Page 34 of How to Lose a Pack in 10 Dates

Wes

I carry Aimee to the couch, still locked inside her, her thighs trembling around my waist, her breath warm and shallow against my neck. She’s quiet now, soft in a way I haven’t seen in years except for the little shivers that ripple through her every time my knot shifts too deep.

I sit down slowly, guiding her onto my lap as we lean back together, still connected, still caught in it.

The scent of slick and heat is everywhere: clinging to her skin, to mine, to the fabric of the fucking couch.

It’s dizzying and addictive, and I press my face into the crook of her shoulder and breathe her in.

I should be furious. Scratch that: I am furious. She’s spent weeks driving me to the edge, smiling through every taunt, crawling under my skin, and I hate how easily it comes back—the way she fits against me, the sound of her breath hitching, the way my body remembers exactly what to do.

I didn’t come here to fuck her, but in this enclosed space with her scent in my lungs and her heat still pulsing around me—

I don’t know why I thought I wouldn’t.

Eventually, I soften and ease out of her. I brush my hand along her thigh, thumb lingering at the curve of her hip, and I’m just about to say something— anything —when there’s a knock at the door.

“Shit,” she flinches. “I forgot. I ordered takeout.”

I laugh under my breath as I move to stand, tucking myself back into my jeans, not bothering to do up the top button. “I’ll get it.”

She blinks at me, flushed and fucked out and still stunned from the knotting. “You don’t have to—”

But I’m already walking to the door.

The kid holding the food gives me a look like he knows exactly what he’s just walked in on, and maybe he does—the scent in here is thick enough to choke on.

“Thanks,” I mutter, handing over a tip and shutting the door in record time.

When I turn around, she’s gone.

I shrug it off and carry the food into the kitchen, and I don’t think—I just open the containers, grab her a plate, and start dishing the food up.

A few moments later, she walks back in wearing a pair of tiny pajama shorts and a cropped tee that exposes the soft curve of her stomach.

There’s no replacement patch on her skin, nothing to block or mute her, and my jaw clenches as her scent hits me full-force. It’s rich and sweet and entirely unshielded.

Mine .

My mouth goes dry.

“There’s more than enough,” she says casually, as if I didn’t just knot her against the wall like an animal. “You wanna stay and eat?”

I nod, not trusting myself to speak as I reach for another plate.

She settles on the couch, flicking some rom-com on as I follow with the plates. I hand her one, then sit beside her—close, but not quite touching.

The screen flickers through a ridiculous scene where some flower shop omega spills water on her alpha landlord and now they’re scent-matched. Classic .

After we eat, she leans her head back on the cushion, eyes fluttering shut for a second as though she might fall asleep. I take her plate without a word, then my own, and walk them to the sink.

Wash. Rinse. Dry.

I stack everything neatly on the side, then lean on the counter, gripping its edge.

My pulse hasn’t slowed, and my hands are shaking again.

I can still feel her, slick and hot around me, her thighs trembling against my hips as she came undone on my knot like it was the most natural fucking thing in the world.

None of this was supposed to happen. She wasn’t supposed to come back into my life. She wasn’t supposed to get matched to our pack.

And I sure as hell wasn’t supposed to still want her.

But I’ve been at war since the second her name flashed up on that stupid app. At war with her, with myself, with every instinct that screamed mine the moment I caught even the faintest whiff of her scent again.

And now it’s in the walls, in the fucking air, in my bloodstream . She’s everywhere .

The truth is—I’ve been obsessed since the beginning. And maybe she’s right: maybe that makes me just as unhinged as she is.

Fuck.

What if Cam’s right, too? What if this is fate? What if it always was? What if it’s not about the way we broke everything before, but the fact that we survived it?

Two crazy people, one messed-up history, and two other alphas caught in the crossfire.

And still—

I can’t stop thinking about her.

Not just about the way she moaned my name with tears in her eyes and slick on her thighs, and not just about the way her body knows mine.

But about the moments in between. The sparkle in her eyes when she’s being a menace.

The soft sigh she let out when she curled into the couch just now.

The way she said yours like it wasn’t a trap door she just opened right beneath me.

Can we make it work? Can we take the wreckage and build something new? Something better? Something fucked-up and beautiful and real?

I don’t know.

…But for the first time, I feel ready to accept that there’s at least a part of me that wants to try.

I set the dish towel down. My grip on the sink tightens once more, then I let go.

I sit back down beside her on the couch and shift a little closer, enough for our knees to brush, for the heat between us to settle like fog.

It’s a weird kind of quiet between us. Not the charged silence that’s filled every room we’ve shared since she came back, not the kind that’s always one breath away from shouting or sex.

Just… quiet .

I clear my throat. “I owe you an explanation.”

Her gaze flicks to mine, but she doesn’t interrupt.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” I say, voice low. “Back then, I mean. I was just… I don’t know. Young. Stupid . And scared.”

Her arms fold across her knees, but she still doesn’t say anything.

“I was barely twenty-one, Aimee: finishing law school and halfway convinced I wasn’t cut out to be an alpha, let alone one bonded to someone like you. And I didn’t exactly have the best role model.”

She snorts, but it’s soft. “Yeah. Your dad really is something.”

“Commitment-phobe of the century,” I sigh. “Couldn’t even keep a pack house plant alive, let alone a mate. I watched him mess everything up over and over again, and somewhere along the way I started believing that was just what alphas did.”

I pause, staring at the floor.

“I needed space. I thought if I just had time, I’d figure it out. But instead of talking to you about it… I just ran.”

She exhales, shaky. “I didn’t know.”

“I know.”

“I thought you rejected me.”

“I didn’t.” I force myself to hold her gaze, even though everything in me is screaming, roaring, dying at how uncomfortable and unfamiliar and out of place this feels.

“I never would’ve. I just… when you started acting up, when you went cold and sharp and glittery as hell, I got stubborn.

I thought, Fine, if she wants to push me away, I’ll let her. Like an idiot.”

“Wes…”

“I regret it. All of it.” I let out a breath. “I never should’ve let it happen. And I know I should’ve called, should’ve explained . But I thought if I gave it time you’d cool off… Well. That didn’t happen, as we know. And by the time I realized I’d fucked it all, it felt too late.”

She nods slowly, then sighs. “I’m not exactly innocent either,” she comments.

I give a dry laugh. “You can say that again.”

Her mouth twitches. “I guess you could say I went a bit nuclear.”

“A bit ?” I lift a brow. “You superglued my mailbox, Aimee. You glitterbombed my car .”

“You deserved it.”

“…Maybe.” She nudges her foot against mine, and I roll my eyes as I fight back a smile. “Okay, definitely .”

She laughs, and it’s real: the first genuine sound I’ve heard from her in days. Well, apart from the sounds she was making an hour or so ago. But that was slightly different.

“I didn’t learn from it, either,” I admit. “Look how I acted the other night. You pushed my buttons, and I lost it. That’s not the alpha I ever want to be.”

Her dark eyes soften as they trail over my face, and I see the way her fingers twitch, as though a part of her wants to reach out and touch me.

God, I wish she would.

“You scared me a little,” she says.

“I know.” My throat works around the words. “And I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have shouted. I shouldn’t have let it get that far. You just— fuck , you know how to rattle me.”

“I do,” she murmurs. “And I like doing it. But I don’t want to hurt you, either.”

“I want to do better,” I tell her. “I want to be better. For you.”

We’re both quiet for a moment. And then—

“All I ever wanted was you,” she says quietly. “Back then, and… And maybe now, too. But it’s complicated.”

“I know.”

“There’s Cam. And Jace. And I’m not… I’m not a good—”

“I know,” I say again, cutting her off. “Look, I get it; and I know you don’t believe me on the whole not jealous thing, but I’m honestly not trying to compete with them. I never would. They’re my pack . My brothers. I trust them with everything.”

I pause.

“And despite the glitter and the pink and the omega-friendly shampoo bottles taking over the house…” I glance at her, a crooked smile tugging at my mouth, “…I think you’d make them happy. All of us.”

She blinks, and something crumbles in her expression.

“You mean that?”

“Yeah.” I take her hand. It’s small and warm in mine. “I don’t want war anymore, Aims. I just want… peace. With you.”

Her eyes shine. “Me too.”

Her fingers tighten in mine, and then she leans in.

I meet her halfway.

Her lips are warm when they brush mine. Soft and hesitant, though there’s no teeth this time. No bite. Just the kind of kiss that feels like a promise, even if neither of us are brave enough to say the words aloud.

I close my eyes, letting it settle. Letting her settle.

The scent of her is everywhere—sweet and warm and dizzying. It wraps around me, roots into my skin, makes my brain go quiet for the first time in days. She exhales into the kiss, and I feel it all—her relief, her want, her grief.

And mine.

I deepen it slowly, lifting my hand to the back of her neck. My palm rests against her skin, fingers sliding into her hair. She leans into it like she always used to, like instinct, like she still remembers the way we fit.

God, she still fits.

I shift, tugging her gently into my lap. She comes easily, curling in like it’s the most natural thing in the world; her thighs straddling mine, her hands on my shoulders, her chest pressed to mine. It’s not sexual. It could be, maybe, but that’s not what this is. This is something softer.

Something that feels like starting over.

Her forehead drops to mine, noses brushing, breath mingling.

“We’ve never done this right,” she whispers.

“I know.”

She swallows, and I feel the tremble in her. “But maybe we could now.”

I nod, barely moving. “I think I want to try.”

“Me too.”

We sit there like that for a long moment. Her scent in my lungs, her weight in my lap, and my arms around her waist, holding her close. Her fingers curl in my shirt, and for the first time since she came back into my life, I let myself believe it—

Maybe we could get it right this time. Maybe we’re not too late.

And maybe, just maybe… The war’s finally over.