Page 58 of Pack Nightmare

“Yeah, there’s a lot to unpack there.”

“Tell me about it.”

We both sit and consider in silence. The sun is hot on my shoulders, and I pull my sweater off to use as a pillow, sprawling out in my t-shirt on the grass. Milo remains sitting up, thinking. I can’t imagine how hot the sun feels on his black shirt, but he doesn’t seem to mind.

“What if we try to pick apart our narrative of what happened with the curse?”

Milo’s voice is slow, thoughtful.

“Okay,” I reply evenly. “Like how?”

“Well, say we choose just one supposed fact and assume it’s wrong. That would mean we’d have to adjust the rest of our assumptions accordingly, right?”

“Okay… give me an example.”

“Sure. What if… Pack Montrose didn’t split from us because they were selfish or traitors. What if they split from us for a different reason, one that is less evil-sounding than that?”

I mull it over for a minute. “So if that were the case… you could make an argument that the curse was an unintended consequence of their attempt to free themselves from our pack… for whatever reason.”

“Right, exactly! So if the curse wasn’t intentional, then perhaps the death of Lily’s great aunt wasn’t intentional, either.”

“That’s a possibility. But the problem remains: we know they sent first Derrek, then Azalea, to kill Layla. So even if they didn’t mean to kill Lilliana three generations back, them trying to kill Layla and her mom is still a constant. That doesn’t change.”

“Well, what if we assume it isn’t Pack Montrose who sent them? What if the witches went rogue, or maybe someone in the pack sent them, but not everyone in the pack feels the same way or knows about it?”

I sit up abruptly. “This feels like it could go on forever. We can make up imaginary scenarios all we want, but it’s just too much speculation and not enough fact.”

“I know,” Milo agrees, pulling off his glasses and rubbing his face. “But there’s something here, something that doesn’t quite add up. I can feel it, teasing the back of my mind, daring me to sort it out. And for Lily’s sake, I really want to.” He looks up and holds my gaze. “I… I love her, you know? I want her to be happy here, with us. Whatever it takes.”

My throat is thick; it’s hard to swallow. I don’t think I’ve ever heard Milo use the L-word. Not even about his own parents. Not even when we were kids, and we ‘loved’ random shit like BMX bikes and anime.

“I know what you mean.” My voice is hoarse when I finally force the words out. “I’ll think about it some more, but I’m getting nothing right now. Let’s go get something to eat. We need brain food. Do you need to change before the game?” I side-eye his khakis and loafers. “The temperature is going to drop tonight.”

“Nah, I’m fine.” He stands, brushing off his pants. “I have some stuff in the back of Jared’s truck for tonight. You want Badger’s?”

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Layla

And just like a 90s teen movie, the day of the big dance has arrived.

The football game last night wasn’t that much more crowded than normal—I think the town pretty much turns out for all the games regardless—but there was definitely more excitement in the air, higher stakes on winning. Naturally, our star player—my mate—led us to victory, and it was a night of triumph and celebration.

I suppose in some way, the entire household at Harridan House has adopted me as their daughter/sister/granddaughter, besides just being their alpha. I’ve seen makeover montages in movies before, but I’ve never seen so many people excited for me to experience something so outwardly benign. Mrs. Dowling has the maids hustling into my room when the sun is barely up, and after a quick breakfast I’m treated to an epic makeover.

Apparently Daphne’s cousin owns the nail salon in town, so Cheri comes up to provide nail services in my suite before she opens up her shop. Not having ever experienced a manicure or pedicure, I’m left feeling both raw and picked at, and yet strangely pampered. I try to pay her but she won’t hear of accepting money, so I resolve to patronize her in the future. I send Roxanne a text and she promises to put it on my calendar.

After my nails are polished and sparkling, Roxanne lines a pile of new skin products up on my counter and explains the order in which we’re going to treat my skin. I’m really not feeling the need for it, so she threatens to haul me into town for a full spa facial, and we settle on doing it together in my bathroom instead.

At some point, after the hurt from her deceit faded, our relationship warmed again. It’s still not exactly maternal, although Roxanne is twice my age. But she definitely feels like an attentive older sister, or an adoring aunt.

And I hate to admit, but we have fun painting the clay masks on each other with tiny fan brushes, trying to follow the fifteen gazillion steps this at home facial kit she bought requires. I knew Roxanne loved to shop, but I didn’t know she was obsessed with Korean beauty products. She promises to show me her stockpile at another time, and when I ask what the weirdest thing she’s bought is, she admits to owning a 24 karat gold Hello Kitty moisturizing mask.

It’s amazing how people can continue to surprise you. I always assumed she loaded me up with those products because she thought I wanted them. I had no idea that behind the very practical facade, Roxanne is secretly a hoarder of kitschy Korean pop beauty.

We break for lunch, and then things get serious. I haven’t given a thought to how I’d do my hair, but Roxanne already has a plan. I take a shower and leave my dripping mane in her hands, trying to relax instead of focusing on the nerves zinging through my body. Roxanne’s hands are gentle, and she combs products through my hair, then gently dries it a chunk at a time on a low setting with a lot of scrunching, and finally she begins pulling sections up and pinning them.

Naturally, she’s got me in the suite, so I can’t see what’s going on until it’s finished. Her eyes glow with anticipation as she steers me to the bathroom, and I finally get to see the artful updo she’s created, complete with a tiara that shines like diamonds in my dark hair. Instead of a frizzy, wild mane, she’s worked my hair into large, loopy curls that shine.

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