Page 2 of How to Lose a Pack in 10 Dates

Aimee

T he app somehow manages to be far worse than I expected. It opens with a calming female voice and a sterile white interface.

I half-expect it to ask for my insurance provider or offer me a complimentary flu shot, but instead, it prompts my scent type, rut preferences, knot experience (?!) , nesting habits, and pack openness scale. And then, as if it’s asking whether I prefer oat milk or almond:

Have you ever used teeth during a heat?

I glance around the office, just in case anyone’s over my shoulder. Rachel’s door is shut. One of the intern’s are crying in the kitchen again.

I’m safe.

I hit “Prefer Not to Answer” so many times the app starts auto filling it. I check the no-heat guarantee box, triple-check that there’s no scent-sharing consent auto-ticked, and finally hit s ubmit .

Verification pending.

I sigh, smug and over-caffeinated, and lean back in my chair.

My dumpling lunch is going cold beside the keyboard. I eat one. Scroll my inbox. Answer three boring work emails. Regret answering one of them. Eat another dumpling. Start drafting the intro to the exposé.

Fifteen minutes later, my phone starts vibrating so hard it nearly launches itself off the desk. I frown and pick it up.

You’ve been matched.

I blink. “ What ?”

It buzzes again.

Due to unique compatibility markers, you’ve been scent-matched with a pre-existing pack.

My eyes widen as another notification comes through.

You are a 99.7% match with all three bonded members. View your pack preview?

I drop the dumpling. It rolls across my keyboard and plops off the side of the desk.

“ No .”

Surely it can’t happen that quickly.

I stare at the screen as though it’s going to apologize. Or implode. Or offer me a do-over.

It does none of those things. Instead, the blinking heart icon pulses smugly, waiting. Because I am weak (and also nosy), I tap it. The screen loads, and one photo appears revealing one face—

And one oxygen-sucking mistake.

Square jaw. Grumpy mouth. Dark curls he refuses to cut. Deep blue eyes, a strong nose, and and shoulders wide enough to carry unresolved trauma and a communication disorder.

Wesley. Fucking. Knight.

I scream. And by scream, I mean I actually scream.

Not a cute gasp or a dramatic inhale—a full-bodied, feral “NOPE” that echoes off the office drywall.

I jerk so hard I accidentally launch another dumpling—this time at the thermostat—and frown as itricochets like a meat-filled torpedo and disappears behind the printer.

No one even looks up.

“NO,” I say, louder now. “No, no, no. This is a hate crime. This is targeted harassment.”

Sarah from Finance yawns. Someone in Content is unboxing a ring light. Nobody so much as glances in my general direction.

I swipe down, borderline frantic. The full pack preview loads, and then—because the universe apparently wants me dead—two more profiles appear beneath his, both labeled as Bonded to: Wesley Knight.

The dumpling corpse steams gently behind the printer as my eye twitches, and I know in my soul that I’ve made a terrible, terrible mistake.

The photos load, and I recognize them instantly: Cameron Richardson, and Jace Callahan.

I don’t believe it. This pack not only includes the emotionally constipated alpha who ghosted me four years ago, but also Cam , his sweet, cinnamon-roll stepbrother who he basically raised from the age of seven and would absolutely throw himself in front of a moving truck for.

Jace is their high school best friend turned shirtless fitness mogul who skipped college, started training clients at nineteen, and now owns half of the gyms in the city.

Cam’s photos load first, and serve as Exhibit A in why omegas can’t be trusted around soft smiles and rolled-up sleeves.

He’s got full golden retriever energy: bright grin, floppy blond hair, and amber eyes that I swear are warm enough to thaw trauma.

He looks like he was custom-built in a lab for emotional whiplash, and the freckles—

Oh, the freckles.

They're a biohazard, not a feature.

The next photo’s even worse. He’s surrounded by tiny soccer players, clearly coaching, and his profile casually mentions teaching high school history and volunteering at a local animal shelter at least once a month.

If I didn’t know he was Wes’s stepbrother, I’d already be halfway to a scent-bond and naming our future rescue dog. He’s unfairly gorgeous. Weaponized wholesomeness in a Henley.

And then there’s Jace.

He’s shirtless on his photo, obviously . I’m not sure the man even owns a shirt. He’s got brown wavy hair, neatly styled facial hair, and abs that genuinely look illegal in at least four states.

I scroll, and yep—there's more shirtless content. This man’s social media is a shrine to gym culture and ego sprinkled with sponsored protein deals, workout videos that start with “ rise and grind ,” and the occasional thirst trap for charity that somehow makes me hate him less.

His whole vibe is cowboy- fuckboy-gym bro wrapped in sweat and dangerously low sweatpants, and against my better judgment… it kind of works.

God help me.

All three of them. A full pack.

And apparently, I’m their 99.7% dream omega.

I close the app, turn my phone screen-down on my desk, and stare at the wall for a solid five minutes straight. In my gut, I already know that I really should stop this madness now.

Instead, I open my notes app.

Operation: Survive the Scented Apocalypse.

Step One: Don’t die. Step Two: Don’t bond. Step Three: Don’t let Wes win.

I close my eyes, inhale a deep breath, and whisper to myself.

“I am so fucked.”

And not even in the fun way.

*

Over the course of the next twenty-four hours, I try to live my life like a normal, non-matched citizen.

I go to work, I drink bitter office coffee, and I write half an article about pheromone-driven dating apps being a capitalist scam designed to emotionally compromise omegas into thinking they’re unlovable without alpha validation.

It’s far too scathing, and I know Rachel will never publish it, but I don’t even care . It’s cathartic .

The app, unfortunately, does not leave me alone.

As though it can sense that I’m ignoring its notifications, it begins to contact me in new ways.

First, it texts.

Your Alphas are ready for you.

I delete it.

Then, it emails.

Subject: Confirm Your Heat Compatibility Analysis.

I mark it as spam and close the tab with such force I nearly sprain my wrist.

Then, Cam messages me.

Hi Aimee! Just wanted to say I’m so happy we matched on here! :) I saw you like dumplings—do you have a favorite place?

I stare at the screen in horror. The man used a smiley face. A smiley face.

I’m being hunted by earnestness.

I physically can’t process that level of sincerity while running on four hours of sleep and a 900-calorie anxiety spiral, so I don’t respond. I'm not sure whether the app will tell him that I've read it. Either way, I don't really care.

As if summoned by the gods of chaos, Rachel strolls past my desk. She’s holding a croissant like she birthed it herself and doesn’t stop walking as she calls out to me.

“Your first date is booked for Friday.”

I choke on air.

“I’m sorry— what ?”

“You didn’t read the app's terms and conditions, did you?” she asks, spinning on her heel and doubling back. I blink at her with wide eyes as I shake my head slowly. “You gave me full profile access.”

“Rachel.” I stand. “Rachel, no .”

“Rachel, yes .”

“No, you don’t understand, I cannot do this. I can’t believe you’d actually—”

“Oh, please,” Rachel cuts me off, snorting. “Spare me the dramatics, Aimee. You scent-matched with a full pack . Do you have any idea how rare that is? That’s jackpot-level rare. That’s headline-writing-itself rare.”

“You don’t understand,” I groan. “I know one of them.”

“Wait— what ?” Rachel squints. “How? And which one?”

“Well, actually, I know all of them, but only because of one in particular. Wesley Knight.”

She frowns, then squints. “...Should I know which one that is?”

“He’s my ex.”

She blinks.

“Like, my ex ex.”

Her eyebrows lift. “Wait, your ex ex? As in the one who ghosted you after you offered him a bond, made you mentally unhinged for nine straight months, and forced me to confiscate your phone for a week solid not long after you started working here just so you’d stop sending him playlists titled ‘Songs to Regret Ghosting Me To’ ? ”

“Jeez. When you say it like that, you make it sound so dramatic .”

“That’s because it was .” She narrows her eyes. “Is this the same alpha who said he wasn’t ready for something serious? You’re telling me that he’s part of a bonded pack?”

“Technically, he didn’t actually tell me that he wasn’t ready for something serious. He implied it. Through his silence.”

“Wow. And this is the same guy who made you start nesting out of spite?”

“You know, you don’t keep having to list all of these examples,” I glare at her. “Anyway, that wasn’t nesting . That was a temporary lapse in sanity, and I will not be taking questions.”

“Wait, wait. Just to confirm: is he the one with the jawline and the dark hair and the PTSD eyes?”

I sigh, then nod. “Unfortunately.”

Rachel goes completely still; not blinking, not breathing.

Then she explodes.

“This is even better than I thought!” she announces, practically beaming from ear to ear. “We’ve got history, heartbreak, pheromone tension, maybe a hate-knot—”

“ Stop !” I cut in, almost gagging at the thought. “Ew, gross . You need to stop.”

“I don't need to stop, but I need you to lean in . Friday, 12 p.m. Some overpriced brunch place downtown—details are all on the app for you. You’re going.”

“I’m not dating Wesley Knight and his pack!” I hiss. “I’d rather go into heat in a packed elevator.”

“Okay, but imagine the article.”

“Honestly, my imagination is terrible.”

“Mine isn't. I can see it now: Scented Ruined My Life and Also Maybe Rekindled My Bond With My Ex. ”

“No.”

“ An Omega’s Guide to Losing Her Dignity. ”

“Rachel.”

“ How to Emotionally Terrorize a Pack Using Only Pheromones and Passive Aggression. ”

I groan. “This feels illegal.”

“This is illegal—at least it is if you work in HR. Luckily for us, we don’t believe in HR.”

My phone pings again, and I scowl as I glance at it. It’s just my friends in our group chat, probably arguing about dinner plans or sending me cursed memes, but I can’t even look.

I feel like I’m being watched. Or scented. Or set up.

I open my mouth to tell Rachel no. That I can’t do this, that I won’t .

But then I think about him .

Wes, with his perfect scowl and emotionally constipated silence. Wes, who scented my body from head to toe and then ghosted me so hard I thought he’d been kidnapped by pheromone-hating cultists. Wes, who vanished without a text, a call, not even a ‘ lol my bad. ’

The silence broke me. I waited. I spiraled.

I made excuses. I lied to my friends and told them he was busy.

I thought maybe he’d lost his phone, or his memory, or his entire goddamn mind .

I thought that maybe he was scared; and then, after a little while longer, I started to think that maybe I had done something wrong.

But then I stopped waiting.

And I got mad.

I could walk away from this. I should walk away from this.

But why the hell should I be the mature one?

Why does he get to be all suit-wearing and self-possessed while four years later, I’m still stress-eating dumplings and emotionally bonding with discount wine?

Why does he get to ghost me and move on while I’m still explaining to my great-aunt why there’s no wedding every Christmas?

No.

No, he does not get to have the upper hand.

I don’t know why he’s on that app, or why someone who ran from bonding like it was a cult recruitment booth would voluntarily sign up to get scent-matched, but I’m going to find out. He has to have an angle, here—some kind of messed-up game plan.

And if he thinks this is going to be easy, I’m going to make it hell. If he thinks he can out-calm me, out-class me, or out-alpha me, I will become his worst nightmare in SPF 50 and spite lipstick.

And if he thinks I’m still broken over him, I’ll break him instead.

(Publicly. With citations.)

I smile slowly at Rachel, all teeth and simmering rage. “I want a bigger bonus.”

“You’ll get exposure.”

“Add money to the exposure.”

She sighs, but there’s an undeniable glint of excitement in her eyes that I haven’t seen before. “ Fine . Done.”

“Alright then,” I nod. “Let’s lose a pack in ten dates.”

“I thought we were going with ten heats?”

“Do I look like I have the ovarian stamina for ten heats?” I blink up at her, my expression completely deadpan. “I’d die . That’s a workplace safety issue.”

Rachel lifts a brow.

“Wes could probably growl someone into orgasm, and I’ve seen the other two,” I go on, my voice climbing.

“Cam definitely makes sex playlists with names like Cuddle & Destroy , and Jace’s biceps are in a committed relationship with creatine.

I’m not entering heat with that pack unless I’ve written a will and booked physio in advance. ”

She snorts. “Fair enough.”

I lean back in my chair and open a new tab on my laptop.

Operation: How to Lose a Pack in Ten Dates.

Step One: Be annoying. Step Two: Be hotter than their combined emotional range. Step Three: Be sure not to fall in love, no matter how good they smell.

I sigh and re-open the app, staring at the pack I’ve been scent-matched to.

“I’m gonna need a hydration strategy, backup underwear, and a chiropractor,” I announce.

“Noted,” Rachel beams. “Now go get 'em, champ.”

I ignore her dry tone as she turns on her heel and walks away. Friday is four days away, and I’ve got a dry shampoo calendar to build, a spreadsheet of alpha red flags to exploit, and a four-year-old vendetta to execute with surgical precision.