Page 24 of How to Lose a Pack in 10 Dates

Wes

I bide my time until I can get her alone.

Not because I’m patient—I'm really fucking not—but because timing matters , and waiting until the house was clear was the smartest move I’ve made since this whole pink-scented, glitter-coated nightmare started.

It’s been two weeks of her in this house.

Two weeks of watching Cam melt and Jace orbit around her like she’s gravity itself, and I’ve had to stand by, scent-matched and sidelined, pretending I’m immune while she flounces around in tiny shorts and low-cut shirts and acts like I’m the one with the problem.

It’s hell . The kind of hell where I can taste her when I walk through the door, where I can hear her laughter upstairs and feel my fists clench. I have to sit through dinner while she stretches and sighs and brushes her fingers through Jace’s hair, winding me up as much as she can, all on purpose.

She’s been testing me, waiting to see how long I’ll hold the line while she wears next to nothing and leaves her heat-slick scent all over the damn sofa.

And the worst part? The part that makes me want to punch a wall every time I catch her watching me with that smug little smile?

I want her.

I want her so badly it feels like a sickness.

I’ve had a full day of dealing with entitled clients and emotionally constipated lawyers who think barking louder is a negotiation strategy; but I still made it home early.

It didn’t matter how many metaphorical fires needed putting out—I had one thing on my schedule that mattered, and it wasn’t another client complaint about their ex’s new omega.

Tonight, I’ve got a different kind of strategy meeting.

Jace is still at the gym, probably mid-pep-talk with a barbell, and Cam’s stuck at some high school parent meeting, being aggressively charming to people who’ve never done a day of cardio in their life. He’d messaged me earlier, reminding me he’d be home late:

Back by ten. Be nice .

Sure, Cam. I’ll be nice.

Just as soon as I’m done wrecking her composure.

The house is quiet now. Her scent hums through it, fresh and teasing and goddamn intentional . She knows they’re gone. She knows it’s just me. And if I know her—and unfortunately, I do—she’s already counting the seconds until I snap.

But tonight, I’m not going to give her the satisfaction of shouting, of growling; of slamming doors or storming off.

Tonight, I’m going to give her stillness .

I’m going to give her silence and dominance and the kind of attention that makes her squirm until she’s just as off-balance as she’s left the rest of us.

Let her see what it feels like to be the one played—let her burn for once.

All I have to do is remember the plan once I’m close enough to smell how wet she already is.

*

The second I hear her humming from the kitchen, it’s over. It’s not even a song, but some tuneless, sugary little sound that drips from her lips like honey and arsenic.

She’s barefoot at the stove, stirring some herbal nightmare into a floral mug. Steam curls around her hair, catching the frizzy flyaways that always slip free no matter how tight she ties it up, and my eyes narrow at the stupid claw clip.

It’s pale pink with tiny hearts, and probably made from the broken ribs of alphas who got too close.

She’s wearing one of Cam’s sweatshirts again. It’s huge on her, hanging off one shoulder and practically drowning her frame, and I can’t fucking look at it without wanting to tear it off her. Her bare legs go on and on and on —

And her socks say I’m Baby in sequins.

I almost scoff. She’s not baby . She’s the boss of emotionally destabilizing home décor, and I’m not falling for it.

I let the silence stretch long enough for her to glance over her shoulder and pretend to be surprised.

“Oh,” she says. “Wes. I… Didn’t see you there.”

That’s her favorite game lately: act innocent and oblivious, as if this entire omega-coded psychological siege hasn’t been meticulously planned to drive me clinically insane.

I take a step into the kitchen, letting the weight of it land. “Didn’t you?”

“You’re lurking,” she counters, blinking up at me with that wide-eyed, butter-wouldn’t-melt routine—but there’s a flicker at the corner of her mouth, a twitch she can’t hide. “It's creepy, Wes. Even for you.”

I don’t bite. Not the way she wants. Instead, I stare her down.

“You’ve been fucking with me.”

She leans back against the counter and tilts her head. “You’ll have to be more specific.”

I take a step closer. She doesn’t move, but I catch it anyway—that barely-there hitch in her breath, that flicker of instinct that always betrays her before her mouth can catch up.

That’s the problem with scent matches: you can patch on all the blockers you want, but biology still wins. And right now, hers is screaming .

“I’m talking about the Wi-Fi being renamed,” I say. “The glitter pillow. The fucking strawberry milk .”

“Aw,” she croons, a slow smile curling her lips. “Was it not to your taste?”

I’m close enough now to feel the heat rolling off her. Close enough that her scent starts slipping through the cracks of her suppressants, raw and sugared and punch-to-the-gut potent.

Close enough that I remember.

Everything .

“I thought it might help you soften up,” she barrels on. “Add a little flavor to all that emotional constipation.”

Her voice is flippant, but her scent betrays her. It spikes high and bright and sweet as it drips through the air, clinging to my tongued. My cock thickens behind my fly, twitching against the line of control I’ve white-knuckled for too long.

“You think this is funny?”

“Oh, I think it’s hilarious ,” she replies, smiling too wide. “I mean, look at you. Pacing and growling like a sad, scent-wrecked stray.”

I step in again. My chest brushes hers now, but she doesn’t back up.

That’s the tell. She’s not scared of me—she wants me.

And fuck, she’s close to slipping. I can feel it. The tremble just beneath her skin, the heat crawling up her neck, the scent leaking into my lungs.

“Tell me the truth,” I growl. “Did you move in just to screw with me?”

She gasps, mocked-up and dramatic, and her hand flutters to her chest. “ Wesley . What kind of omega would do such a thing?!”

That fucking voice. That act .

I brace a hand on the counter behind her, caging her in.

“You know what you’re doing,” I snarl. “The looks. The comments. That slicked-up scent of yours dripping through the vents.”

“I’m not doing anything ,” she insists, but her voice is too high, too thin. “You’re just mad I fit in better here than you do.”

I laugh, but there’s no humor in it.

“I see through the whole performance,” I bite back. “Because you’re not here for them.”

I wait a beat. Let it land.

“You’re here for me .”

Her smile flickers, and she sets her mug down slowly. She tilts her head, lashes fluttering as she elongates her neck.

“Someone’s very sure of himself,” she practically purrs. “If I didn’t know better, Wes, I’d say you were… jealous .”

“You wish .”

“I'm just calling it like I see it. After all, you’re the one keeping a log of my sock rotation like it’s a tactical threat.”

I crowd her back against the counter, and my nose brushes the curve of her jaw before I can talk myself out of it.

“There’s that scent,” I murmur. “Every time. The second I’m close, your body goes traitor.”

And there it is: that telltale omega tremble. The one she can’t control.

“You know what your problem is?” I ask. “You keep trying to play me. You want to act like you’re in control; like you can tease and bait and fuck your way through this house without consequences.”

I pull back just enough to see her face; and the crack in her mask is glorious . She’s wrecked and fuming and already melting down from the inside out. Her fingers curl against the edge of the countertop, white-knuckled and trembling.

“But your omega knows,” I say, dragging my body tight against hers until she’s flush with every hard, straining inch of me. “Doesn’t she?”

I can feel the way she’s clenching her thighs, how close she is to rubbing herself on me without even realizing it.

“You remember,” I say, my voice low and vicious, just for her. “You remember exactly what it’s like. Me growling your name into your neck. My hand yanking your hair. When your knees go out and you can’t even speak—just make those pathetic little noises and beg me not to stop.”

I lean in until my lips brush her cheek. “When I knot you so deep, you forget your own name.”

Her body betrays her with every twitch and tremble. She brushes against my cock through my jeans and gasps.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” she manages, but it’s breathy and cracking at the seams.

She’s shaking.

And I’m winning.

“Too late,” I growl, pressing even harder into her until there’s no space left to pretend. “You think I haven’t noticed how you smell when you come back from your little dates? You come home all slick and smug, like you’re testing me. Like you want to see how long I’ll let you get away with it.”

I drop my mouth near hers, and her lips part on instinct, her chin tipping up toward me.

“Well, here’s your answer, sweetheart. Not. Fucking. Long. ”

Her hands fly up as though she’s about to shove me off, but they don’t push: they just land on my chest and stay , her small fingers fisting the fabric of my shirt.

“And you want to talk about jealousy?” I laugh, quiet and mean. “You want to haunt me? Live rent-free in my house, in my pack, in my head ?”

I pull back just enough to meet her eyes, and our noses almost touch.

I want to bite her mouth. I want to kiss her until she cries.

“Well, congratu- fucking -lations, Aimee. You succeeded the moment you walked in smelling like mine. ”

“I’m not yours,” she whispers, even as a shiver rolls down her spine.

It’s pitiful and unconvincing, and I smirk down at her, beyond satisfied. “Say it like you mean it , baby.”

She opens her mouth again, but nothing comes out. Just a soft, broken inhale that wrecks what little pride she had left.

That’s it. That’s the crack.

She’s lost, and we both know it.

Her omega is practically begging , and I could kiss her. Maybe I should drag her down onto the floor and show her what happens when you bait a scent-matched alpha for fun.

Instead, I pull back enough to make her feel my absence. Just enough to make her chase it without thought.

“That’s what I thought,” I grit out.

Her chest rises and falls heavily, instincts blazing through whatever little narrative she’s been clinging to as she glares at me. I leave her there, scent-glossed and burning up, her whole body twitching between defiance and collapse.

Her scent hangs thicker in the air, now; compromised and unstable, just like her.

“Keep telling yourself you’re winning,” I grin as I turn my back. “Let’s see how long you last.”

I don’t look at her as I walk out, but I feel her still standing there, clinging to the countertop as if it’s the only thing keeping her upright.

Whatever. Let her stew in it.

From now on, I’m not playing fair.