Page 105 of Pack Me Up

Fox moves in front of me, a gentle wall. “Songbird—”

“No.” My voice is wrecked, but clear. “I need to.”

Saint stares at me, like he’s reading me down to my soul, before nodding. “We sent him home tonight, but got his number. Let’s set something up for another night. Tonight, you need rest before your show tomorrow.”

I sit back down on the bed and agree.

Hunter

PHOENIX PACK SECURITY BRIEF #135

BACKGROUND CHECK ON ROBERT RYAN

May 21st

Ihaven’t slept. I’m not even tired. The highway rolls past us as we make our way to the next city. It’s been two nights since we got the news that Brittney’s parents have died, and she’s been stuck in her head the whole time. We’re meeting her uncle tomorrow in San Francisco.

It’s around two in the morning, and everyone else is sleeping. Brittney snuck out of the nest and moved to the couch hours ago. It’s taking all the restraint I have not to try and join her. If she needs space, I want to give it to her.

Colton is out cold with his mouth open, drooling like a kid. Cody’s arms are folded tight across his chest. He snores in a rhythm, a slow, arrhythmic pulse. They seem less identical while they sleep.

Fox has his hands folded behind his head, eyes closed, but I know he could be alert at a moment’s notice. He’s always alert.

Saint is snoring in the nest. Sometimes he doesn’t sleep for days, but tonight even he is down.

So I’m the only one left, conscious and adrift, watching the night pour past the tinted windows.

A low, keening noise, too soft for the engine to cover, reaches me. At first, I think it’s the wind, or maybe the air conditioning. But then it gets sharper, a sound that doesn’t belong in a vehicle at all, a sound that makes my alpha desperate. A whimper that’s small and desperate.

Brittney.

I can’t fight it. I move towards her and see she’s locked in a dream, rigid and twisting, the outline of her face visible in the blue from the strip light. Her eyelids are vibrating, jaw clenched tight, fists wound up in the hem of the blanket.

Then I smell her. It’s a sharp twist of panic in her usual toffee scent.

I know I shouldn’t invade her space, but my omega needs me, and that trumps everything else.

The floor is cold and gritty under my bare feet. I pad over, kneeling down beside her. I don’t touch her yet, not wanting to startle her.

“Brittney,” I whisper, as softly as I can.

She doesn’t hear me. Her face is wet, hair plastered to her forehead, mouth stretched wide in a silent scream. I want to wake her, but the idea of putting my hands on her in this state is terrifying. Instead, I plant both fists on the floor and lean in, as if my presence alone will pull her out.

She’s trapped in it. Whatever it is. The bond is full of panic and pain.

Her family, probably, or that mother fucking pack that thinks they own her. She never talks about them, not really, but the nightmares do. You can tell by the way she shakes, the way she chokes down every sob like she’s got to hide even from herself.

“Brittney,” I try again, louder this time, and her eyes snap open, huge and wild, pupils blown so wide there’s barely any color left. For a second, she doesn’t see me. She sees the past.Her hands go up, defensive and instinctive, like she’s about to catch a blow.

“It’s okay,” I say, holding my own hands up, palms out. “It’s just me, Hunter. You’re on the bus.”

She’s breathing hard, ribs hitching, whole body trembling. Sweat runs down her neck and soaks into the collar of her shirt. There’s a moment where I think she might start crying, but she swallows it, wipes her face with the back of her wrist, and looks away.

“Sorry,” she croaks, voice shredded. “I didn’t mean to wake-”

“You didn’t,” I say. “I was already awake.”

I want to say something comforting, something that’ll close the space between us, but I’m shit at comfort. I’m the joke guy, the distraction, the last-resort medic when Fox isn’t around. I settle for asking, “Do you want water?”