Page 13 of How to Lose a Pack in 10 Dates

Even through layers of scent blockers and suppressants, something of her had cut through. Not her notes—those were masked. But the base was still there. That deeper signature underneath it all; the raw, biological imprint of a scent match I’d never been able to forget.

It hit me the second I stepped into the café: that punch of recognition, of want, ofmine, and I’d frozen in place just long enough to hate myself for it.

She was sitting there like nothing had ever happened, one leg crossed over the other, chin tilted, messy brown hair falling smoothly over her shoulders and framing her pretty fucking face. That ugly gray sweater didn’t hide anything—not the soft curves I used to map with my hands, anddefinitelynot the mouth I’d memorized in every mood.

She still looked like chaos with those big brown eyes, pouty lips, and freckles scattered across skin I’d once kissed like it was mineto keep. I’d bet good money on the fact that she still tasted like a mistake I might make again, too.

And my body had remembered all of it before my brain caught up.

My hands itched to reach out to her, and my scent had flared beneath my own suppressants, trying to push forward, trying to touch her; to stake a claim I’d once nearly made. It was instinct, plain and simple. Unwanted, yet undeniable.

And she’d known it.

She’d sat there smirking as if she could smell my restraint unraveling, as though she could tell how close I was to reacting, tolosing. I’d told myself I was over her, that four years of silence meant that I’d moved on; but sitting across from her—even for a few minutes—proved otherwise.

I hadn’t planned to storm out. I’d meant to stay calm, to say what I needed to say, eat some nice food in celebration, and walk away with dignity. But I knew if I’d stayed another second—if I’d looked at her mouth again, or let her say Cam’s name in that infuriatingly sweet voice—I'd have said something I couldn’t take back.

Or worse,donesomething I couldn’t take back.

I take the long way back to the pack house, trying to cool off, but it’s not working. Every step feels wired. I keep hearing her voice, sweet and taunting, practically daring me to lose control.

If I want to make your sweet little packmates fall in love with me, I will.

Of course she would. She’s the only omega I’ve ever met who’d throw herself into a bond just to prove a point. And Cam—fuckingCam—is a walking vulnerability. He falls fast, loves hard,and always sees the best in people, even when they’re clearly setting fire to the metaphorical lawn.

Which, in Aimee Saunders’ case,isn’tmetaphorical.

God, I should’ve told him to delete the app the second she came up on it. But no—he was already excited.

“Maybe it’s fate,” he’d said. “Maybe she’s changed!”

She hasn’t.

She’s still too mouthy, too proud, toomuch. And yeah, that used to be what I loved most about her—if I can call it love. Whatever it was, it was the closest I’ve ever felt to it, and it scared the shit out of me.

Four years. Four fucking years of pushing her out of my head, of telling myself I did the right thing by backing off, that I protected her, that I protectedmyself; and here I am now.

I grew up watching my father cheat on his scent-matched omega like it was a game. He destroyed her, destroyedus. He gave me no choice but to believe that loyalty was optional and bonds were traps; so when I met Aimee, and when it started feeling like something real, I bailed. I was young and dumb and couldn’t fully make sense of it myself, so there was no way I’d be able to explain it to her in any way that felt like it would matter.

She didn’t handle it well. (Understatement of the year.)

She keyed my car, paid a gardener to mow the wordassholeinto my lawn, and sent me an anonymous glitter bomb that’sstillinfecting the glove box of my car four years and two detailing attempts later.

And that’s just what I can prove.

Neither of us left the city after college, which meant that avoiding her became a full-time side hustle. I’ve rerouted morning runs, memorized her favorite cafés, and once climbed out a back exit at a networking event because I was certain I'd caught a whiff of her scent.

It hasn’t been easy. There've been too many close calls, too many moments I turned a corner and nearly ran headfirst into history, but I’ve managed to make it work.

Until now.

Now she’s back in my life and sitting there smiling at me like nothing happened, like she didn’t spend an entire summer waging psychological warfare with scented stationery and weaponized glitter. She’s dangerous—spiteful and vengeful and borderline fuckingterrifying—

And somehow, she’sstillthe most distracting thing in the damn room.

The worst part is that she’s still able to get under my skin so fast. It’s like she never left at all, scoffing and smirking and biting out quick-witted retorts likeI’mthe punchline.

Fuck. That.

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