Page 4 of How to Lose a Pack in 10 Dates

This is it.

Let the sabotage begin.

Chapter Two

Aimee

The app somehow manages to be far worse than I expected. It opens with a calming female voice and a sterile white interface.

I half-expect it to ask for my insurance provider or offer me a complimentary flu shot, but instead, it prompts my scent type, rut preferences, knot experience(?!), nesting habits, and pack openness scale. And then, as if it’s asking whether I prefer oat milk or almond:

Have you ever used teeth during a heat?

I glance around the office, just in case anyone’s over my shoulder. Rachel’s door is shut. One of the intern’s are crying in the kitchen again.

I’m safe.

I hit “Prefer Not to Answer” so many times the app starts auto filling it. I check theno-heat guaranteebox, triple-check that there’s no scent-sharing consent auto-ticked, and finally hit submit.

Verification pending.

I sigh, smug and over-caffeinated, and lean back in my chair.

My dumpling lunch is going cold beside the keyboard. I eat one. Scroll my inbox. Answer three boring work emails. Regret answering one of them. Eat another dumpling. Start drafting the intro to the exposé.

Fifteen minutes later, my phone starts vibrating so hard it nearly launches itself off the desk. I frown and pick it up.

You’ve been matched.

I blink. “What?”

It buzzes again.

Due to unique compatibility markers, you’ve been scent-matched with a pre-existing pack.

My eyes widen as another notification comes through.

You are a 99.7% match with all three bonded members.

View your pack preview?

I drop the dumpling. It rolls across my keyboard and plops off the side of the desk.

“No.”

Surely it can’t happenthatquickly.

I stare at the screen as though it’s going to apologize. Or implode. Or offer me a do-over.

It does none of those things. Instead, the blinking heart icon pulses smugly, waiting. Because I am weak (and also nosy), I tap it. The screen loads, and one photo appears revealing one face—

And one oxygen-sucking mistake.

Square jaw. Grumpy mouth. Dark curls he refuses to cut. Deep blue eyes, a strong nose, and and shoulders wide enough to carry unresolved traumaanda communication disorder.

Wesley.Fucking.Knight.

I scream. And by scream, I mean Iactuallyscream. Not a cute gasp or a dramatic inhale—a full-bodied, feral“NOPE”that echoes off the office drywall. I jerk so hard I accidentally launch another dumpling—this time at the thermostat—and frown as itricochets like a meat-filled torpedo and disappears behind the printer.

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