Page 34 of Pack Obsession

"He’s worried about me and..." I meet his gaze, hating how my words softens, how vulnerable the truth makes me feel. "He’s all the family I have left."

Something shifts in Nash’s expression. The hard edges crumble for just a moment, and I see past the tough-guy facade to something raw underneath.

Loss recognizing loss.

"Leave it to me," he says quietly, running a hand through his hair. "I’ll think of a way to reach him." He pauses, then adds so softly I almost miss it, "I know what it’s like to have almost no family. The ones you do have, you hold on to for dear life."

The unexpected vulnerability in his words catches me off guard. Questions bubble up—about his family, his past.

"I’ll let you get back to your shower."

I retreat to the bathroom, racing back under the hot water.

After a long wash, I step out of the shower, wrap myself in one of those ridiculously soft towels, and freeze. There, laid out on my bed like some high-end boutique display, are clothes. Not just clothes—an entire wardrobe. Price tags still dangling, and… holy shit, is that Gucci? My fingers brush over soft denim, trembling slightly as I check the tag. Yep. Gucci. More zeros than my bank account’s ever seen.

But it’s the lingerie that makes me pause. Black lace La Perla underwear and matching bra, exactly my size, which is either impressive intel-gathering or seriously creepy. Probably both.Did Nash pick these out? The mental image of him in a lingerie store, those stern glasses sliding down his nose as he debates cup sizes, makes me snort despite myself.

The pile of clothes seems endless. Three pairs of designer jeans. Silk blouses in jewel tones, casual shirts, too. Cashmere sweaters soft enough to sleep in. There are even dresses—a black cocktail number that probably cost more than my old apartment’s rent and a flowing sundress in a deep blue that.. actually looks like something I’d pick. And tucked beside them, a pair of Louboutin heels that have my mouth gaping open. Apparently, I’ll need six-inch stilettos while running from whatever chaos these guys have planned.

I grab the Gucci jeans, admiring how perfectly they fit. The cropped black top hits just above my navel, showing a strip of skin that makes me feel both powerful and exposed. The Balenciaga trainers are practical, at least, though I try not to think about their price tag. I quickly hang the rest of the clothes in my wardrobe, the least I can do after being given such an expensive set of clothes.

A flare of anxiety curls through me about how much they’ve spent on me, yet when I look around the house, they have money. It’s just something I’m not used to. Which then leads my worries to float to the heist, and what if I’m making a terrible mistake and I will ruin their chances of completing it? What if I cause them to get caught?

I curl the tips of my hair, gnawing on my lower lip, trying to remind myself that if they didn’t want me, then they would have agreed, right? Pushing back those thoughts, refusing to let them drown me, I head out of the room. I have no space for doubt as my options are limited right now.

The house is tomb-silent when I step out, my footsteps echoing on hardwood floors. No sign of Nash, though his whiskey glass has vanished like morning mist. Logan mentionedsomething about me hunting him, which sounds like the world’s worst first idea or some twisted Alpha power play.

I check the back door, pressing my face against the cool glass to peer into the dense woods behind the house. The trees stand lofty, branches swaying in a breeze I can’t feel. No sign of movement. No sign of life at all of any of the Alphas.

This whole hunting thing seems ridiculous, anyway. Maybe it’s his kink. Rich boy likes playing prey.

The kitchen yields better discoveries—fresh bagels and cream cheese, the fridge mysteriously restocked overnight. I devour one bagel, cream cheese dripping down my fingers, and contemplate a second while chugging orange juice straight from the bottle. Not like anyone else is around to judge my manners.

Speaking of around... The silence starts to feel heavy, pressing against my skin like a warning. I head upstairs, but every door is either locked tight or leads to empty rooms that feel staged, like a movie set waiting for actors. My knocks echo unanswered down long hallways that all look the same.

"Hello, anyone around?"

Silence.

Time to do what any self-respecting kidnapping victim would do—go snooping.

The first floor reveals nothing interesting—a couple of sterile offices with locked computers, a gym that looks barely used despite the expensive equipment, and some kind of tech room humming with servers behind a locked door that probably costs more than my entire life. But as I’m heading back to the kitchen, I spot another staircase. Leading down.

Wait. Didn’t Logan specifically mention not going to the east wing basement?

My feet are moving before I can talk myself out of it. The stairs curve down into darkness, concrete replacing hardwood under my feet. The temperature falls with each step, raisinggoosebumps on my arms. My hand traces rough stone walls until I find a light switch. The bulb flickers once, then twice before steadying into a sickly fluorescent glow that illuminates a long hallway with only a few doors in either direction. Definitely where the torturing happens. I cringe at my own joke.

The last door creaks when I push it open, the sound skating down my spine like ice. I fumble for another switch and?—

"Oh, shit."

It’s like walking into a movie scene. The kind where they show the serial killer’s lair, except everything here is meticulously organized. Military grade. Weapons line the walls—handguns, others I don’t want to think about. Display cases hold knives that gleam under the fluorescent lights, their edges promising beautiful violence. There’s a table with straps that I really hope is for weapon maintenance and various implements that look designed for extraction—of information or teeth, I’m not sure I want to know.

These guys aren’t just retrievers. No way. This is... this is...

"Finding everything okay?"

I spin so fast, I nearly fall, my heart leaping into my throat. Logan leans against the doorframe, a heavy duffle bag slung over one shoulder. His usual tech-bro outfit is replaced with tactical gear that hugs his lean frame, and the look in his eyes is anything but amused. Something dark lurks there, something that screams for me to run while another part of me wants to step closer.

---