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I catch them, a frown puckering my brows. “I don’t have a license.”
“But you can drive?”
“Technically.” Driver’s ed was one of my many, many OCC electives, but I never passed the test and I never practiced.
“Then drive.”
“That’s not—”
“I’m not carting you all over town,” Craig snarls.
I clench the keys until metal bites my palm. He wants me to drive, I’ll drive.
The car is way bigger than the beater sedan my driver’s ed teacher let us kick around campus, but the seatbelt and key work the same. I figure it’s all gravy, minus the too-tempting alpha scents embedded in the upholstery.
I open my window to air out while Craig climbs in back. He doesn’t buckle, sitting with his phone and leaving me to play driver. I’d rather play along than deal with his whining, so I search for the closest grocery store on the GPS and roll out.
Driving is fine on the driveway and country roads, but I forgot how fast cars go. And why is the road so narrow?
I drive thirty the whole way to town, getting flipped off three times and almost hitting a shrub that someone planted way too close to the fucking road.
Craig mutters under his breath, but so what?
Bastard could’ve called an Uber.
“Park at the coffee shop,” Craig says, waving to the cute café spot across the lot from the grocery store. He hands me the black card like he’s leaving one of his organs in my care. “Wait by the car when you’re done. And pick up some energy drinks.”
He hops out and ducks into the shop.
I’m nervous in public for literally the first time in my life, but being alone is so much better than being stuck with Craig. Tucking the credit card safely into my bra, I grab a cart and head inside.
I’ve only seen grocery stores in the movies.
It’s more colorful than I imagined, the bakery smells amazing, and I can’t fucking fathom why there need to be five hundred kinds of cheese, but I am on board this crazy mozzarella train.
Pushing my cart, I duck down. It feels like people are looking at me, sneaking glances from the corners of their eyes. Because no perfuming omega should ever be out on her own.
A male beta passes so close I consider stabbing him an extra air hole. When his sniff comes up blank, his creepy eager smile fades and he darts down the aisle.
Whatever I smell like, I look omega, and not even shrugging into my hoodie hides the come-mess-with-me aura.
I have a scowl for that.
I don’t plan to cook anything complicated, so I grab the basics that the Wyvern pack’s missing. Stuff for grilled cheeses, spaghetti, and salads. Ground beef and buns for burgers.
They’re set on condiments for life.
My cart’s already heaped when I hesitate in the baking aisle, wondering if I could get away with making Craig a cake filled with rat poison.
“New pack?” A female voice chirps.
The small blonde offers a warm smile that’s wrecked by her hulking alphas who study me like I’m a grocery store terrorist.
“Honestly.” She scoffs, then playfully shoves them away. “I’ll meet you at the front.”
“But babe,” her alpha whines.
“You shouldn’t be alone,” the other insists, both big men pressing her tight to her cart like a sniper could be ducking behind the bags of sugar.
