath after he choked me. HehatesKillian. From the sound of things and how obnoxious he was, he seemed to hate anyone with an ounce of competency in their veins.

God, what mess have I gotten myself into? They already want to rope me into their stupid lawsuit, what will they do whenthey realize I was the one that called that omega’s pack to come rescue her?

“Are you alright, Reyna?” Theo asks softly.

Looks like he hasn’t gotten the hint about me not wanting him to call me by my real name. Though to be honest, I think hearing anyone call me by my stage name would also send me down a spiral. I guess I’m having a bit of an identity crisis right now.

“Fine,” I grit out. “Just preparing to, you know, uproot my entire family’s life and tell them they’ve gotta pack up and leave.”

“Let us know if you need any help moving things,” Killian says from the front seat, his bright green eyes almost like beacons in the rear-view mirror. “We’ll give you space to tell them.”

“Thanks.” I let out a bitter huff of laughter. I dig through my bag and slide on a pair of sweatpants. Wouldn’t want to walk into the house without pants, considering what I’m going to tell my family tonight.

I stand and squeeze past Theo, whose hand comes and rests on my waist to steady me as I wrench open the van door. I’m tempted to slap his hand away, but I don’t. I tell myself it’s because I’m too tired to start another fight with him, but I know the real reason is because deep down, I’ve gotten used to the comfort his touch brings considering the peaceful past few weeks we’ve had.

I walk up to the front door, digging my keys out of my bag.

“Reyna?” My mom asks, coming into the living room from the kitchen, her brows drawn down in concern.

I bite my trembling lip the moment I see her. God, I feel like a little girl right now, coming to her mom for reassurance that everything will be okay.

But I know that’s not something my mom can give me right now, especially when she doesn’t know the severity of the situation.

“Is—Is everything alright?”

“Mom, I’m going to tell you something, and I need you to promise you won’t be mad.”

She reaches out and holds my hands in hers. Her skin is weathered and thin, probably from the dishes she washes at the diner when the busboys don’t do their job.

“You’ve always been such a good girl, Reyna. I’m sure nothing you tell me will make me mad.” She squeezes my hands. “But whatever’s got you all wound up right now sounds serious, should I go wake up your father? If you’ve gotten yourself into any trouble, we can help you.”

Normally, my automatic answer would be hell no, Dad needs his sleep, but tonight isn’t a normal night.

“Yeah, we should wake him up,” I sigh, my chin falling to my chest, but not before I catch the shock in Mom’s expression. She knows if I’m willing to wake up Dad that it must be pretty bad.

“O—Okay sweetie, I’ll go wake him up right now.”

I take the couple minutes of silence to soak in the living room. The worn sofas we’ve all piled onto while watching movies together. The old bookshelf that Daisy used to help her stand for the first time. The pictures we have—without frames, because those are expensive—propped up on the mantle above the fireplace we never use.

Home.

A home I’m forcing us all to abandon.

“Rey-Rey, what’s wrong?” My dad asks from behind me, snapping me out of my thoughts. His voice is gruff and thick with sleep.

The old nickname melts my heart.

“Hey, Dad,” I say, offering him a tight-lipped smile.

“Here, let’s all sit down,” My mom says, guiding us all to the couch. “Reyna, please tell us what’s wrong, we promise we won’t be mad.”

I take a deep breath, my gaze darting between my parents, their worried expressions still obvious in the dim light from the lamp in the corner.

“I don’t know how to say this, so I’m just going to say it. But we have to leave. We’ve gotta wake up the kids, grab all the stuff we can, and get out of here. It’s not safe.”

Mom’s simple, beta, clean laundry scent twists with her fear, and she automatically reaches out to rest a hand on Dad’s thigh, for reassurance.