Page 94 of How to Lose a Pack in 10 Dates

I'd started pulling it back into my court, and then tonight…

Well. I let her turn it on me.

Mission accomplished, Aimee. You divided the pack.

I let her get under my skin, and now she’s probably curled up in Jace’s bed, soft and smug and soaked in praise while I’m here.Alone.

Still, even if this whole thing started as some experiment or revenge plot, I shouldn’t have lost it like that. I should’ve just sat back, bided my time, and let her keep performing. She’s notthatgood of an actress. She would’ve slipped eventually—pushed too far, overplayed her hand and lost control.

But no. I jumped the gun and blew the whole thing up, and nowI’mthe one who made it personal.

I’m the asshole who lost the upper hand the second I raised my voice.

I drain the rest of the glass and set it down harder than I mean to. The sound echoes too loud in the silence.

I want to go back, rewind the whole damn evening, and handle it differently. If I would have kept my cool and let her play it out until she overreached, thenIwould’ve been the one walking away calm and unbothered while the rest of them saw through her bullshit on their own.

But that’s not what happened.

So now, I have to deal with it.

I’ll sleep here tonight and work from the office tomorrow. I’ll give myself the day to breathe, then I’ll go home and face the fallout. I’ll apologize—not just to the pack, but to her; and I’llmake sure she knows I do mean it.

Regardless of whatever her agenda is, I still let myself become the worst version of me.

And I’m not letting that be who I am.

Next time she pushes, I’ll hold the line. I’ll be the Alpha she used to know—the one she trusted, even when everything else was on fire. I don’t know if that version of me still exists, but if it does, then he’s the only one who might be able to fix what I cracked before it breaks for good.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Aimee

I’ve rewritten the opening line of this article five times, and they all suck.

Not justmehsuck. I’m talkingmakes-me-want-to-set-my-laptop-on-firelevels of suck.

The problem is simple: I haven’t stopped thinking about them.

Anyof them.

Jace, with his filthy mouth and stupidly soft hands.

Cam, with his perfect jaw and the way he makes praise feel like a warm bath poured straight into my soul.

Even Wes, with that glare he gave me before storming off.

I sigh and jab at the backspace key with unnecessary aggression. I’m perched in a hotdesk pod with a coffee I forgot to finish and a headache I definitely earned as the office hums around me. I’ve got the attention span of a drunk magpie and a draft folder full of lies.

I’m supposed to be a writer. Where’sthatbitch?

I stare blankly at the screen until my eyes burn, then grab my phone and quickly type a message into our group chat.

Emergency lunch? I need human interaction or I will become a hollow shell that speaks in subheadings.

The responses come through fast.

Lex: Can’t. Client is late and I’ve got a campaign to launch. You got this, though. I’m there in spirit.

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