Page 29 of Pack Me Up
I look around, and for once, I don’t feel the urge to run. “Yeah,” I say. “I am.”
He holds my gaze, serious. “We want you to feel safe. Not just… protected but safe.”
I want to answer, but my throat tightens. I settle for a nod, then look out the window to hide the tears.
Hunter catches it, because of course he does. He leans in, voice pitched for me alone. “You don’t have to be tough all the time, hazel. Not here.”
He slings an arm around my shoulder and squeezes, and I let myself lean in, just a little.
The others fall silent, and I know they’re watching, waiting for me to believe it.
It takes a few minutes, but I do.
I breathe in, deep, and fill my lungs with the scent of the pack. The ache behind my ribs softens.
Maybe this is what it’s supposed to feel like.
“We all want to take you shopping on Thursday,” Cody starts.
Colton finishes, “for nest supplies,”
My omega perks up, liking the idea of all of them adding to my nest. “That sounds nice.”
“Then we will leave at ten and be back in time for your rehearsal with Tommy in the afternoon,” Saint says.
“Oh! I forgot about rehearsal! I need to meet Tommy at the studio soon,” I say, standing up.
“Actually, there’s something else we need to show you first,” Hunter says, grabbing my hand and leading me out of the room.
I follow him through the hallway, down the stairs, past the living room, and to a door I didn’t notice before.
He opens it, and for a second I’m hit with the scent of earth and paint and the sharp, static smell of electronics. There’s a stairwell, steep and narrow, walls painted black. It looks like the kind of place you’d go to get murdered, but I trust these men.
Before I can take a step, Fox appears at my elbow, out of nowhere. “Blindfold,” he says, and lifts a strip of navy-blue cloth. “It’s part of the fun.”
Saint doesn’t say no, so I nod and let Fox cover my eyes. His hands are warm, gentle, the knot at the back of my head perfectly snug but not too tight. Hunter is at the top of the stairswhen we start down, a constant monologue tumbling out of him. “Mind the step, it’s crooked. Don’t touch the wall, there’s wet paint. You’re going to want to hold onto something.” His hand is on my hip, steady and careful, guiding me forward. Every time I falter, he corrects me, and it’s so intimate and so easy I almost forget I can’t see.
At the bottom of the stairs, there’s a hush. The pack is close, their energy pressing against my back. Fox’s hands settle on my shoulders. “Ready?” he murmurs.
I nod.
He unties the blindfold, and light pours in. I blink, hard, then gasp.
The room is massive, bigger than I expected.
The ceiling is hung with track lighting and acoustic panels, and the walls are lined with instruments. There are guitars and basses, a piano so new it gleams, a full drum kit, shelves stacked with pedals and amps, and coils of brightly colored cable.
The entire space is a shrine to music, but more than that, it’s a shrine to me. The setlist from my first gig is framed on the wall, next to a photo of me and Tommy on stage. There are little touches everywhere and more instruments than I could dream of.
I take a step forward, then another. The room is perfect, so perfect I want to sit down and cry.
“This is too much,” I say, running my fingers over the piano.
“You are a natural with instruments, and you deserve to have your own instead of the ones Oli has loaned you,” Hunter says.
“Plus, now you and Tommy can rehearse here before the tour,” Fox adds.
Saint stands at the edge of the space, arms folded but eyes soft. “We started construction on it the day we met you. It needs more work, but this is what we could get done quickly.”
