Pack Darling Part One

by Lola Rock

  His dominance and familiar musk wrap around me, half comforting, and half gut punch, because this is the one man in the world I can’t disappoint.

  “You want to talk about it?” he asks.

  “As my father or my commander?”

  “Definitely father. Your commander’s gonna rip you a new one over this shit.”

  I snort, and it’s almost a laugh. “I deserve it.”

  “You know why I named you Atlas?” He tilts his head. There’s more salt and pepper in his dark hair lately.

  It gives him a wisdom I hope I can earn someday.

  “Because I carry the weight of the world.”

  “No. Because I wanted you to know you’re strong enough to carry the weight of any burden you deem worthy. Not every burden’s yours to bear.”

  “We just assassinated Dominik Redfang’s favorite younger brother on national news. It’s on me when he comes looking for revenge.”

  “As your commander, I’ll be rip-shit over that later. We need to talk about your pack.”

  A protective growl builds deep in my chest. “It’s not the time for that conversation.”

  “Orion—”

  “Dad,” I snap. “We’re mated. It’s done.”

  “Orion’s a good boy. I’m not saying otherwise. But your pack’s in fucking shambles and he’s the root of it.”

  Blood bubbles in my veins, and I grip the arms of my chair so hard the plastic screams. “I won’t listen to you speak that way about my mate.”

  “Your loyalty needs to belong to your whole pack. As your commander...” he pauses long enough to make my throat clench. “I’m pulling you off the mission roster and placing a secondary omega with your pack.”

  I distinctly feel the sensation of being ripped in half.

  Because no.

  No way in fucking hell am I replacing Orion. I’ve wanted him my whole life and denied him just as long, all for the sake of our pack and the hypothetical future omega we planned to mate.

  But Orion is that omega. We’re not replacing him.

  And yet…

  Just the thought, the doubt, yanks my heart.

  Something’s wrong with our pack. Orion doesn’t smile, Finn’s acting manic, Hunter’s shooting me pity looks, and Jett won’t say shit about what’s eating his soul.

  And me?

  I don’t sleep. Can’t. My packmates’ anxieties scream along our bond like sirens, keeping me awake. I stalk the house at night, checking the window and door locks, investigating banging pipes and creaking wood like every sound is an assassin come to take revenge for all the blood we’ve spilled.

  Orion sleeps alone.

  Our pack bed’s sheets are always cold.

  We were fifteen when I looked him in the eye and told him we had to shut down whatever was between us. It was unfair to the omega the five of us would grow up to share.

  Our love had to be for her, and her alone.

  Ten years later, Orion awakened as an omega instead of an alpha. At the first hit of his pheromones, I one-eightied. Claimed him as mine, and the four of us agreed to take him as our pack’s mate.

  To throw him away now?

  To tell him he’s being replaced?

  I’m not that kind of monster.

  “There has to be another way.” I scrub my hands through my hair, torn between two loyalties. Orion is my mate, but my father is my north star, the one who I’ve always followed, and he’s never led me astray.

  “Maybe. How much time are you willing to take off to figure it out?”

  “None.” Fuck. We don’t have time for this. The Redfangs will hit back hard.

  “Then look into some other options.”

  “I won’t replace him,” I growl.

  “So don’t. The situation can be temporary, but Orion needs guidance, and the rest of you need to extricate your heads from your asses.” My father whips out his phone, and a message pings me. “There’s an event tomorrow. The female we picked you will be on stage.”

  My phone shows an invite for four—not five—to tomorrow night’s dance showcase at the Omega Cultivation Center. The screen burns when I shove it back into my pocket.

  “I won’t force you,” he says, “But what you’re doing isn’t working. The pack’s volatile. Any other team wouldn’t get a second chance.”

  Shame burrows into my chest, the hot wave making my fists bunch and my teeth clench.

  He may as well give me an ultimatum.

  Lose my pack or lose my position?

  I can’t survive without either.

  “I’ll go. But no promises. We already have a mate.”

  “Fair enough.” Scorpio stands, and the nurturing snaps out of him, leaving behind a hard-eyed commander staring down his incompetent subordinate. “I want that report in my inbox tonight. I’ll see your team on the field at morning call for punishment.”

  “Yes, sir.” I press my hand to my heart in salute, and he walks out.

  Alone again, I sink back in my chair.

  My father never bluffs. I’ve known that in my bones since the day I mouthed off as a toddler and he confiscated my teddy bear.

  Now I have so much more to lose.

  Four

  LILAH

  The cool thing about spending the next day in the infirmary is that it smells like rubbing alcohol instead of ragey omegas, and when I can finally sit up without puking, Nurse Betty brings me a plate for breakfast.

  It’s heaped with French toast, sausage, and fancy fruit salad—the kind with dragon fruits and rambutans that I absolutely cannot afford to be added to my ever-growing tab.

  There’s no free brunch at the OCC.

  I mentally add another chunk of cash to my debt for the food, the overnight, and medicine.

  As a rule, I don’t fill my stomach. I don’t dare let myself get to a healthy weight where my body could be like, hey, aren’t we supposed to be doing that puberty thing?

  This once, I sop up every drop of syrup with my toast and lick my fingers clean. I need my strength to heal this head wound and survive the recital from hell.

  Knowing I’m a flight risk, Evgenia shows to drag me to the auditorium and sit my ass in one of the dressing room makeup chairs backstage.

  Hair mostly covers the spot where Rachel hit her home run, but so much purple swelling bleeds onto my forehead that I need the heavy-duty concealer. It’s not my first time hiding my hurts under foundation and powder.

  It won’t be the last.

  All I can do is brush over the marks, wing my eyeliner sharp enough to slit a man’s throat, and promise myself I’ll keep fighting.

  Evgenia stops to hand over the hanger with my skimpy spandex costume, giving a curt nod at my expert bruise-hiding skills. “No one will notice.”

  “Hope they don’t.” I’d happily blend into the back row, or better yet, ooze into the shadows and never make it to the stage.

  “Oh, they’ll notice you. You’ll be in the arms of your forever pack before morning.”

  I freeze, mid-blusher. Evgenia isn’t exactly a mother figure, but I can trust her not to bullshit. “What else have you been told?”

  “Just that you’ll be graduating soon. It’s nothing to worry about. Any pack would be lucky to have you.”

  Would they, though?

  And why would I want them?

  “I’ll graduate right now,” I mutter.

  Evgenia tsks. “So you say. Wait until your first heat. You’ll be begging for your alphas to—”

  “I know how it works.” I’ve taken the class, done the reading, and seen the omega “education films” that are just well-lit amateur porn. I know exactly what I’m in for.

  An omega in heat is a mindless creature, all need and no logic. We crave sex and security. The bite of our alpha. Knots and sweet nothings.

  It’s supposed to be bliss when you have it all.

  The cozy nest and the pack of growly protective alphas bending over backward, sideways, and doggy style to make you scre
am and make you smile.

  If they’re a scent match—your true, destined, meant-to-be-mates—you’ll spend your whole lives craving to be together, craving each other in a way that demands constant closeness and kisses. Their pheromones and attention melt you into goo, and yours turn them into loyal knights dedicated to satisfying your every need.

  I know better.

  That dream’s a sales pitch, and I’m not buying.

  I don’t need a pack telling me I’m safe. I can make me safe. I can take care of everything by myself, without handing over my entire life’s happiness to a bunch of rutting assholes.

  “I’ve been asked to make sure you attend the reception after the performance. Don’t be surprised if a pack gives you an offer.”

  “They can’t. I’m not—”

  “Not awakened. I know. But that’s easily fixed with a hormone shot. You can’t delay the inevitable.”

  My vision tunnels and my heart slams my ribcage like it’s gonna punch free. I set the costume on the makeup counter. “I’m not dancing.”

  “You are,” Evgenia insists. “The Center’s director is coming to watch.”

  I glance at the curtain, calculating. Will it be too obvious if I go down hard enough to snap my collarbone in the first ten seconds?

  “No. No.” Evgenia waves, bringing me back to reality. “I know that look. You will not sabotage tonight for yourself or anyone else. Some of these girls are trying to make a good impression. Don’t hurt their futures just because you’re afraid of yours.”

  “I wouldn’t…” But yeah. I definitely would.

  Evgenia huffs. “Walkthrough in twenty. I want to see your solo one more time before curtain.”

  I regret the morning’s French toast when it feels like everything’s going to come up, my whole future at risk, my fate uncertain.

  I’d say fuck it all and run, but two big beta guards posted at the backstage door clock me the second I try to sneak past.

  All I can do is dance.

  When I join the team on stage for the walkthrough, the vibe is less hostile without Rachel and her drones. The other girls sneer, but they’re the type to be so worried about themselves they don’t have time to come after me.

  My head aches through the practice. I crush a few extra painkillers, and if I happen to pass out on stage…

  Yeah. That might be my best possible outcome.

  Too soon, the auditorium fills. The buzz of conversation grows louder and louder, deep alpha voices rumbling and stirring up my instinct to run and hide. I plug my nose, blocking out their scents while the dance team girls giggle, leaning into the pheromones and picking out their favorites.

  We’re not up until the final performance. It gives me plenty of time to pick a hiding spot, but Evgenia finds me like a ballerina bloodhound and drags me out of the bathroom just before curtain.

  I take my place, vibrating with tension and dread, my head aching and ringing like someone’s chipping the inside of my skull with a pickaxe.

  Then the music starts and it all fades away.

  The ache and the bruises. The bitchy omegas and all the choking, heavy alpha scents. There’s only me and the beat.

  I move like this is my last slice of freedom.

  Because maybe it is.

  I can feel the sounds in my soul, and I don’t hedge or fake or hide. I run through the moves like they’re mine. Like they came to me in a dream and only I can bring them to life.

  When the music shifts, the dance team backs off, and the cursed spotlight calls me to the center of the stage.

  There’s no more hiding. No other dancers to get lost in. No protection from the searing sets of eyes watching me from the darkness. Their gazes rake my skin. Alpha pheromones bleed across the stage, sticking in my throat until I can’t take a full breath.

  The room spins.

  I keep moving, moving, trying to grab onto something to make the world stop churning.

  That’s when I feel a point of warmth in the crowd. Up in one of the private boxes.

  Mid-dance, I falter, my body swinging to face whoever’s sitting up there.

  Horrified, I correct before anyone notices, but the pull doesn’t disappear.

  I want to stare.

  I want to leapfrog people’s heads, claw my way up the wall, and find out who the fuck is drawing me so hard. I’ve never felt anything like it.

  I don’t like things I don’t know.

  I have to escape. I crave dark spaces and thick blankets, not eyes that want me and alphas who want to take away my future.

  When the music finally cuts, I run.

  Five

  ATLAS

  I haven’t been to the OCC in years. I remember why as soon as I step out of our truck.

  Omega.

  There are hundreds of scents. Fresh and raw. Sweet, sultry, musky. Every flavor.

  None smell like mine.

  I fix Orion’s crisp apple scent in my brain. Instinct wants me running inside. My quads bunch, my muscles firing.

  It shouldn’t be like this.

  I have an omega.

  Our pack has an omega.

  “Holy shit.” Finn bounces on his toes, switch flipped back to wired.

  “This’ll be an adventure.” Hunter adjusts himself in his suit pants, locked onto the auditorium building.

  “Focus,” I bark. “We’re not shopping.” The two of them nod, but they’re still looking hungrily at the source of these maddening scents.

  It really shouldn’t be like this. Orion wears our bites. The pack is complete.

  But these scents are screwing with me. Making me restless, fingers twitching, and I’m not the only one.

  Jett looks cool as ever, but there’s a wildness in his eyes and a thrum along our pack bond. I grab his arm with one hand, and Finn’s with the other. Hunter does the same, pulling us into a tight square.

  Connected, we all settle.

  I take my first deep breath in what feels like hours, sending reassurance through our bond.

  This isn’t the first time my father’s come for our pack. It’s not even the first time he’s thrown us a new member. The dads thought adding a beta would even us out. Craig will never be pack, but we keep his ass around as an assistant just to keep the dads off ours. This girl is no different.

  She’ll never be one of us.

  “We’re going to jump through this hoop and pass the dads’ test. That’s all. We’ll prove that our pack can handle its shit.”

  Jett relaxes the tiniest fraction.

  “It shouldn’t be like this,” Hunter mumbles.

  I hope we’re not feeling the same thing—the pull that shouldn’t exist, the draw toward whatever’s inside that building that has me fighting the instinct to turn and barrel the fuck through the crowd.

  “Stay together,” I instruct. “We look, then we leave.” I lead inside and the guys flank me. Every step feels like a betrayal, but obligation keeps me moving forward.

  I’ll do anything to keep the pack together.

  Even this.

  The OCC complex is massive, and so is the main auditorium. Their security guys tense when they spot us rolling up with our not-so-concealed weapons. Hunter flashes an ID that sends them hopping back and spluttering.

  They know who we are.

  We step inside, and the crowded lobby goes quiet.

  They all know who we are.

  “In and out,” I remind the guys.

  An usher takes us to our seats in a private box that overlooks the theater. The ceiling’s painted with clouds, but we may as well be in hell.

  “My father’s here,” Jett mutters.

  And there’s the demon.

  Hikaru Wyvern lords over the show from the box across from us. He looks like an emperor, gazing coldly down at the kingdom he controls. He’s my father’s pack brother, technically my uncle, but nothing says family when his gaze pierces us.

  “Ignore him.” I keep Jett close. No matter how chill he looks on the outside
, long dark hair tied back, his tailored suit fresh, I can feel him coming apart at the seams. I pull out his pocket square and force it to his nose. “Breathe into that.”

  “This is barbaric,” he says, voice muffled through the cloth.

  “I know.” I can barely manage in the choking cloud of omega scents, so of course he’s losing his shit.

  We’re too visible in the box, the crowd in the seats below peeking up, whispering the Wyverns, the Wyverns. As much as I want to tear out of here, we can’t make a bad impression.

  Scorpio taught me that lesson with his belt.

  My manners reflect on him. My behavior reflects on him. Everything I do reflects on him.

  And everything we do reflects on Wyvern House.

  The smallest insult to our reputation could destroy the business and ruin the hundreds of lives, the families who depend on our work. The people we can save where the military and police fail.

  Wyvern House first.

  But my instincts are torn.

  Half of me says protect the pack. Take Jett home and get Orion in my arms. We don’t need this bullshit.

  Instead, I sit in my chair, taut and furious, buzzing from strange pheromones.

  Fucking finally, the lights go down and the music rises. The program starts with dances from toddling ballerinas who only know they’re omega from their blood tests, then the pre-teens in pre-awakening stage, and the older teen and twenty-something omegas who’re hitting their perfume.

  And hitting us with their perfume.

  They look too young and they smell too sweet. Like little powder puffs flouncing across the stage. Dozens of scents and not one is tempting.

  All they do is make me yearn for Orion’s rich apple taste on my tongue. His mature sweetness.

  Hikaru catches my eye before the final performance, giving me the nod.

  When the upper-level dance team struts out, my body goes rigid.

  She’s there.

  The omega who wants to break up my pack.

  The omega the dads think will fix us when all she’s going to do is zero in on every strained, fraying thread of our pack and tear us apart at the fucking seam.

  I already hate her.