Page 15 of How to Lose a Pack in 10 Dates

He blinks at me. “I’m not following, man. You’re gonna have to spell it out for me here.”

“This has exposé written all over it,” I tell him.

Jace honest-to-godlaughs. “Why—was she taking notes?”

“She doesn’t have totake notes. Sheisthe note.”

He laughs again. I drain the rest of my water and slam the bottle into the trash.

“I’m not letting this happen,” I declare.

“So what, you’re gonna sabotage it?”

I hesitate for a moment. “If I have to.”

Jace tilts his head. “That seems... mature.”

“Yeah, well, better that than letting her screw her way into the house and mess everything up.”

He raises a brow. “You really think she’s here to screw her way in?”

I glare at him. “Don’t.”

He holds his hands up, grinning. “Hey, I’m just saying, if the sexual tension at that table was evenhalfwhat I’m picking upfrom you right now, I’m gonna need to change shirts before dinner.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

I look away, jaw tight.

“Look, man. I know you think you’re doing the right thing,” he starts. “But if she’s really that bad, she’ll tank it all by herself. You won’t have to lift a finger.”

I shake my head. He doesn’t know her, doesn’t understand what she’s capable of.

“Yeah, well; I’m not leaving it to chance.”

Jace sighs. “Just... try not to light the whole house on fire, alright?”

“No promises,” I scoff.

Tomorrow, she’ll be here. She’ll walk through our front door like she hadn’t left a war zone behind her the last time we spoke. But if she thinks she’s going to charm her way into this pack, into Cam, into any of it, then she’s wrong.

She’s going to find out exactly what the wordnolooks like, and if I have to be the one to show her?

Well.Even better.

Chapter Five

Aimee

If my ovaries could file a restraining order, they’d have done it the second I stepped out of the cab and saw the pack house.

This isn’t just any house: this is a sex-scented monument to poor decisions. A fully renovated, jaw-droppingly expensive Victorian that screams alpha money from every manicured brick and bespoke black window frame. We’re talking magazine-level curb appeal. Fresh landscaping, a glossy front door, and the kind of symmetrical porch setup that saysone of us is a senior partner and the other owns a gym empire with merch.

I haven’t even knocked yet, but the air already hums with pheromones. I’m so scent-blocked I could waltz through an orgy blindfolded and not blink, but that alpha energy still hits—clean sweat, dark spice, and something so outrageously good it should be taxed.

Whatever they’re pumping out into the atmosphere is not safe for work. Or my sanity.

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