Page 10 of Pack Deception: Part Two

Buzzing sounds from the front seat. Hudson and Maverick both pull their phones out of their pockets and frown. With a glance and head shake at each other, they convey it’s not their phone. When the buzzing reverberates through the car again, a light bulb goes off in Maverick’s head because his frown turns into a murderous glower. Grumbling something unintelligible under his breath, he fishes outmyphone from his jacket pocket. It slipped my mind he even had it. Since right after Brooklyn tossed it to him, they were ushering me out the door to my apartment.

The screen illuminates his face as he reads the texts coming through. Whatever they say, it must be bad because his fist tightens around my phone so hard I hear a small cracking sound that makes me unbuckle my seatbelt at a supersonic speed and lean over the driver’s seat to snatch the phone from him. Or try to. As my fingers wrap around the phone to pull it from his grip, he moves it out of reach again. “I don’t think so. Sit back and buckle up before you get hurt.”

“No, give me my phone, Maverick.” I try to lean forward a little more, but his arms are so long it’s no use. I’d have to crawl over him.

“Sit back before I have Mason pink your pretty little ass, sweets.” I scowl at him. With a quick glance behind me, I see Mason grin antagonistically at me, daring me to push Maverick a little further. Men. Two can play this game. When I turn back around, it’s to see Maverick holding the wheel in his left hand and typing with his right.

Onmyphone!

His eyes dart between the screen and the road, completely distracted. So I do the only thing I can think of, and I lean into his neck, licking a stripe up the column of his throat before pressing a kiss and then biting gently at the juncture between his neck and shoulder. Right where a claiming mark would go.

The car jerks as his left hand spasms on the wheel. But my seduction works because he drops the phone in his lap as he grabs the wheel with his right hand to steady us. As he does, I dart my hand around and grab the phone before he can protest. With an audible click, I buckle back up so nobody can say I’m not being safe and grin my own antagonistic smirk at Mason. Only, he doesn’t look defeated in the least.

The look in his eyes screamsI’m still going to spank the shit out of you later.

A small burst of perfume fills the cab of the Jeep. To which I dutifully ignore all the heated stares, opting to look out the window and pretend I’m not dripping slick onto Maverick’s leather seats. The pack house comes into view. From here, I can already tell the security team Brooklyn was talking about calling is waiting on us. There is an unfamiliar black sedan parked in the circular driveway directly in the path of the front door. For a moment, a touch of insecurity hits me. They shouldn’t be going through this trouble. Not for me. I don’t feel worthy of the fuss and care they’re trying to give me. Maybe that’s the real reason I’m so upset about Brooklyn’s unilateral decision to have me move in. Sure, I would have liked to have beenasked,but a small part of me also doesn’t feel deserving of this pack.

What was the Goddess thinking, making them my fated mates? What have I done in this life to deserve them?

In the time since they met me, they all knew immediately I was their mate, felt completely rejected by my lack of acknowledgment, and then continued to pursue me at a respectful pace. Never making me feel overwhelmed or pressured.

If I’m putting two and two together correctly, then they also hired security when they met me. To do what? I’m not sure. Follow me all the time, run background checks, I don’t know. All I do know is their intentions were good, and it’s another thing for me to feel undeserving of.

“Baby girl?” Hudson says, startling me from beside where he’s holding the door open. “Sorry. You were just stuck in your head. We’re here.” The smile I give him feels sheepish, and I take his extended hand before letting him help me hop out of the Jeep.

The living room comes into view when we walk through the door connecting the garage to the house. Two imposing-looking outlines have taken up residence on one of the couches, while the third stands behind them, arms folded across his chest, unmoving.

It’s a little unnerving how he’s standing there, still as a statue, eyes straight ahead. Brooklyn is in the kitchen, leaning with her elbows on the island and whispering into her phone. The door slams shut behind Mason as the four of us walk into the house, and it grabs the attention of Brooklyn and the three strangers. All of their heads whip around to stare at us. The two men on the couch stand when we get near and clasp their hands behind their backs.

“No, Tillie. Don’t reach out to them yourself. I’ll handle it. I have to go. Yes, now. I’ll text you later,” Brooklyn says in a firm voice, rolls her eyes, and then hangs up. She walks into the living room where I’m standing with Mason, Hudson, and Maverick in a semi-circle at my back and staring at the security team who has yet to say a word. I can’t tell if they’re being overly professional and waiting for introductions or if they’re just standoffish by nature.

Heels click against the tiled floors as Brooklyn makes her way over to us. She looks exhausted, still in her work clothes, and small bags forming under her eyes. But her back is still straight, head still up, and aura screamingpack leader. She walks right up to me and engulfs me in a tight hug. Despite the ire still brewing about the situation, I can’t help but melt into my alpha, wrap my arms around her, and breathe in her lavender and mint scent. What sounds like a relieved sigh tickles my ear. The stress must be getting to her tonight because her scent, while still tantalizing and delicious, is edging a little more toward burnt lavender.

A purr rumbles up in my chest in response to her anxiety. It’s quiet, barely making any noise at all, just enough for her to feel the effects. And feel them, she does. The taut muscles in her back loosen, her shoulders droop ever so slightly, and she presses a sweet kiss to my temple in thanks before stepping back.

She sweeps out a hand to gesture behind her at the security team still standing with straight backs, watching our interaction. “Guys, these are the owners ofPack Protection Services: Wells, Houston, and Damien,” she says, pointing to the two who were sitting on the couch first. That makes the eerie one who doesn’t move–who was standing behind the couch–Damien. He dresses to match his attitude it seems. The suit he’s wearing fits him perfectly. Tailored to him in a way that screams money. If I were to describe him from one look, I’d say he seems poised and professional but distant.

While Maverick, Mason, and Hudson all reach out to shake their hands and exchange small talk, my eyes drift to who she introduced as Houston. He’s the shortest of the three at maybe five-ten or five-eleven. Also the leanest. But neither of these things take away from the sharp way his eyes track everything. I watch as he shakes hands with my mates, taking note of their clothes, faces, and–by the slight flaring of his nostrils–their scents. All the while, he keeps glancing around the room. With sandy blond hair buzzed into a standard military cut and the way he exudes a calm alertness, my guess is he’s the most dangerous one of the trio.

Though he seems to try to hide it behind the casual jeans and flannel attire and a bland smile he probably thinks puts people at ease. Wells is the last and the tallest of the three. He’s very clearly the most charming and energetic, too. Effortlessly dropping the professional facade once introductions are made and getting along swimmingly with my mates. He’s got dark hair styled in a way that is purposefully mussed and shaggy with a clean-shaven face. He’s also huge. The tallest and most muscular of the three, in direct contrast with his bubbly personality.

My pack has finished introducing themselves, so I take my turn shaking their hands and giving them my name. All three of the members ofPack Protection Servicesare handsome. Not in the same league as my pack in looks–maybe I’m a little biased–but I’m sure none of them have trouble in the dating department.

“They’ve already been briefed about the situation and agreed to take us on as clients,” Brooklyn tells us. “You guys can sit and make yourselves comfortable.” Everyone, including our pack, takes a seat on one of the three couches surrounding the coffee table. Everyone except Damien, that is. He goes back to standing behind the couch with his arms folded.

“Brooklyn tells us you’ve gotten threatening texts from them?” Wells says, taking the lead. I honestly can’t tell which of them is in charge. I’d guess Damien since he’s in the suit, but then he’s just standing silently, letting Wells take the lead.

I nod in response to his question. “Can we see them?” he asks politely.

“Why?” I don’t know why I’m hesitant. They’re only here to protect me, but it feels too intimate somehow.

“We’d like to assess the threat and determine if there is genuine cause for action behind them. Or if they were sent to scare more than anything. We need to know everything in order to better protect you,” Houston interjects.

“We’d also like to sit down with you and go through your life with them. Their personalities, likes, dislikes, triggers… everything. We can do that together or in a more private setting.” Wells looks at my pack as he says this. It’s clear he’s anticipating a negative reaction to his words, and he gets it.

“I don’t fucking think so. She’s our mate. If you need to talk to her, we’re in the room.”

Wells completely ignores Maverick’s angry retort and continues speaking directly to me. “We’ve found that it’s easier for omegas to talk about their past and any trauma they’ve suffered when they don’t have to put on a brave face for their pack. Or worry about upsetting them.” As he speaks, I can see exactly how they may have run into issues in the past. I picture myself telling them about what I now know was emotional abuse I’d taken without a fight from Pack Monroe. Or explaining any kind of intimate moments we might have had. If I had to hear my fated mates talk about past relationships, I’d not take it well either. They’ve got a point…

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