Page 9 of Found by the Pack

“I’m ready.”

“I can’t wait for all this to be over,” he whispers. “So I can carry you home and knot you into next week.”

I laugh. “You’re terrible.”

He winks. “I’m yours.”

The officiant says something I barely register. All I see is him. All I feel is the heat in my chest when he slips the ring on my finger. My breath catches. I shudder.

Max leans in, pressing his lips to mine like he’s claiming me all over again. “I love you,” he whispers against my mouth.

“I love you too.”

“Hey—hey, are you crying?”

The voice startles me awake. My eyes fly open, but the light is too bright. Too real.

And he’s gone.

The wildflowers vanish. The silk. The warmth. The weight of his ring.

Gone.

I blink up at a girl, maybe sixteen, holding a half-eaten muffin in one hand and looking at me like I’ve just told her the moon’s fake.

Shit.

I wipe at my cheeks. They’re damp. My hoodie’s still slung on the back of the chair, and I’m very much still in Shepard’s T-shirt.

Of course I fell asleep like this. In the library. In a stranger’s clothes.

Awesome.

“I’m fine,” I croak, though my throat is raw from the sob I must’ve let out. “Just... dreaming and stuff.”

“Oh.” She doesn’t push. Just nods like that explains everything and takes another bite of her muffin. “I’m Millie, by the way. Volunteer here. Came to help open up.”

Right. Shepard said something about her maybe coming in around eight.

I check my phone. It’s 9:48 a.m.

Goddammit, Sadie.

“Shit,” I mutter, scrambling upright. “Shit, shit, I’m late. I was supposed to—fuck. Sorry. I have to go.”

I snatch up my sketchbook and phone, jam my feet into my damp boots, and practically sprint out the library door, yelling a rushed “Thanks, Millie!” behind me.

The rain has slowed to a lazy drizzle. My truck smells like damp fabric as I crank the ignition and back out, tires squealing against the curb.

Fuel. Then find the mayor. Then maybe I can collapse into a real bed and pretend I haven’t just made a total ass of myself before 10 a.m.

The Shell station Shepard told me about is thankfully open and mostly empty. I slide in, fill up, and grab a bottled water and two protein bars because the idea of sitting down for breakfast right now feels impossible.

I look like hell. My hair’s still damp. My hoodie is wadded into a ball on the passenger seat. And I’m still wearing Shepard’s shirt.

Of course, that’s the moment I pull up to City Hall and spot a man already waiting out front, leaning against the railing with a takeaway tray of coffee.

He looks… young. Late twenties? Maybe early thirties at most. Tall, broad-shouldered, light green eyes. Alpha. I know it before I even get close. His smell has a hint of saltwater—clean, bright, and buzzing with subtle pressure.