Page 78 of Found by the Pack

I shift my weight, suddenly hyperaware of the dress that had felt simple at home but now feels almost too revealing. Boone saves me by clearing his throat. “She hasn’t had the tour before. Thought I’d show her around.”

“Good call,” Shepard says. Then, at my glance toward the corner, he adds, “Gus has been sleeping all evening. Lazy thing didn’t even lift his head when Boone came back earlier.”

The mention of the dog loosens something in me, a thread of normalcy. “He’s a good boy,” I say softly.

“He is,” Shepard agrees. “Beer?”

I nod, and he disappears into the kitchen, returning with a chilled bottle. “Make yourself at home.”

That’s easier said than done. I settle on the couch, perching at the edge, watching the three of them move around each other with effortless ease. Boone leans against the arm of the sofa near me, Shepard takes back his seat, and Gabe finishes setting plates on the table before dropping into a chair with a grunt.

The camaraderie between them is palpable, an unspoken rhythm honed by years of working side by side. They tease each other in little ways—Shepard reminding Boone to wash his hands before eating, Boone shooting back that Shepard ispractically his mother, Gabe muttering something under his breath that makes them both chuckle.

And me? I watch, and I feel… split. Part of me aches at how normal this seems, how much I want to belong to this easy warmth. Another part recoils, memories crashing back of nights when camaraderie was just a mask for cruelty, when being the Omega at the center meant being devoured until nothing of me was left.

My brain tries to wander, slipping into salacious fantasies—three Alphas, strong and rough, crowding me in this very living room—but I yank myself back sharply.

No. Not that. Not again.

Boone is safe. Boone is kind. Boone is enough. That’s what I need to hold onto.

They ask about my work instead, pulling me back to safer ground.

“Have you decided what mural you’re tackling next?” Shepard asks, his voice mild but attentive.

I sip my beer, letting the cool bitterness anchor me. “I’m thinking of starting the firehouse after I finish at Baxter’s. It’s bigger, so I want to make sure I have the scale right before I dive in.”

Boone beams. “I’m sure it’s going to look incredible.”

“I hope so,” I say, glancing at Gabe. His eyes flick away as soon as mine meet them.

The food comes not long after, and the smell alone nearly makes me melt. Grilled chicken, seasoned perfectly, charred at the edges just enough. Roasted vegetables, buttery rolls, a salad bright with vinaigrette. My stomach growls embarrassingly loud, and Boone grins, piling my plate like he’s been waiting for this moment.

The first bite is heaven. Warmth spreads through me, grounding me in a way I hadn’t expected. I hadn’t realized howlong it’s been since I sat at a table like this, surrounded by voices and laughter.

But Gabe’s eyes are on me. I feel them like heat on my skin, tracing me, weighing me down. Every time I glance his way, he isn’t smiling—he’s studying. It makes me want to squirm in my seat, though I force myself to stay still, keep chewing, pretend I don’t notice.

Halfway through dinner, he sets down his fork abruptly. “I need to check on something,” he mutters, standing.

Shepard and Boone exchange a look across the table, quick and subtle, but enough to make my pulse spike.

“What’s he checking on?” I ask before I can stop myself.

“Just Gabe being Gabe,” Shepard says smoothly, returning to his plate.

But when Gabe comes back ten minutes later, there’s something different in him. His shoulders are tense, his jaw tight, and he eats without a word, quieter than before. The weight in the room shifts, an undercurrent I can’t name, but I feel it settle in my bones.

I take another bite of chicken, chew slowly, and try to breathe past the sudden knot in my throat.

I came here to have dinner with Boone. Instead, I’m sitting in the middle of a pack I don’t know how to fit into, surrounded by ghosts of what I lost and temptations I don’t dare touch.

And the worst part?

Some reckless, hidden part of me wants to reach across the table, press my hand to Gabe’s clenched fist, and ask him what the hell is wrong.

But I don’t. I just keep eating. Pretending.

Shepard wipes his mouth with a napkin and leans back slightly, his expression thoughtful. “So,” he says, turning to me, “was the material I brought you the other day any help? Those art books Millie found?”