Page 9 of How to Lose a Pack in 10 Dates

Wes

C am’s already out cold by the time I finish work—one sock on, face mashed into the pillow, mouth open in full wartime-snore formation. He’s probably dreaming of lesson plans and labeling the spice rack by historical relevance.

The man teaches teenagers all day and still has the emotional range to care about muffin texture. He’s a saint. A deranged, sleep-deprived saint.

And I should go to bed.

Instead, I’m pacing around like a lunatic with a pheromone malfunction, replaying every version of tonight that never should’ve existed. I wouldn’t have gone out with her anyway. I had no reason to—our last conversation was a public relations crisis with eye contact.

But still, my brain won’t shut up.

Won’t stop running through what I’d have said if I’d been the one in the car. What I’d have done if she’d looked at me like that.

She looked far too good. That little dress she was wearing did things to my blood pressure I’m not proud of, and the second I saw her standing there—brown hair falling over her shoulder, mouth curved like she knew I was watching—my brain short-circuited.

And then I remembered Jace was the one taking her out.

And I wanted to put my fist through a wall.

The problem here—apart from the obvious, being Aimee’s presence in my life—is that we’re all scent-matched to her. It’s not just that she’s dangerous, or that I don’t trust her. It’s not even that she once tried to psychologically destroy me with glitter bombs and passive-aggressive playlists.

It’s that everything in me still wants her.

And I hate that more than anything.

I hate the way she laughs like she owns the room. I hate the way she flirts in front of my face like it’s a competitive sport. I hate how her scent—muted as it is—still crawls under my skin like it belongs there.

I hate that when she smiled at Jace, I watched for too long. I hate that when she sat herself down in his car, I wanted to stop her.

And I hate—god, I hate —that I didn’t . That I just stood there in the doorway and watched them go.

I don’t buy it that she’s here to bond, or connect, or whatever bullshit it is that she’s feeding them.

I know for a fact that she’s here to play whatever manipulative, calculated little game she’s got lined up, and I’m the only one with enough sense to see through it, to protect Cam and Jace from it, from her .

But now I’m pacing the kitchen, jaw clenched, fists tight, thinking about her lips, her legs, and that stupid, smug little smile she gave me as Jace backed out of the driveway.

The front door clicks, and I stiffen.

Don’t look. Don’t react. Just breathe. Sip. Pretend you’re not one muscle twitch away from driving this glass into the backsplash.

Then, I smell it. Muted by blockers, distorted by distance, but still unmistakable.

Aimee.

She's not even in the house, and already, she’s crawling under my skin like she never left it.

Jace strolls into the kitchen a few beats later; hair wind-tossed, t-shirt wrinkled, neck flushed, mouth—

No.

I grip the glass harder.

He opens the fridge, humming something tuneless, apparently completely oblivious to me standing right here. He pulls out the orange juice, and my eyes widen as he starts whistling.

Whistling .

As though he didn’t just spend the last however many hours buried inside my problem.

I don’t say anything at first. Not because I’m calm—because I’m trying not to detonate. Meanwhile, he doesn’t even look at me when he finally speaks.

“Hey, man.”

That’s it. That’s what breaks me. The pressure and possessiveness spikes hot and irrational and stupid in my chest before spilling out of my mouth.

“I thought you were just going to the farmers market.”

He glances over, annoyingly casual. “We did.”

“Right.”

My eyes drag over him: over the faint shimmer of glitter on his bicep, the red mark near his collarbone, the smear of lip balm that’s not his shade.

The way he’s still flushed, still buzzing.

“That before or after you fucked her?”

The bottle stops halfway to his lips, then he lowers it slowly, eyebrows raised.

“ Wow . Subtle.”

He takes a long, obnoxious sip, green eyes locked on mine, a faint smile tugging at his mouth like he’s enjoying this; but I see it—the flicker. The second of hesitation.

“You jealous,” he says, wiping his mouth, “or just keeping a scent scorecard?”

“As if,” I bite out. “She’s blocked, and I can still smell her on you.”

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and shrugs. “Okay?”

I grip the counter until my knuckles ache.

I want to snap something. Anything .

Because it’s not okay. Nothing about this fucked-up, weird-ass situation is okay. It’s not even in the same solar system as okay.

“So. One date,” I press. “That’s all it took?”

He sets the bottle down with a quiet thunk . “Jesus, Wes.”

“I’m just saying: she’s doing this on purpose.”

And I know how it sounds. I know. My voice is rising higher by the second, and I'm giving conspiracy-theory-on-a-bulletin-board energy and not exactly helping myself here. But she’s needling away under my skin by having her scent draped all around my pack mate, and I can’t stop now.

“Every look, every laugh, and this whole wide-eyed, innocent omega act?” I shake my head. “It’s not real. It’s bait. It’s revenge. You get that, right? It’s all a fucking performance.”

Jace folds his arms, muscles flexing, his jaw twitching. He’s defensive now.

“Revenge for what, exactly?”

“For me turning her down. For walking out without an explanation instead of throwing myself at her feet like every other alpha who catches whiff of her scent.”

He blinks at me. “You seriously think—”

“I know her.” My voice comes out too sharp, too fast. “I know how she operates. She’s not chaos.

Well, she is , but not like this. She’s calculated .

Always has been. She’s not flirting off the cuff—she’s choosing every moment, every word.

She’s performing , and you’re too busy eye-fucking her to see it. ”

Jace stares at me, his expression completely impossible to read.

His silence only makes it worse.

“She’s trying to make me snap,” I continue. “And it’s working. You and Cam are too distracted by her tits and the scent match to even notice she’s got you both dancing in the palm of her hand.”

He opens his mouth, but I barrel on; on a roll now.

“Think about it for a minute. My ex, who lost her mind when I ended things, just so happens to get scent-matched to my pack . She then shows up in that dress, flirting and giggling with you both right in front of my face; and you walk back in here after one date, scent-drenched and covered in her slick like you’ve been fucking in her nest? ”

I scoff, holding my arms out wide. “Come on , Jace. She wants me to lose it.”

Jace narrows his eyes.

“It’s not all about you, Wes.”

I laugh, though it’s more of a harsh, humorless bark. “Isn’t it? You really think it’s a coincidence that she’s here, in this house, with us ?”

“She joined a scent-matching app,” he says slowly, as though he’s having to explain it to a very stupid dog. “We got matched. We invited her here last night. We talked. I asked her out.”

“And she’s using that to get at me.” I shoot back. “I know how it sounds, alright? But I’m telling you: this is exactly her brand of petty.”

“No.” His arms uncross, his voice dropping. “You’re spiraling. You’re turning this into some paranoid power play because you’re pissed she moved on. You didn’t want her, and now you do, and you don’t know what the fuck to do with that.”

I grit my teeth. “She’s trying to fuck with me.”

“And it’s working . You’re unhinged over a date that had nothing to do with you. And don’t give me the ‘I’m protecting the pack’ routine—you’re not mad for us. You’re mad for you .”

That word: us .

I hate how much it hits.

“Look: I mean this is the nicest possible way. You need to get over yourself, man. We discussed this already, and we agreed when we joined that app that we weren’t going to make it weird. And this whole broody, possessive, ‘ I saw her first ’ thing? It’s not fair. Not to her, and not to us.”

I look him dead in the eye. “I’m telling you: she’s not what she seems. You’re making a mistake.”

Jace shakes his head, something sharp and disappointed flashing across his face.

“But if she wants to play games?” I laugh, mostly to myself. “Then fine . I can play, too.”

“She’s not playing. Not like you think.”

“You sure?” I sneer. “Or are you just enjoying being the chosen one too much to care?”

He doesn’t bother answering, but sighs as if I’m the one being unreasonable. He walks past me and out of the kitchen, our conversation apparently over. Her scent trails behind him;sticky and sweet and utterly maddening, specifically designed to get under my skin.

And he’s right: it’s working.

I stay where I am, jaw locked, hands flexing uselessly at my sides.

Still, I meant what I said. If Aimee Saunders wants to mess with me, then fine .

Let her see what happens when I stop playing nice.