Page 140 of How to Lose a Pack in 10 Dates

“Aimee. I’m your best friend. I have a right to know if someone finally bit your throat in a good way.”

Zara smirks. “She’s not wrong.”

“Yes, well. About claiming,” I say, swallowing thickly. “They said they want me to be sure. That they won’t do anything until I ask.”

Lex wipes a pretend tear. “Wow. Respectful, communicative,andsexy. Are you sure they’re actually human? Are they clones?”

“I’m sure,” I laugh. “And… And I think I love them,” I admit, blinking fast. “I think I have for a while. I just—needed time to catch up.”

Zara reaches over, squeezes my hand. “I’m glad you did.”

“AndI’mglad you showed up,” I say to her quietly. “You didn’t have to, but I know why you did. And I appreciate it: a lot.”

“They were wrecked,” she shrugs. “I couldn’t leave it alone.”

“Jace tried to fold my hoodie into a swan,” I mumble. “I think he was having a breakdown.”

“I know. I saw.”

“Well, it all worked out in the end,” Lex smiles, then raises her drink. “And with that, I say: to chosen family, door-kicking alphas, and omega brain rot.”

Zara smirks as she clinks. “To best friends who finally admit they’re in love.”

I raise mine last.

“To making questionable decisions… and somehow finding your pack in the middle of your own personal dumpster fire.”

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Wes

One of the interns told me I looked radiant this morning.

Radiant. As if I’m featuring in a fucking skincare commercial. As though I'm the kind of alpha who would've spent the weekend doing yoga in a lavender field instead of helping my scent-matched omega through a feral heat with two other alphas.

I didn’t even snap at her in response; which, in itself, is proof that I’m evolving emotionally. (Or possibly concussed.)

Either way—she’s right. Iamhappy. And it’s still pissing me off, just a little.

If you’d asked me six weeks ago, I’d have sworn Aimee was the worst mistake of my life. My crazy ex, and the walking, talking, omega equivalent of a glitter bomb in a court filing. Now, I’m brushing imaginary lint off my suit jacket because I give a shit about how I look when I get home to her: the woman I love.

Unbelievable.

I leave the office a little early—which is the perk of being a partner and not caring what anyone thinks—and walk to my car is just long enough for my phone to buzz with a message from my father.

It’s a photo of him and Celeste, his latest omega, standing on a beach. He’s shirtless, and she’s holding up her left hand.

We’re engaged!!! Hope you’re not too jealous, Wes ;)

I stare at the screen for a long beat, then I lock it and shove the phone in my pocket.

For once, nothing inside me moves. There’s no rage or sadness, not even any resentment, really. Instead, for the first time in a long time, I feel content with the decision that my father can live out his own fantasy.

I didn’t need him to be able to build something different, somethingreal; and I’m sure as hell not giving it up for anyone.

*

When I walk through the door of the house, it smells like the best thing I’ve ever known.

---