Page 44 of Pack Baines

It’s only that look that has me pulling out my spare pen and handing it over.

“Thanks,” he salutes me with the pen before turning around and, for the next two hours, we all remain silent while we jot down notes on everything the professor will be covering with us for the next school year.

By the time the two hours are up, my hand is cramping from the speed I was writing, and my back aches from the stiff position I’ve been sitting in for much too long.

A pen falls to my desk while I’m clicking my fingers, and the guy who looks like he was born and raised in a tattoo parlor smiles awkwardly and says, “Thanks for that. Forgot most of my shit this morning. I was rushing.”

I shrug. “Don’t have to explain to me. I get it. Happy to help.”

Truthfully, I wasn’t. I’m not a people person, so the sooner he stops talking to me, the better.

“Yeah, you look it,” the guy snorts, heaving his own shit up from the floor.

Rolling my eyes, I mutter, “I’m helpful, but introverted. It’s a fucking curse.”

“Welcome to my world,” the guy agrees, and my lips twitch as this moment turns into a weird little bonding thing between strangers. It’s as weird as it is amusing, and the funny little cringe on the guy’s face tells me he thinks exactly the same.

Chewing the inside of my mouth, debating what I’m meant to do from here and doing my best not to feel as awkward as this encounter has grown, I decide to bite the bullet and try to make a friend. Holding my hand out, I sigh like this is costing me a piece of my soul and introduce myself. “Juniper.”

The dude eyes my hand, snorts, and slides his against mine. He’s warm, but nowhere near as warm as my alphas and beta. In fact, they smell better than him, too, though he smells pleasant enough. He shakes my hand and says, “Munro.”

My eyebrows raise. “Cool name.”

“Thanks,” he snickers, and we release each other’s hands at the exact same time, and a bubble of amusement flares to life. It appears I have met the guy version of myself, and my lips twitch when I watch him wipe his hand on his jeans. I’ve already wiped mine on mine beneath the desk, and I’m pretty sure he knows it, too, based on the amused little eyebrow quirk he sends me.

I shrug a shoulder and mutter, “People freak me out.”

“You’re my people, because same,” he mutters. To be fair to him, he genuinely looks both amused and disturbed trying to hold a conversation with me.

Grabbing my things, I step around the desk and ask, “You’ll be in the same classes as me all year, right?”

“All three years’ worth of classes, if neither one of us drops out,” he confirms, falling into step with me as we leave the class.

I nod slowly, and we walk in silence for a long moment. It’s weirdly comfortable, neither one of us feeling any kind of need to fill the space between us. It’s the first time I’ve met anyone who can simply hang out in peace and quiet with me since meeting Mack. I’ll have to call that grumpy bastard today.

Just as we leisurely stride down another hall, I decide to broach the topic of becoming… friends? I don’t know, this whole thing is painfully weird to me. I’m friendless for a reason. From my whole life experience, people really fucking suck. Only my pack and those that created them are the exception to that rule, rare enigmas that I’m sure were gifted to me by divine intervention. Everyone else can go fuck themselves. Well, maybe not this guy, since he actually seems chill enough that I could probably tolerate his presence for longer than a few minutes.

“I know no one here save for my pack,” I explain, hiking my bag up my shoulder and shrugging like it’s no big deal that I’m trying to purposely befriend someone. “You want to reluctantly strike up a friendship? I could do with hanging out with someone who doesn’t make me want to gouge my eyes out.”

“High praise,” he blandly drawls, but I catch his lips twitching like he’s finding the entire situation funny. “But sure. My pack will get a kick out of hearing that I actually made a friend today. Apparently, my antisocial behavior is suited for prisons and gangs, or whatever the fuck Pace said. Asshole alpha.”

I bite my lip to stop laughing. “Apparently, my attitude towards people is only good for serial killers and assassins, or whatever Creek said. Alphas, man. Assholes, the lot of ‘em.”

Munro barks a surprised laugh and looks down at me with dark-brown eyes. “How many do you have to cope with?”

“Four and a beta,” I snicker. “You?”

“All four of them are alphas. I’m the only beta. Trust me, it’s as bad as it sounds,” he groans dramatically, running a tatted hand through his dark hair littered with pretty curls.

Grinning, because I know all about the troubles of a group of alphas even if I didn’t know they were alphas at the time, we continue down several hallways, down the two sets of stairs I had to heave my sorry ass up to get to class, and down one last hallway before we finally enter the fancy cafeteria that damn near makes my mouth fall open in shock.

It’s beautiful, like something out of a British dining hall filled with stained-glass windows, chandeliers, and lines of tables and chairs littered with students enjoying their morning break.

“Holy shit,” I whisper, eyeing the massive room much like Belle did in that movie about a beast and a wilting enchanted rose.

Munro snorts, eyeing me like he’s amused, and says, “Wait until you see the library. Better than this, if you can believe.”

“Damn. No wonder so many rich kids come here,” I mutter under my breath, not quite bitter, but more low-key envious that the wealthy are granted things like this as though it’s just another day in life for them. Knowing that I had to work my ass off to get a scholarship here almost makes me hate every rich kid here. I probably would hate them if I gave a shit, but, as it was, I’m simply happyenough to be here and get on with life. It’s no business of mine what rich kids are doing.

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