Page 78 of Pack Me Up

He falls quiet, picking at imaginary threads on the sheets, eyes darting around the room. Finally, he says, “How do you want it set up? The nest, I mean. We can bring anything you need.”

The question catches me off guard. I look around at the disaster we made through my mini heat. There are blankets everywhere, the remnants of T-shirts and hoodies from every pack member woven into the chaos, little trophies of our time together.

“I don’t want to move any of this,” I say, and it comes out softer than I mean. “It feels wrong to… reset. After what we just did.”

Hunter’s face goes gentle. He nudges my knee with his, a careful, grounding touch.

“You know,” he says, “you were right. This place does feel sacred, now. Like something changed.”

“It did,” I say. “Everything did.”

“Then I’ll handle the nest. We won’t move anything in here unless you do it yourself,” Hunter reassures me.

“That sounds great,” I whisper, feeling some relief.

Hunter sniffs the air. “I can still smell your distress.”

I shrug. “I’m nervous for the tour starting tomorrow.”

Hunter brushes a lock of hair out of my eyes. His hands are warm. I can feel his calluses from years of working out. “You don’t have to worry, Britt. We’ll get you through this.”

Something in me cracks. Not in a bad way, more like a pressure valve finally letting off steam.

“I want to be brave,” I say. “But I’m scared. If I mess up, everyone will know. And my parents are still out there,somewhere. They could show up, and—” The rest sticks in my throat, too bitter to say.

Hunter pulls me in, slow and careful. “They’re not getting near you,” he says, voice low and certain. “Not unless they want to get murdered by a wall of alphas.”

I laugh, and the fear recedes. “That’s a weirdly comforting thought.”

“Yeah, well.” Hunter shrugs again, but there’s pride in it now. “That’s what we do. Pack takes care of its own.”

He holds me for a minute, not saying anything else. I enjoy his arms, the smell of our bond on his skin, and the steady rise and fall of his chest under my cheek.

When he finally lets go, he stands and stretches, arms over his head, muscles flexing like he’s showing off. “Saint is making breakfast,” he says. “Fox is already hoarding all the good cereal. You should probably get in there before the twins eat everything else.”

I laugh, nod, and follow my mate out of the room.

Hunter

PHOENIX PACK SECURITY BRIEF #126

ALL TEAMS PREPARE TO REPORT FOR THE START OF THE TOUR

May 4th

The handles of the bags cut into my fingers, which are also holding three boxes, as I approach the bus meant for us. Just from the outside, I can tell it’s different from the bus Oli used on her last tour.

I fumble for the security code on the side of the bus, something Saint had added to all the buses, and nearly drop everything.

Inside, the bus smells like new leather and stale air. We will need to fix that, too, before Brittney arrives.

I shoulder the door open, catching my hip on the frame, and then stagger down the narrow aisle past the couch and kitchenette area.

The new nest zone is everything promised and more. A huge mattress, made of memory foam, with blackout shades on all sides. But it’s empty, a hollow square of potential. For a second, I see it as Brittney will see it: enormous, anonymous, a sterile expanse with none of her stuff, none of our pack scent. My stomach flips.

I dump my haul on the bench and flex my hands until the nerves come back online. There’s a mountain of packages full of the things Brittney loves most from her nest at our pack house. I made sure to get fleece throws, weighted blankets, four different kinds of plush pillows, and about a cubic yard of twinkle lights. I yank open the first bag and am hit with a wall of the descenter they use at the store.

Each blanket comes out folded into a tight brick, but I know better. You have to shake them out to let the air and my scent in. I throw them one after another onto the bed, watching them billow and collapse in slow motion.