Page 61 of How to Lose a Pack in 10 Dates

She chews slowly, then lifts another chip and extends it out to me, like a toast.

“Here’s to bad decisions,” she says.

I smirk as I clink my bottle against it. “To seeing where they lead.”

Chapter Sixteen

Wes

It’s happened.

She’s infiltrated the fucking pack-house.

And yes—I invited her. Kind of. But only in the same way one might invite a raccoon into their home to prove it couldn’t handle a doorknob.

It was supposed to scare her off. A strategic suggestion, a surefire way to make her backpedal and admit this whole thing was a chaotic little game. I figured she’d wrinkle that perfect nose, toss her hair, and flounce back to whatever omega-sized hurricane she came from.

Instead, she unpacked.

Within twenty-four hours, we had three new throw pillows on the couch—one of them pink, one sequined, one threateningly motivational. One changes color when you swipe it, and currently spells outWES <3s OMEGAS.

I know it was her. I literally watched her do it. She stared me dead in the eye while grinning and wrote it as if she was carvingit onto my grave, then denied all knowledge when the guys came in.

There are lip balms in the fridge.The fridge. Apparently, it helps with the texture; whatever the fuck that’s supposed to mean. My sleek, black gym towels have been replaced with pastel monstrosities embroidered with motivational threats like“SWEAT NOW, SHINE LATER”in rhinestone thread, and her pajamas are hanging offmydrying rack, dripping scented smugness onto my work suits.

At some point, she reorganized the pantry. I have no idea when she even found the fucking time. There’s a shelf labeledALPHA STUFF, and my tactical knife set—my prized, alphabetized, carbon-forged blades—is now in a clear acrylic organizer labeled ‘Sharp Friends’, next to a glittery pink Post-it that saysDanger is sexy. xoxo.

My protein shelf now contains something called “ritual collagen,” and there’s a scented candle in the main bathroom labeledMoonlit Vanilla Fantasythat makes my eyes water every time I brush my teeth.

It’s been five days of passive-aggressive glitter, floral-scented betrayal, and waking up in what I can only describe as a live-in estrogen ad. My entire goddamn life smells like a Bath & Body Works crime scene.

She'severywhere.

Jace thinks it’s all hilarious. Cam says it’s adorable.

I call it a slow, calculated invasion of domestic space and personal sanity while being simultaneously gaslit in 4K.

She acts like she’s just being sweet; that it’s all innocent, that she’s just nesting. Just a soft little innocent omega making the place feel like home.

Bull. Shit.

This is one-woman psychological ops, and I am the last alpha standing in what used to be a sanctuary of discipline and bare walls.

She caught me glaring at her and had the audacity to tilt her head and ask if I thought she was throwing off the house’s alpha-to-pink ratio. As if that’s a thing. As if there shouldbea ratio. She replaced my pre-workout with fuckingstrawberry milkand left a note on top that read ‘Hope this helps with the rage :)’.

It was in pink gel pen. Decorated withhearts.

I blacked out for three seconds.

Don’t even get mestartedon the yogurt. She’d stood in the middle of the kitchen in tiny shorts, licking mango yogurt off a spoon with a noise that could get someone arrested, and said, “Omega calcium needs, Wes. It’sscience.”

I nearly flipped the dining table.

Cam’s tried to walk me through breathing exercises. In the end,hegot upset withme.

“She’s trying, man,” he’d sighed. “Don’t be a dick.”

Oh, she’stryingalright.

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