His fingers twitch, and for a moment I see flames again—tiny sparks dancing across his palm before disappearing.
"So I guess we can just be a crazy misfit pack."
My eyes drop to his offered hand.
It's a choice.
He's giving me achoice.
Not demanding. Not commanding. Not using his Alpha voice or his designation or any of the power imbalances that usually dictate interactions between our dynamics.
Just... offering.
An invitation to belong.
An open door to something I've been too afraid to want.
Don't hope.
Hope is dangerous.
But my hand is already moving.
Rising.
Reaching.
My fingers settle into his palm, and his hand closes around mine—warm, secure, gentle in a way that makes my chest ache.
He squeezes once.
Reassurance.
Promise.
Welcome.
"We got class as a pack," he says, tugging me gently forward, urging me back into motion. "Be prepared for the jealousy bunnies losing their shit."
I stumble into step beside him, too overwhelmed to resist.
"Jealousy bunnies?"
"The Omegas who've been trying to get our attention since we arrived." His grin is back, sharp and amused. "Apparently we're an attractive bunch that likes attention in all the wrong ways. They're going to lose their minds when they see you walking in with me."
As if on cue, we pass the cluster of Omegas who were watching Blaze earlier.
Their expressions shift as we approach—curiosity curdling into disbelief, disbelief souring into something sharper. Jealousy, maybe. Or anger. The particular kind of resentment that comes from wanting something you can't have and seeing someone else get it instead.
One of them—the one who giggled, the one who tossed her hair—steps forward slightly.
"Blaze." Her voice is sweet, saccharine, dripping with artificial charm. "Who's your... friend?"
The pause beforefriendis deliberate.
Pointed.
She's not asking who I am. She's making a statement—establishing that she doesn't consider me a threat, doesn't see me as competition, doesn't think I'm worth worrying about.
