Page 126 of Justice for Puck Bunnies

“Request denied, Wyatt Pack. I’m not going to hold you back from finding your perfect omega. Thank you for the kindness you’ve shown me. Allow me to return the favor.”

A single tear falls down her cheek, but she pivots on her high heels and streams out of the room.

* * *

Izzy

Chunky Monkey solidifies on my shirt. The carton split at the top and melted ice cream leaked out.

Jolie’s asleep on the couch beside me, but my mind won’t settle. It hasn’t settled in the three hours since my guys barreled back into my life and sucker punched me with cold bureaucracy.

They were so convincing at first. Seeing them there, dressed like gorgeous hockey gods, their live scents filling my nose and their eyes on me the greatest aphrodisiac, and I was ready to strip naked and beg right then and there.

And then Trick started talking about paperwork.

It was all so clinical and devoid of inflection. I understand why they did it, I even appreciate it, but I can’t handle more time as their not-girlfriend.

My heart will be torn to shreds again, and I’ve been working really hard to sew it back together.

The rom-com plays out on the screen, and Jolie snorts once and settles back into sleep.

Wyatt Pack is making a formal request to court Omega Isabelle Sutton.

The vision of Trick reading the words has branded on my brain.

I didn’t even get a hello. No recognition of the time apart. Straight into the business.

The Admin is a stickler for these types of things. They want to avoid any appearance of impropriety or lack of consent. It’s part of how they sell it to the families of young omegas.

I’ve never envisioned what it would be like receiving a stack of documents as a courting proposal, but it can’t possibly be like that every time.

I suppose most omegas don’t know their packs terribly well, so maybe it’s less awkward.

The credits roll, but still I sit here with my sticky shirt and skin.

My reminder alarm goes off, and I shoot a message to my case supervisor. After my levels spiked at the meeting, I had to promise to check in hourly to avoid more invasive intervention.

The Admin is watching.

If I get into my nest, it’ll smell like them, and then I’m going to lose it for real. I’ll probably end up committed anyway.

My burner beeps, and I check my notifications to find PuckFunny’s replying to something I said again.

Jolie’s clearly asleep next to me. My bullshit meter sucks. I really thought she was catfishing me. Maybe I’ve miraculously found a friend on the internet. Stranger things have happened.

Perhaps this is what I need. A little good humor to settle my mind so I can sleep on this awful, uncomfortable couch.

The notification isn’t for a reply though. The account has sent me a DM.

Not a fucking chance. Fear and anxiety explode in my chest.

Immediately, I sight the go-bag by the front door with cash and Jolie’s spare key. The message suggests they’ve found me, which means it’s time to run.

The response is immediate though.

The account attaches a link to a post Vin made earlier today. He’s burning his hand as he takes my amaretto chocolate chip cookies out of the oven.

Catfishing as Vin is a bridge too far. There’s only one reply I can make.

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