Page 32 of Pack Me Up
“I miss yours, too,” I confess as I look around the chrome finishes of this building. It’s sleek, modern, and screams security.
We have to wear scent blockers for meetings like this, but his scent would be comforting right now. I’m still getting used to the grandeur of this tour and the level of security the pack is providing.
We walk into the conference room. Riley’s at the end of the table, laying out stacks of folders in neat little units, each with a different shade of sticky note tab protruding like a flag. Tommy’s perched on a windowsill, swinging his legs, shoes tapping a pattern against the drywall. Oli is mid-argument with Jack, who looks like he’s trying to get her to leave Dax’s lap to get into his. Aiden and Chase are watching with amused grins.
And then there’s the Phoenix Pack, arranged with military efficiency around the perimeter. Colton and Cody are at the far end, mirroring each other with arms crossed and matching half-smiles. Fox is on an office chair near the fire exit, eyes flicking between all the movement. Hunter is behind me, and Saint is at the head of the table, spine straight as a steel rod and hands flat on the laminate like he’s waiting for a cue to begin.
Their eyes all turn to me instantly, like my presence in the room calls to them.
The twins make their way over in sync to press matching kisses to either side of my cheeks and whisper, “Hello, gorgeous.”
“Hi,” I whisper back.
Fox gives me space but waves with a shy smile from his spot by the door.
Saint nods, and his posture relaxes ever so slightly. It’s just enough to let me know my presence calms him, but he still doesn’t come to me.
My palms are instantly clammy. My pulse is in my throat. I can sense everyone’s emotions, and they’re all curiously watching us.
Riley clocks my entrance, raises a hand, and gestures to the open seat across from her. “Britt, over here. Blue folder’s yours. It has the tour schedule, arrangements, and allergy forms. We’re doing intros in five.”
I drop into the seat, ignoring the way my knees bounce with nerves. I grip the edge of the table, stare at the neatly printed cover page, and try to ignore the way every cell in my body wants to run.
All these eyes on me remind me of when my parents took me to an omega showing for interested packs.
Considering how that went, it’s no wonder all these people are making me nervous.
Tommy hops down and slides in next to me, already vibrating with concern hidden behind his bright smile. “Are you doing okay? We could always loop you in later if you want to go.”
“Thanks,” I mutter, wishing I could disappear into the folder but knowing I need to get used to this. “I should stay. This is what I signed up for.”
Tommy grabs my hand under the table while Saint gets everyone’s attention.
Saint’s presence is unreal. He’s the biggest person in the room. He occupies more of it than anyone else. The light from the overhead fluorescents catches on his sandy-brown hair, makes his eyes look even bluer, and every time I accidentally glance his way, I get a full-body shiver. He hasn’t said a word yet, but the anticipation is palpable.
Colton and Cody join the table on either side of Saint. They both tip their chairs back and fold their hands over their chests. When they look at me, I feel double-exposed, like they’re seeing the part of me I keep hidden.
Fox is the only one who tries to look unthreatening, but he fails. When he offers a brief smile, it’s not predatory, just resigned, like he knows what I’m feeling and is too polite to mention it.
Hunter is watching the proceedings like a child at a birthday party, filled with bright anticipation and restless impatience. Every few minutes, he flips a pen in the air and catches it behind his back, then glances at me to see if I noticed.
Saint stands, smooth and deliberate, and every conversation dies. His voice, when it comes, is so calm and so deep that it sounds like a threat even when he’s just reading bullet points.
“We’ve divided personnel into two teams: each artist’s direct protection and external logistics. That means we have separate details for the artists, and another for support staff and crowdcontrol. We will be using the personnel we already vetted from The Hart’s Edge’s last tour for the support staff.”
Saint outlines emergency procedures, evacuation routes, and a full rundown of who’s allowed near the buses, who rides in which bus, and why no one is ever to go anywhere alone, not even to the bathroom. Every word is precise and every movement controlled.
Then he introduces two new security teams, bringing them into the room and assigning one to Oli and her pack and the other to Tommy.
They seem nice, but I’m too busy looking at my alphas for comfort to notice.
I can barely keep my eyes on the agenda, the words on the page wriggling away from me every time Saint speaks. It’s not just his voice, though that voice is sexy; it’s the way he moves, the way his jaw flexes when he’s biting back a comment, and the way every gesture looks rehearsed but also dangerously close to breaking form.
I’m hyper-aware of my own breathing, the slight tremor in my hands every time I have to flip a page or pick up a pen.
Every few minutes, my gaze skates over to one of the Phoenix Pack alphas, sometimes by accident, sometimes because I want to, need to, just to ground myself in the reality that they’re real and they’re here.
I’ve spent the least amount of time with Saint, so I notice the shape of his hands, the blunt efficiency of his fingers as he annotates a map with a red pen. I notice the tiny scar on his left cheek, a ghost of something ugly healed over. I notice the way his tie is always perfectly straight, except for the moment he leans forward, and it goes just a fraction crooked, and he immediately corrects it without missing a beat.
