Page 31 of How to Lose a Pack in 10 Dates

Aimee

I ’ve rewritten the opening line of this article five times, and they all suck.

Not just meh suck. I’m talking makes-me-want-to-set-my-laptop-on-fire levels of suck.

The problem is simple: I haven’t stopped thinking about them.

Any of them.

Jace, with his filthy mouth and stupidly soft hands.

Cam, with his perfect jaw and the way he makes praise feel like a warm bath poured straight into my soul.

Even Wes, with that glare he gave me before storming off.

I sigh and jab at the backspace key with unnecessary aggression. I’m perched in a hotdesk pod with a coffee I forgot to finish and a headache I definitely earned as the office hums around me. I’ve got the attention span of a drunk magpie and a draft folder full of lies.

I’m supposed to be a writer. Where’s that bitch?

I stare blankly at the screen until my eyes burn, then grab my phone and quickly type a message into our group chat.

Emergency lunch? I need human interaction or I will become a hollow shell that speaks in subheadings.

The responses come through fast.

Lex : Can’t. Client is late and I’ve got a campaign to launch. You got this, though. I’m there in spirit. Zara : WFH today—can meet you in 30? Coffee or something stronger?

I nearly cry.

Love you. Meet me at Otto’s?

She sends a thumbs up and a heart, and I close the laptop without saving.

*

Zara’s already at the table when I arrive, sunglasses pushed up into her curls and a glass of white wine already halfway done. She raises an eyebrow the moment I slump into the seat across from her.

“You look like someone who’s been living with three alphas,” she says, dry as ever.

“I look like someone who’s made choices ,” I mutter, grabbing the menu mostly to hide behind it.

Zara waves a hand at me. “ Spill . I want the unabridged version. You texted like someone who needed an emotional exorcism.”

I hesitate, then set the menu down. “I slept with Jace and Cam.”

“Ok-ay,” she says. “Wasn’t expecting you to open with that, but go off, queen.”

“It wasn’t planned ,” I say quickly, cheeks burning. “It just—happened. Or… well, it escalated . One minute I was wedged between them, the three of us having a nap, the next…” I gesture vaguely. “I’m being called a good girl so many times I nearly melted through the mattress.”

Zara snorts. “That’s gross and adorable.”

“It wasn’t just sex,” I admit. “They were... gentle. Cam’s always so attentive anyway, and Jace is surprisingly soft when he wants to be.”

“I’m not quite hearing the problem,” she smirks.

“I just. I guess I thought it would feel like a game,” I admit. “Like I was still in control.”

“But you’re not?”

I shake my head slowly. “Not even close.”

Zara leans forward, lowering her voice. “And Wes?”

“He flipped out last night,” I sigh. “Like, really lost it. We were arguing, and then Jace stepped in, and then Cam, and… yeah. He stormed out.”

Her expression shifts into something more thoughtful. “You knew he wouldn’t take it well.”

“I mean, I was banking on it,” I admit. “That’s what I wanted.

But that was when I thought I’d be the one pulling the strings.

I thought I could keep everything compartmentalized, but now I’m sleeping next to them and waking up wrapped in their arms and—and feeling things, Zara. And I don’t do that.”

“You do, though,” she smiles, all soft and knowing. “You just don’t let yourself admit it.”

The waitress takes our order, and I pretend to rearrange cutlery just to avoid direct eye contact. Zara gives me the space, then picks up again once our food arrives.

“Look, Aimee: like the tech or not, you’ve been scent-matched through this app to these three alphas.

That’s not nothing . And now you’ve been living in close quarters with them—two of whom clearly worship the ground you walk on.

Falling for them a little? That’s biology. It’s chemistry. It’s human.”

“I guess so. But now… now, I like them,” I whisper. “More than I meant to.”

“I know,” she says gently. “That doesn’t have to be the end of the world, though. Maybe it’s just time to stop pretending this is just a stunt.”

I chew on a piece of bread as I process her words.

“What about Wes?” she asks.

I blow out a breath. “I don’t trust him. Not yet. But… I don’t hate him either.”

I pause, fingers tightening around my glass.

“I wanted to mess with him. To get under his skin. And I did. I have . I’ve been pushing his buttons since the second I walked in, and now that he’s snapping and unraveling, it should feel… satisfying. Like I won. But it doesn’t.”

I look up at Zara, my throat tight.

“It feels awful. I feel awful. Because as much as I hate what he did to me, as much as I know he deserved to squirm a little… ” My voice drops. “Well. There’s more there. I know it. I can feel it. I just don’t know how to unpick it without detonating the whole thing.”

“Then don’t,” Zara shrugs. “Not yet. Let him cool off. And in the meantime?”

She tilts her head, eyes sharp. “Write the real article.”

I stare. “What, like—‘ how I accidentally caught feelings for my fake pack ’?”

“Exactly like that.”

I hesitate, biting the inside of my cheek. “Rachel would hate it.”

“She’s not your therapist,” Zara says, waving a hand.

“She’s your boss. And she doesn’t get a vote on your feelings.

” She grins. “Write the piece you actually want to write. The messy, honest, self-aware one. Then after that, you can write the snarky, spicy, Rachel-approved version and pretend it was all just field research.”

“You think I can pull that off?”

“I think you’ve got two alphas who’d proofread it while feeding you grapes, and a third who’d combust on the spot if he read how much power you actually have over him.”

I snort, but it comes out more like a sigh. I take a long sip of my drink. It’s barely past noon, but I need the burn.

“Okay,” I say. “Okay, yeah. Fuck it. Let’s write the real one.”

Zara raises her glass. “To poor life choices.”

Clink.

“And to falling for all the wrong alphas.”

*

How to Lose a Pack in 10 Dates — Scratch That, Here’s the Truth

I was supposed to write a witty exposé; an omega’s tongue-in-cheek guide to charming, disarming, and ultimately dismantling a perfectly decent group of alphas.

I failed.

I was going to make fun of their color-coded fridge labels and weird sleep schedules and protein shake cult rituals.

I was going to laugh at how quickly they tried to alpha around me—hovering, scent-marking, bickering over who made the coffee.

I was going to pretend that none of it got to me. That they didn’t get to me.

But then I met Jace. Cocky, golden, impossible Jace—with that smug grin and those arms that should come with a warning label.

We clicked instantly, like some part of me had always known how to spark off him.

It wasn’t subtle. It wasn’t even slow. He said one filthy thing and I was ready to commit crimes.

And then there’s Cam. Sweet, steady, soft-spoken Cam, who cooks breakfast like it’s an Olympic sport and looks at me like I’m something precious he’s trying not to drop.

He notices everything . He asks questions I didn’t think anyone cared enough to ask.

And with him… it’s not about spark. It’s about depth.

That terrifying, unexpected feeling of falling before you realize there’s nowhere safe to land.

And then there’s Wes.

Wes, who knew me when I was still figuring out how to survive my first heat. Wes, who made me feel seen for the first time—before making me feel small again.

It’s complicated. It’s always been complicated. Because with Wes, it’s not just about chemistry or connection. It’s history. It’s damage. It’s wounds still tender underneath all that practiced calm.

And I hate that I still feel it—that pull toward him—when he’s the one I should be running from.

I don’t trust him, and maybe I never will. But there’s a voice in me—quiet, stupid, reckless—that wonders if some things deserve a second chance. Even when logic screams no. Even when the match burned once, and all that was left was ash.

So no, this isn’t the article I planned to write. It’s not strategic, or clever, or particularly funny. But it’s honest. And maybe, for once, that’s enough.

“Jesus Christ,” I mutter, staring at the last line.

Of course that’s the moment Rachel walks up behind me.

“ This the article?” she asks casually, leaning just enough to read over my shoulder.

I yelp—actually yelp —and slam the laptop shut.

“It’s nothing!” I say quickly. “It’s not—uh—it’s not done. It’s not even real. I was just—brainstorming. Freestyle. Stream of consciousness—journal entry, maybe? Ha ha?”

Rachel raises one suspicious eyebrow.

“Did your journal just confess to catching feelings for a pack of alphas led by your ex?”

I let out a strangled noise. “ Maybe. ”

She crosses her arms. “Aimee.”

“Okay. Fine ,” I sigh. “It’s just a draft. Something I probably shouldn’t publish, but also maybe kind of have to write to get my brain working again.”

Rachel pauses for a beat. “You know we don’t publish diary entries, right?”

“I know.”

“And you also know this is the best thing you’ve written since the heat suppressant exposé?”

“…Really?”

She nods once. “If it’s raw, then it’s messy. And it’s yours, which means it’s got teeth.”

I blink. “So you’re not mad?”

“Oh, I’m mad,” Rachel laughs. “Mad that you’ve been holding out on me with this whole ‘actually falling for your scent-match pack’ plotline like we don’t love a good romantic implosion around here.”

I huff out a laugh, half panicked, half relieved. “I’m working on a real article too. With jokes and analysis and a heat index chart, I swear.”

“Fine,” Rachel says, smirking as she turns away. “But if you ever want to submit the version with your soul in it? Let me know. Our readers eat that shit up.”

I watch Rachel walk off, calm as anything, probably off to rescue someone else's word count or talk another intern down from quitting. Meanwhile, I’m still sitting here like I’ve just been caught sexting a spreadsheet.

My heart thuds unevenly as I slowly reopen the laptop.

The draft is still there, and I try something new, summarizing my feelings as best I can.

I like Cam. More than I should. More than I planned to.

I like Jace, too. That spark, that pull—it’s dangerous, addictive, impossible to ignore.

And Wes? Well. That’s where it gets messy. Because I hate him. At least, I want to hate him. But there’s too much fire still burning between us to know how I really feel. And I don’t know if it’s warmth I want from him—or if I just like standing too close to the edge.

I exhale shakily and scroll down, typing the last line:

Maybe it’s not about how to lose a pack at all. Maybe it’s about deciding whether you ever really wanted to.

I sit with that for a second, then I hit save . I flick over to the second document, the one full of sharper sentences and cleaner jokes and graphs titled Emotional Destabilization in Shared Living Situations: A Heat-Indexed Timeline.

It’s punchy, it’s smart, and it’s still me; but maybe— just maybe —it’s not the only version of me that matters.

One draft for me, one for the world.