Page 15 of How to Lose a Pack in 10 Dates

Jace

T he gym’s been slammed.

August and September always hit different—back-to-school bulking season turns the place into a testosterone-fueled zoo.

Every college kid with a protein shaker and something to prove is trying to pack on twenty pounds of muscle before syllabus week.

Normally, I love it. I flirt with the regulars, hand out way too many referral discounts, and coast on the ego boost of being everyone’s favorite hot trainer with a tragic back tattoo.

But lately, I can’t be bothered.

“Jace, I was wondering if you could spot me—”

“Nope,” I grunt, not even looking up to see who the high-pitched voice belongs to. “Ask Travis.”

Travis is seventeen, just got his certification last month, and breaks into a sweat every time an omega makes eye contact.

I hope she asks him to adjust her form. I genuinely want to see him cry.

I haven’t hooked up with anyone since this all started.

Not one . Which wouldn’t be impressive, except for the fact that I’ve had a lot of omegas in here flirting.

A lot more than usual, actually. Just today, one has winked at me while deadlifting, one has accidentally dropped her towel in the locker room hallway, and one has followed me into the staff kitchen with her scent patch barely holding on and asked if I—and I quote—“ needed protein .”

I didn’t flinch. Didn’t so much as twitch .

Because none of them are her . None of them bite back when I tease, or smell like heat and heartbreak; and no matter how much I try to shrug it off—tell myself I’m just being territorial, that it’s the pack structure screwing with my instincts—I know the truth.

I’m fucked.

*

Later that night, we’re scattered across the living room like testosterone-scented debris, pretending everything’s normal.

Cam’s perched cross-legged on the rug with a board game he’s trying to teach me—something about roads and resource cards and sheep—but I stopped paying attention after he accused me of colonizing without strategy.

He’s wearing the hoodie he walked Aimee home in after their date.

I know because he keeps tugging the collar closer to his nose when he thinks I’m not looking.

Wes is hunched in the armchair, frowning as he scrolls through his phone with the full-body energy of someone one passive-aggressive text away from starting a pack coup. Classic .

Meanwhile, I’m trying not to go insane inhaling what’s left of Aimee’s scent in the air. It’s faint—semi-blocked and mostly diluted—but it’s there; clinging to the cushions, the hoodie Cam’s wearing, the memory of her laugh echoing in my skull.

I barely even know her, and yet her absence is louder than half the people I’ve dated.

“Jesus Christ,” I mutter, scrubbing a hand over my face. “You haven’t washed that hoodie yet, have you?”

“Didn’t want to. Her scent’s good for morale.”

Wes snorts. “For yours , maybe.”

“She’s going to be staying here soon, Wes. She’ll be our guest,” Cam says lightly. “You could be a little nicer.”

“She’s not my anything,” Wes fires back, finally looking up. “Letting her stay was your call, not mine.”

“Yeah, well, we weren’t asking for your blessing,” I say before I can stop myself. “You’re not Alpha Supreme.”

His eyes narrow, but he doesn’t reply, and Cam breaks the tension by throwing a handful of game tokens at me.

“You know, you’ve been weird ever since she left. Are you gonna admit you’re obsessed yet?”

“I’m not obsessed,” I grumble.

“Bro. You literally smelled your hand after she touched it.”

“That was one time.”

“It was yesterday .”

I tip my head back and stare at the ceiling. “I’m… experimenting.”

“With what?” Wes raises an eyebrow. “Delusion?”

I ignore him. “With the idea that maybe I don’t want to be the warm-up act this time.”

Cam goes still. Even Wes looks up properly now.

I keep my gaze locked on the ceiling. My chest is tight, but my voice stays even.

“Look: I like her. Not just the scent match, not just the heat triggers— her . And if she wants more than one of us? Great . I can deal. But I’m not gonna play backup just because I’m the easy one.”

Silence stretches; then, softly, Cam says, “She’s not using you, Jace.”

“I know,” I reply. “I just don’t want to find out too late that I used myself.”

Wes exhales through his nose. “Still think this is a mistake.”

“Yeah,” I mutter, jaw locked. “You’ve made that pretty fucking clear.”

“Just looking out for you both,” he says, tone dipping into that sarcastic, sing-song mockery that makes my fists twitch.

“Really? That what this is?” I look up sharply. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks a lot more like you’re sabotaging it before it has a chance.”

“The only person who should be associated with the word sabotage is her. She’s not what you think she is.”

“You don’t know what I think,” I snap. “You haven’t even given her a chance.”

“I gave her a chance four years ago,” he hums. “Didn’t end well then, either.”

“That’s ancient history.”

“Not for her, it isn’t.” His voice is low now. “You’re so caught up in the scent match you can’t see what’s right in front of you. She’s not in this for you. She’s not in it for Cam. She’s playing the long game—and the prize is screwing with me.”

“You don’t get to talk about her like that,” I snap. “You don’t get to drag her through the mud just because you can’t stand the fact she’s not chasing after you.”

He doesn’t back down.

“She’s using you,” he warns.

“And you’re projecting,” I fire back. “You think just because she burned you, she’ll burn the rest of us too? That’s not logic, man. That’s ego.”

He bristles, nostrils flaring, but I don’t stop.

“You want to have an issue with the scent-match? Fine . But you don’t see her the way I do, or feel what I feel when she looks at me like I matter. So maybe take a second before running your mouth about something that doesn’t belong to just you anymore.”

The room’s thick with tension, scent, and the unspoken things swirling beneath both our skins. For a long beat, neither of us moves; but then Cam taps the board game and clears his throat.

“Your move,” he says.

I sigh, then play along. But as I do, I sit with it—with her ghost in the room, and my own words rattling around my ribs.

And I get that Wes doesn’t like it. I know it’s not going to be easy for him given their history. But Aimee’s our scent match.

And he sure as hell better start respecting it.

My phone buzzes on the cushion beside me, coming as a welcome distraction. I don’t even check the screen—I already know it’s her.

Gym tomorrow? I need to sweat out all the tension from Wes being emotionally unavailable and Cam being perfect.

I huff a laugh through my nose and type back without thinking.

I’ll make you sweat. Not sure how much of it’ll be cardio.

Cam eyes me knowingly. “Who’s that?”

I don’t answer. Not because I don’t want to, but because I’m already reading her next message.

Stop saying things like that unless you’re gonna show up and follow through.

Fuck . My grip tightens on the phone, and I type back fast.

Oh, I’ll follow through alright. You’ll see.

I set it face-down before I do something unhinged. Like drive to her place. Or propose.

“Was it her?” Cam pushes.

I nod.

“Are you gonna—”

“Yeah.”

He doesn’t ask what I mean. He doesn’t need to.

I stare at my phone long after the screen fades to black, like maybe the ghost of her message is still burned into the glass. Like maybe if I just look hard enough, I’ll see something I missed—proof that this isn’t one-sided. That I’m not losing it.

Because I am losing it.

Not just emotionally, but biologically. Instinctively. Whatever you want to call it.

She’s under my skin, in my blood, etched behind my eyelids every time I close them. I’ve never been the kind of guy who believes in fate or destiny or any of that scent-match fairytale bullshit, but now I catch myself flinching and grinning when her name lights up my phone.

It's insane. I barely know her, but my body doesn’t care. My instincts are stupid loud; the kind of loud that drowns out common sense and makes everything else in my life feel gray by comparison.

It’s not just sex. It’s something sharper, something bigger.

It’s her .

And Wes… Wes might be right about one thing. It’s not smart to feel like this, to want someone like this, to be ready to crawl out of my own skin just to get closer; but that doesn’t make it less real.

She laughs and I feel it in my spine. She brushes my hand and I want to throw her over my shoulder and keep her there until the world makes sense again.

No omega’s ever made me feel like this. Not even close .

And maybe that’s why I can’t stop thinking about what Wes said.

Maybe she is playing us. Maybe I’m just the fool who fell face-first into it. But if she called me right now—if she whispered my name and asked me to show up—I wouldn’t hesitate. I wouldn’t ask why. I wouldn’t try to talk myself down. I’d be out the door.

That’s the worst part. Because I don’t know if she wants me , or if she just wants what being wanted feels like. I don’t know if I’m a distraction or a weapon or a damn science experiment she’s running on a dare.

I don’t know if I’m brave enough to ask.

Because if she says yes , I might break.

But if she says no ?

…I’ll still come running.