Page 76 of This Pack of Ours

“That’s the nest,” Kit said faintly, hand stroking my hair. His purr had stuttered out, leaving me spinning, and almost falling into full panic.

“We have to check the whole place,” moustache said with a shrug.

“That’s his nest,” I said desperately. Kit had frozen behind me, and weasel-face gave a derisive snort, rolling his eyes and stepping into the room. Something desperate snapped inside me.

“No,” I snarled, and the weasel-face’s hand went to his taser as I lurched forwards. But then Kit was there, cradling my head to his chest, extinguishing my anger enough that I could stop.

His purr rumbled to life again, and I focused on that, trying to block out the terrifying sounds coming from behind the door. Fabric ripping, a heavy thump and cracking sound.

Panic built in me, and I twitched, but Kit’s arms tightened around me. He seemed perfectly calm, except for the paleness in his knuckles as he held me tight. If Kit could hold it together—Kit, who once cried when he lost a cookie—then I could too.

The officers came back out to the living area where we were standing, weasel-face calmly taking notes on his clipboard. I could barely see them through the tears of rage streaming down my face. I was trying to shut down, trying to mentally retreat from this torture.

Moustache tucked the pregnancy test into a plastic baggie.

“Your pregnancy test was negative. We have a few more questions, miss,” he said. “I see on your record you had a history of assault a few years back. Have you had any other trouble with violent outbursts since then? Any other signs of ferality?”

“The charges were dropped,” Kit said, and I’d never heard his voice so cold.

“The fact remains that you assaulted an elderly woman, unprovoked, with enough force to give her stitches.”

“It was provoked,” Kit insisted.

“The report said?—”

“My grandmother told us we were better off without my dead aunt. At her funeral. I doubt she included that detail in her report.”

There was an awkward pause. Moustache cleared his throat.

“Have you had any struggles with violent impulses, Miss Anders?”

I looked him straight in the eyes, blinking hard to clear away the tears, and shook my head. It wasn’t a lie this time. My violent thoughts were way past being an impulse. They were well into meticulously pre-meditated and drawn-out murder.

I heard the downstairs door open, and the sound of footsteps made their way up to us. Adrian stopped in the door, staring, and Ez crashed into him.

“Ow, dude—” Ez started, but then stopped as he saw what Adrian was looking at.

He pushed Adrian aside, and Jhin followed him. Vander was last.

They looked around the room, taking in the mess, the destroyed pillows and blankets, and then Kit, who was wrapped around me while I was still shaking with white-hot fury.

“What is the meaning of this?” Jhin asked, voice trembling with rage. I could feel the auras splitting into the room, and I saw weasel-face press a red button on his radio. Moustache shifted uncomfortably, hand resting on his gun.

“This is a routine GPRE investigation, sir,” said moustache, giving Jhin a respectful nod. “Into this gold pack. Don’t worry, it has nothing to do with your omega.”

“Do you have a warrant?” Jhin said sharply. Weasel-face hesitated, looking confused.

“We don’t need a warrant for gold pack omegas,” he said.

“I’m sure you need a credible reason for inflicting this level of emotional distress on these two. Destruction of an omega’s nest is considered a class B psychological assault.”

There was a snarl as Vander’s eyes darted toward the nest.

“Those laws don’t apply to gold pack omegas?—”

“That washisnest,” Jhin interrupted, pointing at Kit.

The officers hesitated, turning deathly pale. Weasel-face’s mouth fell open, his eyes darting between me and Kit.

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