Page 17 of Pack Obsession

"Fancy." Her attempt at lightness falls flat. "Most criminal hideouts I’ve been in just order pizza."

Axel’s fork stills, and he grins. "Been in many, have you?"

"No, I..." Color touches her cheeks. "Sorry. Nervous humor."

"Eat." Logan’s voice carries that edge of command that makes most people jump to obey. But Casey just lifts her chin slightly, that steel I noticed earlier showing through.

"I’m trying." She takes another small bite. "It’s not easy with three Alphas staring at me like I might sprout wings and fly away."

"Would you?" The words slip out before I can stop them. "If you could?"

Her dark eyes meet mine across the table, and something electric passes between us.

"Wouldn’t you?"

I study her face—the way she holds herself like she’s expecting a blow—yet she doesn’t shy away, and I admire that.

"Hell, yeah, I’d fly away." I lean back. "Straight to Norway. All those fjords and mountains. Perfect place to disappear."

"Boring." Axel spears a piece of steak. "Give me Thailand. Full moon parties and amazing street food."

A ghost of a real smile touches her lips. "Hawaii for me. Where my family’s from."

That explains the exotic blend of her features—the sun-kissed skin, those eyes that captivate me.

"Missing the beaches?" Axel asks, but there’s something careful in his tone.

Her smile fades. "Haven’t been back since I was little. Before..."

Logan watches her over his glass, those eyes missing nothing. The weight of what she’s not saying fills the silence—before her parents’ death, which we’d found in our research after taking the job, before her running from Nexus, before Julian.

She lets the word hang there, offering nothing more, then turns to Logan.

"What about you? Where would you escape to?"

Logan sets down his fork, and for a moment, I think he won’t answer.

"Mountains," he says finally. "Somewhere with snow. Like Alaska or the Alps."

"Of course, you’d pick somewhere that requires survival skills," Axel snorts. "Bet you’d build your own cabin, too."

"Better than your beach parties and mystery meat from street vendors."

"Hey, I’m still alive, aren’t I?"

They both chortle.

She’s grinning, and fuck, but she’s beautiful. Her fork moves more steadily now, small bites of steak disappearing as she studies us.

I find myself staring at her hands—delicate but strong, nails short and practical. The way she holds her fork suggests she attended the proper finishing school training for Omegas.

"I’m finished," she says finally, setting her knife down. "Thanks for dinner, but I’m tired now."

"I’ll show you to your room." The words come out fast, and I’m on my feet.

A flash of uncertainty crosses her face, yet she follows me upstairs, her boots silent on the hardwood.

I’m hyperaware of her presence behind me, of how I picture the way her loose shirt and pants do nothing to hide her curves...

---