Page 56 of Pack of Crooks

Real subtle, team Resistentia, real subtle.

With my attention on them, they turn one by one to head into the office. Bear is the last, his clenched fingers pulsing four times, pausing, and pulsing again before he turns and heads inside as well, leaving the door open in a clear invitation. Part of me wishes they would just yell. That would be easier to deal with than the flutter of nerves in my chest as I approach the door, not knowing if I’m going to be fired—or worse, killed—for the mistake.

But they want to sleep with me. That has to grant me some immunity, right? Besides, I can’t be the only person who’s ever been late. Surely Pack Lennox is reasonable.

Pulling in a breath, I hold it for four seconds then release a measured exhale. The anxiety that would otherwise eat me alive is still mostly in check, but I’m not even close to steady as I pass from the hub and into their lair.

“Close the door,” Wolf says.

Swallowing, I do as I’m told, turning and flicking my gaze out at the other members of Resistentia. Bubblepop is the only one who bothers to look in my direction. The Scream mask gives no indication of what she’s thinking, like my bunny mask gives nothing away, but I imagine she’s assuring me that everything will be okay.

At this point, I’ll cling to whatever piece of goodness I can get. Today is a proper shit show. There’s feces everywhere.

The pocket door slides shut and I turn, tucking my shaking hands behind my back and approaching their shared desk. They’re all sitting, purge masks glowing, attention fixed on me with the weight of a thousand knives pressed against my jugular.

“I’m sorry I was late,” I begin again.

They don’t respond.

I fight the urge to fidget and stand tall. “It won’t happen again. I got some. . . bad news right as I was leaving my apartment and it put me behind.”

They simply watch me. Though I can’t see their roaming gaze, I sense it in the electric slide of their focus moving over me. My apartment was still hot as hell, and while I’m sure there’s a reason everyone else dresses in long sleeves and pants, I don’t have tattoos or any birth marks that would give me away.

Now though, I’m regretting wearing the white tank top and the black skort with three chains on one side that swoop from hip to front. I should have slowed down when grabbing thingsfrom my closet, but I took the first things I saw. This outfit is definitely more fit for a night out on the town than work.

The quiet stretching around the room is disorienting, a tag on the back of a shirt that irritates the skin and won’t stop until it’s gone. Rough material scraping across skin over and over until that’s the only sensation left.

I tip my head and study Bear. He’s holding himself unnaturally still, leather gloved fingers grasping the arms of his chair. One finger tap, tap, tap, taps as they make me sweat. I count four taps three times before asking the obvious question.

“Am I in trouble?” I point the question to Ezra.

He slowly approaches me. “Are you okay?”

I nod. “Peachy.”

“Your scent is all over the place.”

Great. Thanks a lot, body. You’re really on my side today. “I had a bad day,” I admit.

“Did Tristan hurt you?”

“Uh, no.” Turns out I’m a piece of trash that can’t take care of her sister and I’m definitely not worthy of the affection and love you’re offering. Swallowing my self-loathing, I clear my throat. “The job has been crazy.”

“You’ll tell us if he hurts you, right?”

My eyebrows pinch together under my mask. “To be clear, you’re not mad I’m late?”

“Of course not.” The glow of his mask makes my eyes burn (it’s definitely not tears).

“But you’re worried about Tristan. Wait, how do you all know him?” The other day we talked about him being my dad, if you can even call him that, but I was so worried about them tossing me aside to ask how they’re connected to him.

Ezra steps back, a shaky breath rushing out of him. Kill is suddenly there, pulling him into his side and telling him everything is okay. Maddox watches them. Even though he’swearing the mask, I can practically see the lines of concern creasing his forehead.

“What did he do?” I ask, throat dry. Whatever it is, it’s not good. My stomach churns, but I clench my jaw and force myself to face whatever my sperm donor did.

“Tristan,” Maddox begins, voice low and angry. “Dated Ezra’s mom for a while. At this point, the three of us were always hanging out, and Tristan took advantage of his access to us.”

“How?”