Page 25 of How to Lose a Pack in 10 Dates

Aimee

I can’t sleep.

I’ve flipped the pillow three times. Kicked off the blanket, then gotten cold and burrito’d back up in it.

Put on socks and taken them off. I’ve scrolled my phone until my eyeballs ached, read the same sentence of my trashy thriller four times, and even counted backwards from a hundred trying to hypnotize myself into ignoring the fact that he got under my skin.

That smug, snarly, alpha bastard.

How dare he. With his unfair jawline and his “ I see through you ” growl and the nerve to stand that close to me. His scent was everywhere —sharp and bitter and exactly the kind of wrong that feels addictive in the worst way.

And then there were the words . The voice. The goddamn lip-hovering proximity mind games. He said things that made my knees weak and my brain do that dumb little short-circuit thing it used to do every time he knotted me stupid.

Which I am not thinking about.

I’m not .

I shove my head under the pillow and scream.

For one awful, dizzy second back there… I wanted it . My thighs trembled. My scent slipped. I leaked , which is just—no. Absolutely not.

I am not the omega who gets hot and bothered because her ex snarled near her clavicle. I am not the girl who melts over kitchen counter power plays. I was not— am not —the kind of woman who whimpers for an apology knot.

I was doing so well. I was in control.

I was winning .

I flop onto my back and stare at the ceiling.

I’m supposed to be an intruder, a saboteur; a one-woman wrecking crew of emotional retribution.

I’m supposed to be here to ruin them. Instead, I’m practically nesting in a house full of alphas who fold my laundry, remember my coffee order, and make me laugh until my sides hurt.

I press the heel of my palm against my sternum, hoping pressure will somehow smother my feelings clawing their way up before they start screaming.

“I hate him,” I whisper to the ceiling.

The ceiling, predictably, does not give a fuck.

And neither does the part of me that still aches. That still feels lit up from the inside out, scorched along every nerve he brushed with his voice, his scent, his presence .

Because the truth is; it’s not just hate.

It’s never just been hate. It’s the way my body reacts to him like it’s still his.

The way one look tonight— one look —had my instincts tripping over themselves, heat rushing low, breath hitching like I was back in his bed with his mouth on my skin and his hand in my hair.

And I hate that. I hate that for one stupid, breathless, devastating heartbeat… I didn’t want to win anymore.

I wanted him .

Which is pathetic. And dangerous.

And exactly why this can’t work.

Because Wes is still Wes. He’s still the same arrogant, emotionally constipated, control-obsessed alpha who made me feel like I was nothing. He didn’t choose me when it counted, and I know he won’t change.

He’ll never be what I need.

I close my eyes and try to will it away—all of it. The heat pooling in my gut, the echo of his voice still in my ears, the phantom weight of his body against mine, of how I melted and hated myself for it, how I wanted to lose just to be touched like that again.

It’s just chemistry. Just the scent match. It’s not real .

I’m not some stupid, pining omega with a fairytale fantasy of changing the emotionally unavailable alpha. I know better. I am better.

And yet, if he came in here right now, if he stepped into this room and looked at me like he did earlier, voice low and eyes dark and scent thick in the air, I know in my heart it would be over. I wouldn’t fight. I wouldn’t win.

The worst part is… some traitorous, aching part of me wants to give in. To give him everything, even though I already know how it ends. Even though I know he’ll never choose me the way I need to be chosen.

It’s not love. It’s not even something close.

It’s just heartbreak, recycled.

And then there’s his brother.

Cam, who is the exact opposite of every awful thing Wes ever made me feel.

Cam, who’s soft where Wes is sharp, open where Wes is guarded.

He’s gentle and golden and good down to his bones, and somehow still manages to be a six-foot-four alpha who could probably lift a car if someone asked nicely. (Or cried.)

He’s never once made me feel I had to earn his affection, and never once made me doubt whether I’m too much or not enough. He just… shows up . With warm laundry and perfectly made tea and little comments that make my throat tighten in ways I don’t know how to name yet.

And is it so wrong to want that? To find comfort in someone so kind? To lean into it, even if just for a little while? To be looked at not with scrutiny, but with soft, stunned adoration?

I’ve spent years being treated as a problem to be managed—unstable, inconvenient, too emotional, too everything . Years learning to mask, to shrink myself, to apologize for the way I existed while grieving the bond that was supposed to be forever.

Cam doesn’t want me smaller. He makes space . He holds it open with both hands and tells me, without saying a word, that I can fill it however I need.

And right now… I want to be held without shame. I want to be something other than wreckage and resistance.

I just want to be seen.

I slide out of bed before I can talk myself out of it. The house is still and dark, and Cam’s door is only a few steps away, but it feels like miles. I stand there for a long second, staring at the wood grain.

I raise my hand and knock.

The door opens almost instantly.

Cam is shirtless and sleep-mussed. One side of his hair’s flattened, the other sticking up in messy waves. His sweatpants hang low on his hips, and his scent hits me all at once. It wraps around me, grounding and strong, everything alpha and everything safe.

My knees wobble.

“Hey,” he murmurs, voice rough with sleep. “You okay?”

No. Yes. Not even close.

My throat tightens. I shrug. “I can’t sleep.”

He blinks, eyes adjusting, and steps aside without question. “Come in.”

I cross the threshold, and the door clicks shut behind me. His room is warm and still, and as I step further inside, I wonder whether he can scent Wes on me.

“You wanna talk about it?”

I hover, then shake my head. He nods as if he understands, and then, I do something dangerous.

I step between his legs. Cam’s hands lift instinctively, but they hover. He doesn’t touch me, and doesn’t push.

That makes it worse. That makes it better.

He’s not trying to take, he’s offering . Instead of reaching for control, he’s giving me comfort; a place to rest, a body that isn’t asking for anything in return.

“Is this okay?” I whisper. The words scrape out of me, more fragile than I mean them to be.

“Yeah.” Cam’s voice is low; gentle but sure. “You don’t have to ask.”

And that is what undoes me.

Because he’s not Wes. He’s not angry or guarded, not all sharp teeth and biting tension and impossible pride. He’s steady and safe and soft in all the ways I forgot an alpha ever could be.

“I’m not gonna sleep tonight,” I tell him.

Cam searches my face. “You want a distraction?”

I nod.

“You sure?”

His hands rest gently at my hips, not urging me forward, but anchoring me there. The heat of his skin seeps through the cotton of my sleep shorts and into my bloodstream, and I nod my head again.

And then, he pulls me in and kisses me.

It’s warm and soft, open-mouthed and aching with restraint.

I melt into it as his tongue brushes mine.

One hand curls around my waist while the other drifts up my spine, and I push him back onto the bed and climb into his lap.

He groans as his hands find my thighs, sliding up with maddening slowness.

“You’re not a distraction,” he murmurs against my neck. “But I’ll be anything you need right now.”

I don’t answer—I just kiss him harder. He guides me to straddle him properly, and my hands roam over his shoulders, down his chest, across the solid weight of him beneath me.

His mouth is everywhere: my throat, my collarbone, the place just below my ear that makes me tremble, and his breath stutters out when I roll my hips, testing the heat between us.

“Aimee,” he rasps, fingers gripping my waist.

His amber eyes are heavy with instinct and restraint. There’s not an ounce of hesitation in them, though: just sheer and utter focus.

“Still okay?” he asks, voice hoarse.

“I want this,” I nod. “I want you .”

His whole body reacts—hips lifting slightly, jaw clenching, hands tightening—and then he flips us over so that he can settle between my thighs.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, lips brushing my temple. “You don’t have to hold anything back tonight.”

For what feels like weeks now, I’ve been holding: holding myself together, holding back my need, holding onto every excuse I’ve rehearsed about why this can’t happen, shouldn’t happen, won’t mean anything. But Cam is looking at me like it does , like I do , and it’s exactly what I need.

He settles fully between my thighs, his body warm and solid, one arm sliding beneath my back to hold me close, the other braced beside my head. His scent is threaded with the unmistakable charge of alpha arousal, and it curls through my gut in waves.

“Breathe,” he murmurs, mouth at my jaw, “just breathe.”

I exhale, then Cam kisses me again—slower now, deeper. His hand coasts down my side, gripping my thigh to hook it higher around his hip. He groans when our bodies slot together more tightly.

“You feel— fuck , you feel so good,” he murmurs. “Can I—?”

“Yes,” I nod, already arching into him. “Please.”

He pushes my shorts down with maddening patience, eyes locked on mine the whole time. His fingers find me easily, and he exhales sharply, his forehead falling to my shoulder.

“ Shit ,” he hisses through his teeth. “You’re already— god, baby. How long’ve you been needing this?”

He slides a finger into me, then two, pushing so deep I whimper into his chest.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, voice thick with praise. “Let me hear you.”

My hips move, chasing more, and he gives it; crooking his fingers just right, kissing my throat, mouthing at my scent patch through the thin cotton of my shirt.

“You smell so fucking good,” he groans. “Like you want me.”

“I do,” I gasp. “Cam, I need you.”

“Then you’ve got me,” he says, kissing me hard. “All of me.”

He sits back just enough to tug off my shirt. His gaze drags over my exposed skin, and he makes a sound low in his throat as his hands skim along my sides.

“ Fuck , Aimee,” he murmurs, voice thick. “You’re so fucking beautiful.”

His lips trace every inch of exposed skin as I reach for the waistband of his boxers, desperate to feel all of him, but his hand curls around mine, stilling it against his stomach.

“Wait,” he says. I freeze, my heart in my throat, but his thumb brushes my wrist, grounding me. “I need to say this first.”

I nod, waiting.

“Once I’m inside you, there’s no pretending this is casual anymore. Not for me. Not ever .”

I blink up at him. My chest feels like it might crack open. “Cam…”

“I know you’re still working through stuff,” he continues, eyes searching mine. “And I’ll never ask for more than you’re ready to give. But this?” His hand presses gently over my heart. “This isn’t just lust, Aimee. This isn’t just need . It’s you, and me, and every goddamn second I’ve wanted you.”

I exhale shakily, and he kisses me again as he presses me down into the mattress and strips the rest of our clothes off with trembling hands. His body is golden and hard and so big above mine.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” he murmurs, brushing my hair off my face, kissing my temple.

“It’s not,” I breathe. “Cam, I want—please—”

He doesn’t make me finish. Instead, he lines himself up, holds my hips still with both hands, and sinks into me with one slow, devastating thrust.

My hands curl against his back, clutching his skin as I gasp. I feel so full , so stretched, and Cam groans, forehead pressed to mine.

“Fuck,” he whispers. “You feel— Christ , you feel like you were made for me.”

I’m panting now. My legs are wrapped tight around his waist, and my hips lift instinctively, trying to pull him deeper.

When he finally starts to move, it’s slow and measured.

He draws back with excruciating care and slides in again just as deeply, setting a rhythm that’s all about control and connection.

“I’ve got you,” he breathes again, voice cracking. “No one else. Just me. Just us.”

And I don’t care what tomorrow looks like. I don’t care about Wes or wars or how many times I’ve broken my own heart; because tonight, I let Cam hold the pieces.

And he doesn’t let a single one fall.