Page 48 of Pack Nightmare

Chapter Twenty-Three

Layla

I know the guys sense my emotions—on some level, if not the same way I can sense their emotions—but there’s no way I can convey the devastation I feel in the wake of today’s fiasco. I take a shower and we have dinner, then watch a movie no one actually pays attention to.

And I know they’re just trying to be here for me. If I told them exactly what I needed, they would do it, no questions asked.

The problem is, I do not know what I need.

I want them close at the same time I want my space. I enjoy their comfort while simultaneously feeling smothered. I can’t make up my mind, and of course there’s no way for me to really make them understand how I feel.

Because in order to do that, I’d have to confess that yesterday afternoon I was making out with a man who was sent to kill me.

And I just can’t bear to see the betrayal in their eyes.

So when I feel like it’s late enough, I ask them to go home.

Roxanne rustles me up a prescription to help me sleep, and I escape from reality for a few blissful hours.

When the morning comes I’m still not ready to face it, not ready to face them.

So I roll over in bed and text the guys, and Roxanne, that I don’t feel well and I’m skipping class. Of course the guys offer to keep me company, and I turn them down, promising I’ll see them tonight at the ceremony for Jeremy.

Roxanne planned it all out. Apparently they have a special honor for people who die protecting the alpha. We’ll hold it at the run tonight, in front of the pack, in addition to the more public appreciation during the town festivities.

And I am really, truly grateful to Roxanne for handling all the arrangements. I can’t process how Jeremy so willingly laid his life down to protect me. It was just a couple of weeks ago he was backing Amber’s claim to challenge me as alpha. A month before that, he attacked me himself.

But I do have a better understanding of what it really means to be part of a pack. They needed me to prove myself worthy, and once I did, the loyalty is unflinching.

Even in the face of a magic-imbued knife.

I can’t say the same for Derrek.

As soon as the guys left last night, I lay in my bed and cried. Heavy, painful sobs, and yes, some of them were for Jeremy, but more of them were for me.

I only cried once after my parents died. I cried in shock and anger, in fear and guilt. But when it came time to grieve them, I couldn’t bring myself to do it. My eyes were dry at the funeral, and in the foster home, my tears never leaked from my eyes, no matter the humiliation or shame. On the streets I was Lex, a tough street kid, and I couldn’t afford to be sad or emotional. You can’t show weakness in the wilds or you become the prey.

But here, in this place, all of my carefully built walls have crumbled down, and I found myself overwhelmed with grief.

So I cried for my parents. I cried for the childhood they deprived me of, both as a beloved member of this pack, and as a loved daughter with adoring parents. I cried for the girl who got attacked by a literal witch on an LA street, her arms cut to ribbons and chest stabbed with a magical knife. The scars itched when I thought about it, and I rubbed them beneath the heavy fluff of my duvet as I cried some more.

I cried for the guilt of having three fated mates but still wanting another man, for the hurt I’m going to cause them again and again. And I cried for the girl whose hero was nothing but a villain who lied to her at every turn.

Because she loved him, and he broke her heart.

Derrek tried to text me last night, and I blocked his number. I shed some tears for that, too.

And so now, with bright midday sunlight streaming into my room, I’ve finally run out of tears. I understand the feeling of being all cried out now; I couldn’t shed another tear if I wanted to.

Of course, it could just be dehydration, but a part of me knows I’ve spent my grief, and it’s time for me to stop wallowing and do something about it. My head and my heart are heavy, and I would like nothing more than to lie here for days, but the pack is depending on me to lead them. In order to do that, I have to get up.

And eat something, because I’m starving.

I shoot Roxanne a text, and within twenty minutes there’s a knock at my door, Daphne rolling in a cart with silver-domed dishes.

She doesn’t comment on the state of my pink and puffy eyes, or my absolutely insane bedhead. She just smiles at me brightly, producing a tray that she settles over my lap and starts loading with dishes. I almost manage to find another tear when I see what she’s brought; it brings up a wave of nostalgia, memories of when I was sick as a child. Homemade chicken noodle soup with wide noodles and carrot slices, a bowl full of oyster crackers, and apple juice.

“Chef thought this would fix you right up,” Daphne fluffs a pillow for my back with a smile. “But when you’re finished, Susan sent this up as well.” She sets a small plate of the special cookies and a mug with an ornate ceramic cover on the nightstand. “She reckons you could use a pick-me-up.”

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