Pack Darling, Part One by Lola Rock

Twenty-Five

LILAH

By the timethe doctors say I’m healed enough to go, it’s just me, Orion, and Hunter at the clinic.

They leave the suite while I change into the new clothes that someone bought me. There’s a pair of perfectly fitted jeans and a big, baggy, orgasmically comfortable Wyvern House hoodie that’s drenched in Atlas.

I bury my nose in the fabric. His scent is leather but not leather, something warmer and more lickable, like sex on the comfiest, coziest cloud. I want to rub myself down with him so that everyone knows exactly who I belong to.

That’s when I catch a hint of something else.

Caramel.

Burnt sugar and vanilla.

Like crème brûlée, freshly torched, with a scoop of ice cream melting on the side.

My scent.

My pheromones.

My perfume.

I think I’m going to throw up.

I strip off, dive into the shower, turn the water to scalding. Then I scrub myself red with de-scenting body wash, thankful as fuck that Wyvern Clinic is so bougie.

I scrub and scrub and scrub.

The water soaks my arm bandage and I’m pretty sure the nurses are going to ream me because it stings and it’ll probably get infected.

Bring on the sepsis.

Blood rot would hide my perfume.

When I’m clean enough to ace a sniff test, I towel off and grab the de-scenting lotion. I need more. Hair products. Pads. I need to cover every base.

The suite is stocked with everything. I ransack the cabinets and jam as much as I can hide into my bag.

“Lilah?” Orion knocks. “Are you ready? The doctor wants to talk before you get your discharge papers.”

“Just a second!” And speaking of discharge…

I shove a pad into my lacy new panties. If my perfume’s coming in, my body’s going to start with all the omega tricks.

My slick is a death sentence if one of the alphas catches a whiff—let alone Orion.

You saved my lifewon’t pull as much weight when my arousal slaps him in the face and hormones have me throwing myself at his mates, begging them to knot me.

Smoothing my hoodie with shaking hands, I try to breathe. Everything has changed, but nothing is different.

I need about three hours of laps in ice-cold lake water, followed by a marathon of treadmill and boxing. I’m too rested and hydrated after sleeping and being pumped full of IV fluids. I need to drain this energy to get back to normal. I need to wear myself out until I puke.

“Ready,” I call when I’m positive I’m scent-free.

Orion and Hunter enter, followed by a clean-cut beta doctor.

Hunter frowns at the wet hair soaking my hoodie. “You got your bandage wet?”

Shit. He sees too much, too quickly.

“I needed a shower.”

“You have to take better care of yourself, Miss Darling.” The doctor calls for a nurse to change my bandages, and his eyes pinch as he works himself into a lecture. “With your history of injuries, you need to make health and nutrition a priority if you’re ever going to resolve your late awakening and hit fertility.”

Right. Because my main concern after a gunshot wound should be opening the gates to my baby factory. “I hate children.”

The guy gapes like a koi fish. “That’s… Excuse me, I thought…”

Hunter rolls his eyes. “We’ll take good care of her.”

“Yes. Of course.” The doctor recovers from the fluster, and spouts a bunch of ultrabasic omega healthcare info that I could rattle off backward in Mandarin.

I know how my body works.

When I’m set with dry bandages, Orion and Hunter walk me down the stairs, and I try not to preen at how much I like being between them.

I can’t help sneaking peeks. Orion is every inch the prince, soft curls glittering in the sun, the perfect contrast to Hunter’s dark, knowing, action-figure vibe.

“Careful,” Hunter says, tugging me away from the umbrella stand I almost ate.

He sees everything, and I like him seeing me, watching over me.

I seriously have to get my shit together.

Whatever dopey smile I’m wearing dies when I spot the Jeep on the curb. Craig jumps up like their left-behind hound.

“Alpha. Omega.” He licks his lips, leaning a little too close to Orion, who draws back from him until his shoulder bumps mine.

It’s super clear that his simpering omega is for Orion and Orion only. Craig quirks a sneer when his gaze passes over me like I’m the trash bag they’re hauling into his ride.

It’ll be a goddamned miracle if I don’t stab this guy.

“Straight to the house,” Hunter says, helping me into the backseat.

“Yes, Alpha.” Craig hops to obey, opening the passenger door with a puppy dog look, and his cardboard scent swells with hope.

Orion shakes his head. “I’ll sit with Lilah.”

The back of my neck starts to sweat as the guys settle me in between them. The middle seat gives the perfect view of the rearview mirror and the glares that Craig keeps shooting.

Looks, I can handle. I’m worried what happens if his resentment turns to something more.

But it’s kind of hard to focus on the kicked-dog beta when I’m the meat in this hearty man sandwich. The backseat is all apples and honey and smoke, and I can’t tell if my perfume’s sneaking in the mix. I grip my thighs, trying to keep my hands to myself.

“You sure you’re not hurting?” Hunter asks. “We can call in a prescription for more pain meds.”

“I’ve had worse.” The bullet went clean through my arm. Yeah, it aches, but it’s professionally stitched and sanitized. Much better than all those times omegas clawed me to shit and I had to disinfect with hand sanitizer, fearing the nasty germs they had crawling under their nails.

Hunter rumbles. “We’re going to take care of you, Killer.”

“For real this time.” Instead of reacting to the nickname, Orion hesitantly touches my knee.

His touch is kerosene. The applesauce scent of him sucks down my windpipe, strokes down to my core, and settles in to stay. I squeeze my thighs against the sudden betraying wetness sparked by his attention.

His care.

Thank fuck for scent-neutralizing pads.

I can hardly breathe on the ride home. Hunter keeps asking me what I need and Orion drifts closer and closer, a brush of my shoulder, a bump of my thigh, and a soft, soothing purr that makes me want to squeeze him like my own personal body pillow.

When we finally park in the garage, Hunter offers me a hand down and doesn’t let go, leading me into the house.

“She can’t go that way.” Craig hops out in a snit. “She has to go around.”

“She can.” Orion takes my other arm.

“Do you want a room upstairs?” Hunter frowns. “The basement’s kind of…”

“I like it.” Because if I have to try to rest knowing these guys are just down the hall, I’ll cream myself in my sleep.

Every night.

“Come in.” Orion tugs my elbow. “Let me give you the tour of our McMansion.”

“You’re giving her free reign?” Craig chokes out. “But the pack—”

“Craig,”Hunter barks. “We need to talk. You two, go ahead.”

Orion pulls me into the house, and both our shoulders drop when the door cuts off the resentful cardboard scent.

“Why do you keep him around?” I ask the question that’s been bugging me since day one.

Now that I understand their pack vibe, I don’t get how Craig fits.

“He was our driver. Scorpio and the dads insisted we needed a beta for balance. It was easier to invite him as an assistant and say we were considering it than interviewing candidates we didn’t want.”

“So you’re stuck with him?” It boggles. Apparently, I’m not that special. The four founders love shoehorning members into their sons’ pack.

“Not forever. Just until Scorpio eases back.” Orion leads me down the hallway, but I can’t focus on the expensive bachelor pad decor.

“Will he ever? I mean, Exhibit A.” I wave at myself. “At some point, you’re the omega. It should be your decision who’s in or out.”

“Yes and no.” He huffs a breath, dropping the elbow that he was holding. Landmine. “It’s not that simple.”

But it should be that simple.

Both with Craig and with me.

Why is Orion tolerating us?

His word should be law. That’s what I was taught. As long as you have a reputable pack—not some mafia, underground, slavery nightmare—the omega is king or queen of the roost.

But with Orion pulling back from me, I keep it light. “Craig sucks at grocery shopping.”

Orion snorts, tension easing. “Yeah. I mean, I love sour cream and onion, but chips and dips? Not a food group. And downstairs is always in shambles.”

“You don’t have a cleaning staff?” I ask as Orion leads me past the kitchen, into a huge sunken living room filled with masculine leather sofas that reek like the pack and have me twitching to launch myself into the scattered cushions.

“I hate having anyone in the house.”

I wince. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine now.” He shows me the remotes and how to work the TV. “This is where we hang when everyone’s home, which these days is never.”

“You’re always alone?”

“Just me and my buddy Craig.” He jams the remote back into its charger cradle. “I’m banned from HQ until my perfume’s under control.”

Biting my lip, I can’t help giving him a sniff. I’ve grown up around so many crazed omegas, I have a good sense of where they are in their cycles. There’s this sharp, needy undertone that makes me sneeze when one’s edging to their heat.

It’s harder to tell with Orion because I’ve never met an omega who smells so fucking delicious, but if I push past the yummy, coat-me-in-that-shit apple amazingness, there’s a subtle sharpness that makes my nose itch. “When was your last heat?”

“Ten months ago.”

I suck in a breath. “That’s too long.”

“Tell me about it.” He ruffles his hair, rucking up the curls.

Males should cycle through their heat every three to six months, at most. Orion’s coming up on a full year.

As the world champion of avoiding heats, I’m also pretty fucking epic at diagnosing them. “How many hours of omega classes have you taken?”

“Two,” he says with a bashful rub of his neck.

Two!

With all the hormone shit we have to deal with, that’s not even an intro to omega lore.

Orion needs my help.

But does he want it?

“Could I maybe give you some advice? I swear I’m not poaching your territory. Just, I know all the omega stuff, and I know what it’s like, and—”

“Lilah.” Orion reaches in, silencing me by softly cupping my cheek. “I’ll take any help you can give. I’ve been going insane.”

“I’ll help,” I say before I can question why I’m volunteering myself for more trouble.

His touch melts my brain.

Orion shows me the rest of the ground floor. There’s a conservatory with a grand piano that gives me flashbacks of music lesson hell, and a huge bar that connects to the living room and patio where I can picture basking in the warm sun while the alphas rub me down in oil.

I’m swaying on my feet by the time we hit the stairway.

“Go rest. I’ll show you the upstairs later.” Orion escorts me back to the basement. “You sure you don’t need anything?”

“I have everything I need.” I give an awkward little wave and duck downstairs. When I shut the door behind me, I take a huge, shuddering breath.

The more I get to know the guys, the more scared I am.

Because what happens to me when I have to let them go?