Page 86 of Pack Me Up

May 7th

The meet-and-greet is a circus. Tommy is at the far end, posing for a row of college girls in homemade tour shirts, while Fox leans against the wall, arms crossed, eyes scanning the crowd.

Saint is stationed just behind me. He’s in full security mode, which means all-black suit, a grim line for a mouth, and a glare that scares grown alphas. He hasn’t spoken since I sat down, but I can feel him, every shift of his weight, every slow pan of his gaze, and the pressure in the air when someone gets too close. My pulse syncs to his, an echo of the bond that never really shuts off.

The line thins. There’s a lull, just a handful of shy teens and their parents orbiting the snack table, and I’m counting down the seconds until I can peel off my boots and let the nest swallow me whole. I’m so deep in my own head I almost miss the approach of the man in the suit.

He doesn’t look like a fan. That’s the first tell. He has no merchandise, no flowers, and no nervous energy. I clock him as a security guy before he even opens his mouth.

“Brittney Ryan?” he asks, all teeth and bland smile.

I nod, bracing myself. “That’s me.”

I can feel Saint’s anger surge through the bond.

He slides a business card toward me with two fingers. The logo is a minimalist wolf head, cut in clean blue foil. “My name is Vince,” he says. “I represent Elite Alphas, a top-tier executive protection firm in North America. We’ve been following your career with interest.” The card sits there. I don’t dare touch it. “We’d like to discuss what our team can do for you and your… unique needs.”

Behind me, I feel Saint’s anger spike. The temperature of the room drops by ten degrees.

I keep my voice light. “I think we’re pretty happy with our current setup.”

He smiles wider, eyes flicking to Saint just long enough to register the threat, then right back to me. “No disrespect to Phoenix Security,” his gaze lingers on the badge stitched to Saint’s jacket, almost a dare, “but our firm specializes in risk scenarios unique to omegas of your profile. If you ever feel your current protection is… insufficient, here’s my direct line.”

He pushes a second card across. This one is black, the numbers heat-stamped in gold. “No obligation. Just a conversation.”

I don’t touch it. I can feel Saint step forward, and his shadow falls over my shoulder, thick and cold and final.

“Is there a problem here, Vince?” Saint’s voice is steel.

Does he know him?

Vince’s smile dims half a watt. “None at all. Just offering a value proposition. We all know your firm hasn’t been looking good lately. She should know her options.”

Saint leans in, eyes pale and flat as frostbite. “She’s not switching to you. You don’t care about your clients, and our firm is just fine.”

There’s a weird, silent standoff. It’s the kind you only get between two predators.

Vince’s eyes zero in on the bite marks on my neck. “Maybe I should talk to your mates. They might feel differently about your safety.”

That sounded very patronizing.

Saint’s hand lands on my shoulder, heavy and absolute. Without breaking eye contact with Vince, he leans down and presses a kiss to his mark. “Her mates can’t stand you either, and she’s fully capable of making the choice herself.”

Vince holds up both hands, palms empty. “Of course. Wouldn’t dream of poaching your own mate.” But he says “mate” like it’s a dirty word. His eyes slide around the room, focusing on Tommy next. “Maybe the other omegas will feel differently.”

He’s not subtle, and I’ve reached my maximum for staying quiet. “They won’t. You need to leave now.”

Saint’s hand tightens, fingers splaying. “She’s not just my client,” he says, voice low enough only the three of us can hear. “She’s my mate and you’re trespassing. Get the fuck out of here.”

Vince’s composure breaks—just for a blink. He collects his cards and backs away with the cool efficiency of someone who knows when they’re outgunned.

Saint doesn’t move until the man is out of range. Then he steps back, fingers tracing the bite on my skin, and for a second, I think he might break something to bleed off the energy I can feel pouring down our bond.

My own body can’t help but react to his possessive display. My hands shake as I sign the next fan’s poster, my pen scratching out a crooked heart. The scent of my arousal hits me like a punch, and I know it’s leaking out past the scent blockers, toffee and hazelnut, and the musky undercurrent of omega need. Saint knows. I can feel the thread of want thrumming through the bond, dark and bottomless.

The rest of the fans blur into a montage of nervous giggles and blurry selfies. I can’t focus. My brain is stuck on the press of Saint’s palm, the way he said “my mate” like a promise and a threat at the same time.

By the time the last girl has gotten her hug and her signature, I’m ready to crawl out of my own skin.