Page 64 of How to Lose a Pack in 10 Dates

I blink. “Awhat?”

“A song!” she squeals, practically beaming. “Something that representsus.”

She pulls out her phone, scrolls, then her entire face lights up.

“Oh my God.This one.It’s perfect.”

She hitsplay.

Cam gasps. “Is that—?”

“Yes,” she nods, bouncing on her heels.

Cam gaspsagain. “The one from the movie?! With the bend and snap?!”

She shrieks. “YES!”

Jace grins. “Solid pick, babe.”

The opening notes blast through the kitchen speakers—a crime against musical taste and alpha dignity—and suddenly Aimee’s swaying her hips and snapping her fingers.

Jace joins her. He’s actually doing choreography. Cam, traitor that he is, starts humming along and throwing in dramatic armmovements like this is some kind of pack musical fever dream; all while I sit frozen at the breakfast bar, halfway through a grilled cheese, staring into the void.

And then—it happens.

“Wes!” Aimee spins toward me, all sugary innocence and thinly veiled evil. “Your part’s next!”

I stare at her. “I’d rather eat glass.”

She pouts. “That’s not very pack-minded of you.”

Cam frowns, betrayed. “C’mon, man. Don’t leave us hanging.”

“Yeah, Wes,” Jace winks. “We’re doing this for emotional growth.”

Emotional growth?! From a pop song that was probably written in aglitter-scented notebook?!

I clench my jaw. “No.”

Her lip does this thing—thiswobble. I see it for the fully weaponized Bambi energy that it is, and I’m just about to call her out on it when I notice the way Cam physically deflates.

He’s looking at me like I’ve personally wounded the spirit of togetherness.

“She’s trying, Wes.”

I want to scream. I want to jump out the window. I want to rewind time to before my borderline psychotic omega ex-girlfriend infiltratedmypack house with her body spray and her pastel mind games.

But instead, I stand, and I say—flatly,miserably—the next line.

The kitchen erupts. Jace twirls her around while Cam claps. The scent of vanilla and manipulation is everywhere while I mumblemy way through the next verse, my soul escaping my body through clenched teeth.

Aimee watches me the whole time, her dark eyes sparkling, her lips criminally glossy. She looks at me like she’s just checkmated me on a pink glitter chessboard, and I’m not just losing: I’m losingin harmony.

Because now the Wi-Fi is called OmegaNet, I own a pink bathrobe, and somehow—somehow—I just sang fuckingHokuwith idiots who think this is progress.

If this carries on any longer, I am going to lose my goddamn mind.

This is war.

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