Page 137 of How to Lose a Pack in 10 Dates

I want us to claim her. I want her scent layered under mine so thick I smell her even when she’s not there. I want to know, without doubt, that she’s ours—by instinct, by bond, by choice.

It’s been chaos from day one, butfuck, it feelsright.

And I’m ready.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Aimee

Returning to work after everything that’s happened—including a weekend of feral heat, campfire singalongs, and the kind of full-body cardio that only comes from being repeatedly and enthusiastically wrecked by three alphas—feels… surreal.

I smell like fabric softener, my curls are still a little wild, and I’m sore in places I didn’t know had nerve endings. Still, I walk into the office with my head high, a coffee in each hand, and the kind of emotional hangover you only get from nearly bonding in the woods, crying during marshmallow toasts, and being held like something precious by the people you least expected to love you back.

Rachel glances up as I step into her office, waving me in with her usual sleek efficiency and just the tiniest smirk of someone who knowsexactlywhat they did.

She taps her tablet screen. “You look… alive.”

I drop into the chair across from her and groan. “Barely. Do you know how many pine needles were in my underwear this weekend?”

“Sounds like a you problem.” Rachel doesn’t even blink. “But congratulations. Your article’s gone viral.”

“Wait—the real one?”

She smiles. “The one I found in your drive, with about seventeen unsaved versions and an accidental sentence that just said‘fuck.’”

“That was a panic draft,” I glare at her. “You know I wasn’t ready—”

“Well, you were wrong,” she says briskly. “Because it’s the best thing you’ve written for us.Ever. And the readers agree.”

I open my mouth, then close it.

I try again. “You knew I didn’t ever intend to publish that one.”

“Sure,” she says. “And I also knew it was honest. It was messy, and vulnerable, andbrilliant.That’swhat landed.That’swhat people are connecting to.”

I stare at her. “So… You’re not mad that we didn’t debunk scent-matched tech after all?”

Rachel laughs. “Mad? Aimee, I want to make you our new‘How To’girl. ‘How to survive scent-matching hell’. ‘How to emotionally recover from a heat nest in the woods’.We’ll finesse the titles.”

“...Seriously?”

She nods. “We’ll tailor it to you. Keep the voice that made the article blow up, but give you space to dig into the real stuff. Peoplewantthat. We wantyou.”

“I mean, it sounds amazing, and I’m honored. I just…” I fidget, suddenly sheepish. “I think I want to write stuff that’s a little more…authentic. Less clickbait, moreactualconnection, you know?”

Rachel’s gaze softens, which is so out of character I almost fall off my chair. “We can evolve the format. Let the ‘How To’ be the hook, but the substance can be all you.”

I sit with that. I can’t deny that it sounds almost fun: the thought of turning chaos into something real, the chance to keep telling the truth—even the ugly, hopeful, romantic parts of it.

She leans back in her chair. “So… did it work out?”

I glance down at my bruised collarbone, my sore thighs. “I think that it’s just getting started.”

Rachel’s grin is razor-sharp. “Then write me a follow-up. One last column. Call it closure, call it part two, call it‘How to Fall for a Pack in Ten Very Questionable Decisions.’Whatever. Readers are dying to know what happened next.”

I smile. “You sure you’re ready for the answer?”

“Please,” she says. “After what you just survived, I’m expecting a group knotting and at least one emotional breakthrough.”

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