Page 78 of How to Lose a Pack in 10 Dates

The ceiling, predictably, does not give a fuck.

And neither does the part of me that still aches. That still feels lit up from the inside out, scorched along every nerve he brushed with his voice, his scent, hispresence.

Because the truth is; it’s not just hate. It’sneverjust been hate. It’s the way my body reacts to him like it’s still his. The way one look tonight—one look—had my instincts tripping overthemselves, heat rushing low, breath hitching like I was back in his bed with his mouth on my skin and his hand in my hair. And I hate that. I hate that for one stupid, breathless,devastatingheartbeat… I didn’t want to win anymore.

I wantedhim.

Which is pathetic. And dangerous.

And exactly why this can’t work.

Because Wes is still Wes. He’s still the same arrogant, emotionally constipated, control-obsessed alpha who made me feel like I was nothing. He didn’t choose me when it counted, and I know he won’t change.

He’ll never be what I need.

I close my eyes and try to will it away—all of it. The heat pooling in my gut, the echo of his voice still in my ears, the phantom weight of his body against mine, of how I melted and hated myself for it, how I wanted tolosejust to be touched like that again.

It’s just chemistry. Just the scent match. It’s notreal.

I’m not some stupid, pining omega with a fairytale fantasy of changing the emotionally unavailable alpha. I know better. Iambetter.

And yet, if he came in here right now, if he stepped into this room and looked at me like he did earlier, voice low and eyes dark and scent thick in the air, I know in my heart it would be over. I wouldn’t fight. I wouldn’t win.

The worst part is… some traitorous, aching part of mewantsto give in. To give him everything, even though I already know howit ends. Even though I know he’ll never choose me the way I need to be chosen.

It’s not love. It’s not even something close.

It’s just heartbreak, recycled.

And then there’s his brother.

Cam, who is the exact opposite of every awful thing Wes ever made me feel. Cam, who’s soft where Wes is sharp, open where Wes is guarded. He’s gentle and golden and good down to his bones, and somehow still manages to be a six-foot-four alpha who could probably lift a car if someone asked nicely. (Or cried.)

He’s never once made me feel I had to earn his affection, and never once made me doubt whether I’m too much or not enough. He just…shows up. With warm laundry and perfectly made tea and little comments that make my throat tighten in ways I don’t know how to name yet.

And is it so wrong to want that? To find comfort in someone so kind? To lean into it, even if just for a little while? To be looked at not with scrutiny, but with soft, stunned adoration?

I’ve spent years being treated as a problem to be managed—unstable, inconvenient, too emotional, tooeverything. Years learning to mask, to shrink myself, to apologize for the way I existed while grieving the bond that was supposed to be forever.

Cam doesn’t want me smaller. He makesspace. He holds it open with both hands and tells me, without saying a word, that I can fill it however I need.

And right now… I want to be held without shame. I want to be something other than wreckage and resistance.

I just want to be seen.

I slide out of bed before I can talk myself out of it. The house is still and dark, and Cam’s door is only a few steps away, but it feels like miles. I stand there for a long second, staring at the wood grain.

I raise my hand and knock.

The door opens almost instantly.

Cam is shirtless and sleep-mussed. One side of his hair’s flattened, the other sticking up in messy waves. His sweatpants hang low on his hips, and his scent hits me all at once. It wraps around me, grounding and strong, everything alpha and everything safe.

My knees wobble.

“Hey,” he murmurs, voice rough with sleep. “You okay?”

No. Yes. Not even close.

---