Page 50 of Pack Larsen

But that doesn’t mean I’m not intrigued now. I’ve had time to cool off, had plenty of orgasms to tame my bad attitude towards the beta, fucked so thoroughly that I’ve found a strange, little slice of Zen that wasn’t present before. It’s because of that, I guess, that I find myself uttering, “Fine. I’ll hear you out. Won’t change that I’m pissed at you, but I’ll listen to whatever you need to get off your chest.”

As though my words are what he was hoping to hear but didn’t dare to hope for, his body tenses before he relaxes with an audible sigh of relief when he realizes I’ve agreed. I’ll probably regret it later, but I’ve gone and done it now, so it would makemefeel like the bag of dicks if I yelled ‘psyche’ now and skipped away without another thought.

Anyway, I’m too curious about what he has to say for himself.

Munro nods, clenching his teeth a couple of times, his sharp jaw flexing a couple of times before he finally says, “Thank you, princess. I’ll see you at home.”

And with that little mind fuck, he disappears after Juno quickly, almost like he’s afraid I’ll change my mind if he lingers longer than necessary. I’m forced to spend the remainder of my classes in a state of dread and curiosity, barely focusing in class and hitting the wrong note on the piano more times than I care to acknowledge, all the while conjuring possible scenarios for the conversation I’m bracing for with a beta who hates me.

Why the hell do I get myself into these situations?

***

I’m chewing on my thumbnail, staring at my computer screen that has long since faded to black after falling asleep from disuse.

Sitting in my chair with my foot pressed into the seat and my leg tucked against my desk, the opposite leg bouncing rapidly with a weird and uncomfortable buzz of nerves I can’t seem to shake, I glance at the neon-pink clock hanging on the wall of my studio for the billionth time.

Nothing has been able to shake me of the strange anxiety that has plagued me since agreeing to a chat with Munro motherfuckin Villin. Not an after-school quickie with Aero that started with his tongue devouring places no man has ever eaten before and ending with both of us covered in sweat and cum and gasping for air. Not eating a quiet dinner with Pace, the twins, and Aero, where they all held mindless conversation while I zoned out, not even feeling Pace’s intense gaze on me like I usually do. Not a brief girly phone call with Juniper that ended in her cussing Evron out for eating the last of her cake pops. And not the long shower I took before locking myself away in my studio to await my death sentence. Dramatic? Maybe. But I’ll be shot with a stun gun and pissed on if I don’t feel like I’m walking death row by agreeing to talk to Munro.

I’m so lost in thought that I don’t notice there’s a body loitering in the doorway for a long moment, my teeth chewing down my nails until they look haggard and gross, promising a trip to a nail salon is absolutely on the cards for my future. It’s the clearing of a throat that breaks me free of my internal panic, and I startle with a minor yelp that I trap with my hand over my mouth.

“Sorry. I did knock,” Munro rushes, cringing when I slap a hand over my chest and drop my head back with a deep sigh as I try to control the rapid pounding of my heart. Not that it’ll work, because there mere sight of the tatted adonis has it skipping several beats and doing somersaults beneath my rib cage.

Clearing my throat and scrubbing my hands over my face, I mutter, “Room is soundproof. Aero and the twins have resorted to texting or calling when they’re trying to get my attention.”

Munro winces and looks away. “I don’t have your number.”

Heaving a hefty sigh, I contemplate my next action for a brief moment before deciding it’s a good idea if for nothing but becoming an emergency contact for the others if he needs it. “Give me your phone.”

Scowling at me, though with less sass than usual, Munro retrieves his cell from his back pocket and hands it over, considerate of keeping his fingers from brushing mine. I’m dutifully ignoring the pang of disappointment that comes with the near touch, because I don’t need to be disappointed by it. I’m pissed at the guy, for fuck’s sake!

Typing my number into his phone and saving it under ‘Princess’ with an accompanying tiara, I hand his cell back over and gesture for him to head over to the cushioned couch tucked away in the corner of the studio.

Accepting his cell, he peers down at his screen and snorts. “Princess. Nice.”

“Seemed right,” I volley, following after him as he walks toward the couch and claims a seat on the end, closest to the door as though he’s bracing for a possible getaway should he need one. That’s promising.

Deciding to get this shit-show over with sooner than later and before I ruin my nails entirely, I blurt, “Alright. You wanted to talk, so talk. I’m all ears.”

As soon as the words have slipped free, I brace myself for the worst, building walls around my heart and defenses around my body like a shield of armor that will hopefully repel any assholish things he wants to launch at me.

Here goes nothing.

Chapter 19

Silver

“Straight to the point,” Munro breathes, now looking as nervous as I am. Great. Because that makes me feel better about whatever the hell is about to leave his mouth. When I don’t bite at the hook he’s thrown at me, ignoring it entirely in lieu of staring at him with a patience I don’t feel, he nods and his face falls with acceptance. He licks his lip for a moment before he finally asks, “Have you heard the name Veronica mentioned at all?”

I don’t bother lying, because what’s the point? “Yeah, I know the name. No idea who it is other than she seems like a royal bitch.”

Munro snorts humorlessly and shakes his head as his inky gaze drops to the floor, like looking at me and explaining his story would be too much at the same time, so I sink into the cushions of the couch as I wait.

“That’s one way to put it. She was my girlfriend up until a year ago. We dated for two years before things ended,” he explains, and I suddenly hate the cunt as fiercely as I hate onions and the scent of lavender. I don’t even try to evaluate why that is, but it’s like a switch is flipped inside me that went from indifferent towards this stranger to wanting to set her house on fire with her in it. It’s actually kind of alarming, and I’m right back to chewing my fingernails like the troubled omega I clearly am.

“She was an omega, came from a wealthy family, and had the world at her fingertips. I thought the world of her,” he says bitterly, and the hate for the girl only grows, because I don’t like that I have things in common with her. Don’t like it at all. “For the longest time, I thought she was the perfect girl. Smart, funny, beautiful. She was popular with everyone, thought highly of. I couldn’t believe my luck when she decided to give me a shot. The poor foster kid with only a few clothes and personal belongings to his name. I thought I’d hit the jackpot, and not because of her money. I didn’t care about it, because the way she looked at me made me feel richer than any amount of dollars could.”

Mhm. Yep. Burning her whole house to the ground.

---