Page 75 of How to Lose a Pack in 10 Dates

And her socks sayI’m Babyin sequins.

I almost scoff. She’s notbaby. She’s the boss of emotionally destabilizing home décor, and I’m not falling for it.

I let the silence stretch long enough for her to glance over her shoulder and pretend to be surprised.

“Oh,” she says. “Wes. I… Didn’t see you there.”

That’s her favorite game lately: act innocent and oblivious, as if this entire omega-coded psychological siege hasn’t been meticulously planned to drive me clinically insane.

I take a step into the kitchen, letting the weight of it land. “Didn’t you?”

“You’re lurking,” she counters, blinking up at me with that wide-eyed, butter-wouldn’t-melt routine—but there’s a flicker at the corner of her mouth, a twitch she can’t hide. “It's creepy, Wes. Even for you.”

I don’t bite. Not the way she wants. Instead, I stare her down.

“You’ve been fucking with me.”

She leans back against the counter and tilts her head. “You’ll have to be more specific.”

I take a step closer. She doesn’t move, but I catch it anyway—that barely-there hitch in her breath, that flicker of instinct that always betrays her before her mouth can catch up.

That’s the problem with scent matches: you can patch on all the blockers you want, but biology still wins. And right now, hers isscreaming.

“I’m talking about the Wi-Fi being renamed,” I say. “The glitter pillow. The fuckingstrawberry milk.”

“Aw,” she croons, a slow smile curling her lips. “Was it not to your taste?”

I’m close enough now to feel the heat rolling off her. Close enough that her scent starts slipping through the cracks of her suppressants, raw and sugared and punch-to-the-gut potent.

Close enough that I remember.

Everything.

“I thought it might help you soften up,” she barrels on. “Add a little flavor to all that emotional constipation.”

Her voice is flippant, but her scent betrays her. It spikes high and bright and sweet as it drips through the air, clinging to my tongued. My cock thickens behind my fly, twitching against the line of control I’ve white-knuckled for too long.

“You think this is funny?”

“Oh, I think it’shilarious,” she replies, smiling too wide. “I mean, look at you. Pacing and growling like a sad, scent-wrecked stray.”

I step in again. My chest brushes hers now, but she doesn’t back up.

That’s the tell. She’s not scared of me—shewantsme.

And fuck, she’s close to slipping. I canfeelit. The tremble just beneath her skin, the heat crawling up her neck, the scent leaking into my lungs.

“Tell me the truth,” I growl. “Did you move in just to screw with me?”

She gasps, mocked-up and dramatic, and her hand flutters to her chest. “Wesley. What kind of omega would do such a thing?!”

That fucking voice. Thatact.

I brace a hand on the counter behind her, caging her in.

“You know what you’re doing,” I snarl. “The looks. The comments. That slicked-up scent of yours dripping through the vents.”

“I’m not doinganything,” she insists, but her voice is too high, too thin. “You’re just mad I fit in better here than you do.”

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