Page 32 of How to Lose a Pack in 10 Dates

Aimee

I fire off the text without overthinking it:

Hey—just a heads up that I’m going to stay at my place tonight. I just… need a bit of space.

The typing bubble pops up instantly.

Cam: Of course. Whatever you need. Let us know if you want company or if we can send snacks xx Jace: Take all the space you need, trouble. Just don’t forget us.

Wes doesn’t reply, but the read notification pops up about five minutes later, and that stings more than it should.

Still. I meant what I said. I just need to be alone for a night. Get my head straight, maybe cry dramatically into a chinese. Whatever.

I place my food order, pick the cheesiest rom-com I can find, and burrow under one of my thickest blankets. The female lead has just tripped and spilled coffee all over some grumpy alpha in a suit—god, I’m so easily targeted—when there’s a knock at the door.

I frown. It’s a little too quick for the takeaway, unless my delivery guy has started sprint training.

I shuffle to the door in my socks, not even checking the peephole, which, in hindsight, is rookie behavior. I open it, and there he is: tall, broad-shouldered, soaked in shadow and expensive cologne.

My stomach drops and my pulse jumps.

“Wes.”

He’s the last person I expected tonight, but I’ll be damned if I let that show on my face. Not after the way he got under my skin last night. Not after the things he said. I fold my arms tightly, holding the door half-closed like that might keep the worst of it out.

He tips his chin, all cool detachment and unbothered alpha bullshit. “You weren’t going to say goodbye?”

“Goodbye?” I repeat. “Goodbye to what?”

“To us.” His jaw ticks. “To this little… project of yours. You’re done now, right? Packed up your notes, written your dramatic exit monologue. Thought you’d just disappear back here and ghost the rest of it.”

“I would’ve done a better job of it if I was planning on ghosting anyone,” I retort as I arch a brow, heat flaring behind my ribs. “After all: I learned from the best.”

His eyes narrow, and I let the silence hang for a beat, then sigh, stepping back just enough for him to push past me.

“So what, you tracked me down to throw accusations around?”

“I didn’t track you ,” he mutters, brushing past and stepping into my apartment. “Cam gave me your address.”

Of course he did. Note to self: revoke access to everything next time you decide to play house with a pack of alphas.

I close the door behind him then turn to face his broad back.

“So,” I say flatly. “You came all the way here to what ? Lecture me? Fight again?”

“I came to apologize.”

I snort. I can’t help it. “Alright then,” I nod, waiting. “ Apologize .”

His nostrils flare, and my stomach clenches. I see it, then: the alpha in him. He doesn’t like being tested, doesn’t like being challenged; and definitely not by me .

“I’m trying to make this right,” he says. His voice is clipped, almost as though the effort is choking him. “But you just keep poking. Keep playing.”

I step closer, folding my arms. “You don’t like being played, Wesley?” I ask, saccharine and sharp. “Because I could swear you’ve done your fair share of it.”

“You’re not subtle, you know,” he snaps. “You think I don’t see what this is? You bait me. You flirt. You fuck them. You’re parading around that house like it’s some kind of heat-den fantasy camp—and I’m, what, supposed to just sit back and clap for you?”

His voice is rising now, the cracks starting to show again.

I blink up at him, mock-innocent. “Cam and Jace make me feel wanted,” I say coolly. “They make me laugh. Maybe I just like men who don’t treat me like I’m disposable.”

“You think I treated you like that?” he hisses. “You think I forgot what we had? That I didn’t go insane trying to figure out why you blew up on me the way you did—why you never gave me a fucking chance to explain?”

“Are you kidding me?” I laugh, sharp and humourless. “You ghosted me. There’s no explanation that starts with you rejecting your scent-matched omega and ends in happily ever after.”

His jaw locks. “You have no idea what was going on in my life back then.”

“Right,” I spit. “Because your poor little rich alpha problems gave you the right to blow up the one thing that was actually good between us.”

“I was young, alright?” he grits out. “Barely even twenty-one years old. Young and dumb and—”

“You knew what I was. What we were,” I cut in. “Age doesn’t excuse it.”

We’re both breathing hard now—me with adrenaline, him with something more feral. His deep blue eyes rake over me, chest rising and falling in short, angry bursts.

“This isn’t about the others,” he mutters. “You’re doing it all for me. To get under my skin.”

“If that’s true, then it worked.” I smirk as my voice goes lower. “Didn’t it?”

He stares at me, tense and seething—and something in him unravels.

His next words are a snarl.

“You think I don’t know what you’re doing?” he says. “You’ve been pushing since the second I let you walk into that house. Laughing too loud, sitting too close. Letting them scent you—letting them touch you. And now you’ve got me standing in your apartment like some fucking deranged ex.”

“ You are a deranged ex.” My pulse thuds behind my ears. “And it’s none of your business who I sleep with.”

“It is when it starts messing with my pack.”

“Oh, please,” I snap. “You made it about the pack the second you lost your temper. I’ve been fine with Jace and Cam. I like them. So maybe you should back the fuck off—”

“Oh, I’m not backing off.” There’s low, lethal laughter in his voice as he steps closer. “Not when I know you’re scent-matched to me , too.”

I immediately go still as the air around us snaps .

“I don’t want you,” I say, but it comes out quiet and unconvincing.

He steps closer again. His scent is darker now, rich with frustration and hunger and claiming , curling around me like a rope.

“You do,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “You want to hate me so bad you can’t even admit it. But you feel it. Same as I do. Every time we’re in the same room, it pulls.”

I try to swallow. My throat doesn’t work right.

“You think this is control?” he murmurs, eyes flicking to my parted lips, then back to my gaze. “Lying to yourself, pretending you don’t want me to take it all back. To make it right. To make it ours again.”

“I’m not yours,” I whisper.

He tilts his head, studying me.

“Let’s try that again.” His thumb brushes my chin, then drags slowly along the edge of my jaw. “Look me in the eye and say it like you mean it.”

I open my mouth, ready to shove the words out, but all I manage is a shaky inhale and a pathetic little stammer that doesn’t land.

He sees it, and the sight of his lips curving up into that god-awful smirk has me burning hot with irritation.

“I’m not yours,” I practically growl, aiming right for the jugular. “I never have been.”

His eyes flare, and his grip tightens on my jaw, enough to remind me exactly who I’m dealing with.

“ Liar. ”

Then he lunges .

His mouth crashes to mine, and the kiss is pure battle; all teeth and fury and years of unfinished business.

I gasp, and he swallows it, tongue sweeping in to take and punish and claim.

There’s nothing soft about it—this is every fight we’ve ever had, every night I’ve dreamt of strangling him and waking up aching for him, shoved between us like a wedge and cracked wide open.

He grabs me and hauls me in so hard I practically slam into his chest. I stumble back into the wall, and he follows like a shadow, a storm, a reckoning . His arms cage me in as his knee drives between my thighs, forcing them apart without apology.

“You think this is a game?” he snarls against my mouth. “You think you can fuck them and flounce away like I’m nothing?”

I push at his chest. “I never said you were nothing—”

“You said worse.” His hands are already under my shirt. “You pretended I didn’t matter .”

“I don’t owe you anything—”

He growls . It’s full-chested and bone-deep, the kind that rattles in my gut and slams through my core, and then he rips my shirt up, fingers yanking fabric and catching— tearing —right over the scent patch at my ribs.

It comes off with a tiny hiss. A mere flutter of adhesive.

My scent hits him, and his whole body shudders.

“Fuck,” he rasps, voice already shifting—lower, rougher, alpha . “You smell like mine,” he says, biting the words out like they cost him. “Still. After everything .”

“Wes—”

“No.” His hand fists in my hair, yanking my head back as his mouth trails fire down my neck. “You don’t get to pretend anymore. Not after what you did. Not after how you’ve looked at me, making me feel like I’m the villain for wanting what’s mine .”

“I’m not yours —”

“Say that again.”

I glare up at him, breath hitching. “I’m not—”

He slams his mouth to mine, and I break. My slick’s already blooming, my pulse pounding between my thighs and my knees going weak beneath me.

There’s no pretending now. No fake control, no playing the part of the teasing omega who always keeps her cool. I melt, whimpering and writhing, grinding myself down onto the thigh he’s pressed between mine as if he’s trying to break me in half.

“God, you love this,” he snarls. “You love me like this. Rough. Angry. Out of control.”

I moan. Pathetic . Fucking undone .

He pins me harder to the wall, one hand on my throat as the other fists into my hair.

“You remember how this ends, don’t you?” he breathes against my jaw. “With you on your knees or your back, wrecked and ruined and begging for more.”

I shudder. “I hate you.”

“You should,” he snaps, biting down on my throat just hard enough to make me gasp. “You should hate me. But that doesn’t stop you dripping all over my fucking leg.”