Page 108 of Pack Me Up
She smiles, this time real and unguarded.
The rest of the morning is a blur of small things: coffee, instant oatmeal, the twins bickering about who gets to pick the playlist. Fox reads a book, occasionally pausing to check on Brittney. Saint just plans, his eyes always on the road, but every so often, he glances around, making sure the pack is whole.
Brittney stays bundled up. The scent of fear never comes back.
I sit at the end of the booth, close enough to listen, close enough to help if she needs it, but not crowding her. Every time she glances my way, I see gratitude flicker behind her eyes.
Brittney
PACK ‘EM UP GOSSIP COLUMN
INSIDER SOURCE CONFIRMS BRITTNEY RYAN’S MATING TO HER SECURITY TEAM, THE PHOENIX PACK
May 22nd
The hotel conference room smells like recirculated air and lemon sanitizer, with a bitter undercurrent of descenter. I hate it instantly. Every instinct in my body says this place is wrong, not just because of the bland walls and the quarter-inch-pile corporate carpet, but because of the way my mates move. They’re too stiff, too sharp, like they’re prepping for a siege instead of a meeting with a ghost from my childhood.
They form up around me without a word. Saint stands behind my chair, his shadow cast long across the table. Every so often, his hand grazes the curve of my shoulder, a silent check-in, as if he needs to confirm I’m still here. Colton and Cody split the doorway, one on each side, so in sync. Their arms are crossed, jaws set, matching tension in every muscle. Hunter claims the window, eyes scanning the parking lot, tongue flicking over his teeth. Fox is the closest. He takes the chair at my right, ankles crossed, posture lazy, but eyes never leaving the door.
There’s an unopened bottle of water at every seat. No one touches theirs. Saint’s phone is face down. I stare at the patterned carpet and pick at the edge of a hotel notepad, running my finger over the embossed logo until my nail catches and shreds a fiber. Every sound in the room, the faint hum of the HVAC, the random click from the ice machine just outside, lands wrong, too loud, or too soft.
The door opens exactly on time. Robert Ryan steps in, and my anxiety spikes.
He’s nothing like my pack leader father, except in the way they both make every space feel smaller. He’s heavyset, but not soft. He’s someone built to take a punch and then dish out three. His hair is buzzed to the scalp, grayer than I expected, and there’s a star-shaped scar at his temple. He walks with a limp, but it doesn’t look like pain.
Colton and Cody draw up, shoulders squared, jaws flexing. Saint’s hand finds the top of my chair and clamps down so tight I hear the frame creak. Hunter glances back, meets my eyes, and raises a brow like he’s asking if I’m ready for this.
I’m not, but I nod anyway.
“Thank you for meeting me,” he says, voice rough.
Saint tips his chin, barely polite. “Get to the point.”
Robert gives a dry laugh. “I’m not here to make trouble. Just need to say a few things, then I’ll be gone if that’s what Brittney wants.”
Saint leans in, eclipsing my peripheral vision. “Say them.”
Robert ignores him. He turns, and now he looks right at me, like we’re the only two people in the room. His eyes are shot with red, like he hasn’t slept in days, but there’s something steady there, something that makes me sit up a little straighter, even though every muscle in my body wants to curl in.
“You probably don’t remember much,” he says, voice softer than I expected. “Your parents didn’t want me around. They thought I was a bad influence.”
I nod, because it’s probably true.
Robert glances at Saint, then back at me. “You ran away. I heard about how furious they were.”
“Yeah,” I say, surprised by how normal my voice sounds. “And I don’t regret it.”
He barks a laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “They were shitty people. I’m sorry you were stuck with them.”
Fox shifts, and his knee bumps mine. I feel the echo of his comfort, the way his beta calm can dampen the spike of panic that wants to start in my stomach. I grab onto it.
Robert’s hands are steady on the folder he brought, but his thumb rubs a nervous circle over the top. “I tried to keep tabs on you. I knew you made it out, at least.” He draws a breath, eyes flicking to the blank whiteboard at the far wall. “I also know you probably don’t have any reason to believe me, or care what I have to say. But you’re the only family I got left, so I had to try.”
He slides the folder toward me, careful, like it might explode if he moves too fast. “Your parents are gone,” he says, not softening the blow. “It was a car accident. Nasty one. They’re buried in Austin, in the family plot.”
I don’t cry, not because I’m strong, but because I’m not sad. I’m numb, not sure how I’m supposed to feel.
Robert pushes the folder closer. It comes to rest in front of me, an inch from my hand. “I brought a few things,” he says. “Proof of their death and the address of their graves.” His voice cracks a little, just at the edge. “I’m not here to get anything from you. I just want you to know the truth.”
