Page 93 of How to Lose a Pack in 10 Dates

“I feel like a puddle,” she murmurs after a minute, voice soft and hoarse.

“You look like one,” I tease, kissing her temple.

Cam chuckles. “You smell like a dream.”

“Andyouboth smell like alphas who got everything they wanted,” she mumbles, eyes closed again.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” I murmur, pulling her closer. “We just wantedyou, sweetheart.”

She exhales slowly. “I know.”

We lie there tangled in the warmth of the sheets. Cam strokes her back, and I watch the way her breathing slows, the unformed bond threads humming with something deeper between us all.

“Sleep,” I whisper.

She doesn’t answer.

She’s already gone.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Wes

The lights in the penthouse flicker on with the same sterile glow I remember from the last time I was here.

That was… what? Two years ago? Right before my dad’s fourth wedding and long before his fifth omega started showing up in our family group chats with filtered selfies of the two of them and captions likescent-matched to this one xxx.

I kick off my shoes in the doorway, loosening my tie with one hand and slamming the door shut with the other. The silence hits me harder than I expected. There are no footsteps above, no low voices carrying down the hall, no muffled laughter from the living room.Nothing.

It’s a relief.

And it’s pathetic.

The place smells like polished marble and barely-used linen; like a showroom apartment rather than a home. Which makes sense. My dad only ever brings people here when he’s cheating—on his wife, on his own rules, on the image he pretends to maintain.The Bahamas cruise he’s on right now is with an omega who’s only two years older than me and half as smart.

I didn’t ask questions, though. I never do.

I head straight for the liquor cabinet. I don’t bother switching on all the lights or setting up any music. I don’t even switch on the TV. The only sound is the rhythmic clink of ice and the familiar weight of a tumbler in my hand as I pour the whiskey.

I have one sip, then another. It burns going down, but I barely register it. I lean back against the cold kitchen counter, eyes fixed on the city skyline beyond the window.

Fuck.

I shouldn’t have yelled.

I knew it even as the words left my mouth, as her eyes flashed and her jaw lifted in thatgotchaexpression she wears so well. She baits me like it’s a sport, like she’s keeping score, and I practically handed her the win.

But this time, her expression changed. Not into the smug, bratty grin she usually flashes my way when she feels victorious, but something closer tohurt.

And maybe she deserved it. Maybe she’s been playing us this whole time. But the yelling, the accusations, the pointing in her face—it was wrong.

I should’ve been better. I should’ve walked away.

Instead, I let it happen. I let myself rise to it, and in the process, I've let myself become a version of the man I swore I’d never turn into.

Andfuck,I saw it—the flicker in her eyes when I snapped. The way she looked at me like she didn’t recognize me. Like maybeI’d proven her right. Or worse, confirmed every fear she’s ever had about alphas.

I know she’s doing something here: that she walked in with a plan and a smirk and an agenda, but knowing I’m right doesn’t mean I handled it right. I’d had her right where I wanted her just a few nights ago; pinned against the kitchen counter, flushed and breathless and trembling with the effort not to lean in. She wanted it—wantedme—and I could feel the tension winding tight around her scent, feel the crackle of what was real beneath all her games.

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