Page 53 of Pack Larsen

The first spark of excitement finally breaks through the anxiety and tremulous thoughts that are plaguing me today, and I remove the dress from the hanger. With careful movements, I slip the dress on over the pretty, light-pink underwear I’ve donned for the evening, my lace bra almost invisible against my pale flesh.

As soon as the zipper is in place at my back, I adjust my breasts and meander to the floor-length mirror. I’m smiling at the reflection that looks back at me, my body encased in a gorgeous dress while my pale-blonde-and-pastel hair sits in rollers all over my head.

The dress, a bare-shouldered cocktail dress with draped sleeves that hang around my biceps and a poofy skirt that falls just above my knees, is the color of starlight. The sweetheart neckline corset is made of pale-silver lace and bone, revealing the tease of skin between my breasts and waist. From there, the lace falls in an overlay of the skirt that swooshes prettily when I twist. But the best part about the entire dress are the small pastel pink flowers that have been sewn all over the dress, forming a delicate pattern of color that starts from my right breast and ends at the hem of the left side of the skirt.

It’s the most Silver Gage-looking dress in existence, and I have no idea how I got lucky enough to find it.

Humming to myself and brushing my hand over the full skirt, I take one more look in the mirror before I start removing the rollers in my hair. It doesn’t take long before my blonde-and-pastel strands are falling over my shoulders in a homemade blow out that would make any hair stylist proud.

With just a little fluff and a respectable amount of hairspray, I fix my hair to perfection, years of practice coming to me with a wave of dread. I force back the memories of being forced to make myself presentable and perfect to my mother and the potential packs she would introduce me to, and focus instead on the expression on my mother’s face when she sees me. The colors are far from what she would have chosen for me in the past, usually opting for darker colors that contrast with my fair skin. I can just picture the irritated sneer she’ll have painted over her face now, and what a glorious sight it is.

Lips tugging up into a smile, I retrieve my strappy, five-inch heels before sitting on the ottoman by the island in the middle of the room. I place my feet into the gorgeous pale-pink heels, wrapping the straps up my leg until the crisscross patterns end with a bow just beneath my knees.

As soon as I’m done, I take a final check of my reflection in the mirror before nodding with approval. I retrieve my purse, a matching pink to my heels, and my cell, snapping a pic in the mirror and send it to Juniper before I leave the closet and my nest.

I’m dialing Juniper’s number as I meander down the empty hallway, the clacking of my heels echoing through the house.

“What’s up, buttercup?” Evron answers instead of my bestie, and I snort.

“Is my little thundercloud around? I sent her a picture of my dress and I want her opinion,” I answer, checking my purse and ensuring I have everything I need in there. Suppressant pills, ibuprofen, hand sanitizer, gloss, a packet of gum, the usual.

“She’s just getting out of the shower, but I am fully equipped to offer my unbiased and dude-like opinion if you want it,” Ev informs, and I can hear the grin in his voice.

Laughing, I decide fuck it. Pack Larsen aren’t here to offer me their opinions, so my best friend’s alpha will have to do. “Sure, go ahead. Tell me what you think.”

“Hold please,” the funny dude quips with a voice fit for a receptionist.

I wait for him to open the photo, and I’m grinning when his loud laughter breaks through the speaker phone. When he comes back, it’s with an amused tone that cheers me up. “Okay, so the dress is awesome. Very you. The middle finger seems out of place, though. I’d expect that from my omega, not you.”

“What can I say? I’m feeling some type of way,” I snicker, rounding a corner and heading down a different hallway that will lead me to the stairs.

“Because of your mom?” Ev wonders lightly, and I roll my eyes. Fucking Juniper and her gossiping ways.

“Because of the woman that birthed me and the men that played a part in that conceivement, yeah,” I answer since there’s no point lying about it, especially if my blabbermouth bestie already shared my tales of woe with her pack. “I’m high-key dreading this shit show, and I was hoping my darling best friend could talk me off the ledge. But it’s fine. You’re confirming that I’m funny was enough.”

“I didn’t do that,” Ev points out with a snicker.

“You laughed. That’s basically singing a declaration that I’m the funniest person you know,” I quip, making him laugh again and confirming my batshit logic. “Anway, tell your omega to give me a call later so I can divulge the hell I suffered. Get your popcorn ready, because I don’t doubt it’s going to be a messy night.”

Still chuckling, Ev agrees. “I’ll do that. Try to enjoy yourself, hon.”

I make a dismissive sound before we say our goodbyes and the call ends, just as I reach the top of the staircase and begin my descent. I’m so focused on putting one foot in front of the other, praying I don’t go tumbling down the stairs in heels that could break my neck with one bad ankle roll, that it takes me a moment to realize I’m not alone.

A low wolf whistle startles me enough that I grip the handrail of the stairs, my head snapping up quickly to accost the asswad that scared me while I’m trying to avoid death. Only, the moment my eyes snap up from the stairs, I still like a stone statue, my mouth falling open in shock while my heart stalls in my chest.

At the end of the stairs stand five men all dressed in perfectly-fitted tuxedos, each one looking as delicious as the last.

Pace is encased in an inky tux with a crisp, white shirt beneath his jacket, his slacks hugging his broad thighs and ending with a pair of glossy oxfords on his feet. His hair is styled to perfection, neatly pushed back in a faux hawk that doesn’t look absurd on him, and he flashes me a sexy smile as I run my gaze all over him like an addict getting her fix before moving on to the twins.

Haze and Rage are both in matching, three-piece gray tuxedos, their collars lined with black stitching and black shirts beneath their smart waistcoats. Their usually messy, coffee-colored hair has been styled artfully, their strands still somewhat of a mess, but an intentional one that makes them look as dashing as Pace. They’re both wearing killer smirks, though Haze’s expression holds more humor than his brother's intensely-heated gaze as they run their own eyes all over me.

Very much in the same way Aero runs his pale eyes along my body, starting from my strappy-heel-covered feet and makes his way up. I do the same to him, checking him out without shame. He’s wearing a shirt that looks a similar color to my dress, tucked beneath a baby-pink waistcoat with glittering silver stitching that creates an elaborate pattern all across the front panels. His pants are a matching pink, his hair is tied in a messy bun at the crown of his head with several strands escaping the tie and framing his face, and it looks like he’s trimmed and neatly styled his facial hair to polish the look off.

As shocked as I am, nothing could have floored me more than when my eyes fall on Munro, and I have to blink rapidly to double check I’m actually awake and seeing what my eyes are showing me. It seems utterly surreal to be looking at the devilishly handsome wearing all black, from his jacket and slacks, to his shirt tucked neatly beneath the waistband of his belted slacks. His shirt is open, the buttons undone down to the middle of his chest, showing off endless artwork of ink etched into his skin from the top of his neck all the way down to where it disappears beneath his clothing. Even his inky-black hair has been slicked back, revealing a tattoo along his hairline I didn’t even know he had. He looks like he just stepped out of a damned mafia book, his hands tucked in his pockets as he eyes me back with appreciation and heat, which has to be the most confusing part of all of this.

My mouth is practically touching the floor as I run my eyes all over them again, noticing how fucking hot they look. They’re all gorgeous, each of them walking Adonises put on this earth to appease the female gaze, but I’ll be damned if I’m not suddenly perfuming at the sight of them dressed smartly.

Despite my distraction, my eyes lap up the sight of five handsome men standing at the bottom of the stairs with smiles, grins, and anticipatory expressions, I have to wonder why. But why are they dressed smartly? And how the hell has Aero managed to dress in perfect synchrony to me?

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