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Brooke pops up and starts pacing the living room. She runs her fingers through her hair. "Okay. This is going to be fine." Back and forth, she paces in front of the coffee table that sits in between the three couches. "Here's what we're going to do. You three will go with Summer to her apartment and pack up her things. She's moving in here tonight. I'll call the security company we used to get them back on the payroll and get things ready around here. Be sure to–"
"Wait, hold on." Summer’s cheeks are flushed. I can't tell if it's from embarrassment, anger, or arousal.
"Yeah, Brooke. It's not that dire. Let's calm down–" Mav starts, worrying his bottom lip and staring at Summer’s red face.
"Not that dire?" Brooke growls and chucks the phone at Mav. "She didn't just message them. She threatened them. Look at their last text to her."
His face pales at first glance, and then he's scrolling through all the messages, too. "They..." he looks like he wants to say more, but his anger is cutting off his air supply, and his face is slowly turning an alarming shade of puce.
"Spit it out," Mason gripes.
"They have her address," Brooke finishes for him. "Down to the apartment number."
Oh, hell fucking no. I stand up and stalk over to the couch Summer and Mason are on, grab our mate, and toss her over my shoulder. "Let's go," I bark to Mav and Mason, who follow me after a brief, hesitant glance at each other.
Five
Summer
When Hudson stops manhandling me,he places me gently into the back of Maverick’s Wrangler. I cross my arms over my chest, ever the petulant child, and fume silently the whole drive over to my apartment. How dare they?
On the one hand, I’m secretly so excited that my mates–myreal fated mates–are welcoming me into their home with open arms. It’s what I’ve always dreamt of, what I thought I had before. A pack to spend my life with. To share the little moments: snuggles in my nest, Christmas mornings, supper around the dinner table after a long day at work. It’s what they’re giving me now. But that’s the problem. They’re giving–no, demanding–it. Rather than asking me to move in with them, I’m being escorted to my apartment to packup my life without any say. Jade did the same thing two years ago. The difference there is that I was already heavily under the influence of the passion pack drug, so I couldn’t feel any of my feelings about the way she moved my things into their home without a conversation. I hadn’t even fully come out of my heat yet, and my room was almost set up.
My mind is switching between the parallels of then and now as Maverick pulls up to the curb in front of my building. Another bout of embarrassment hits me at the sight of it. After being in their almost mansion with its updated appliances, marble countertops, and all-white aesthetic, my apartment looks akin to a homeless shelter with its water-stained ceilings, bubbly vinyl floor, and cream-colored walls edging more toward brown from lack of upkeep. Then Hudson opens my door for me and holds out his hand, gesturing for me to take it so he can march me up to my room like my own personal guard. The embarrassment turns back to anger. I won’t take it out of him, though. Nope, I know how these things go. Their pack alpha gave them instructions, and they followed. A little more brute-ish than need be, but my ire is for Brooklyn. When we get back, I’ll have words for her. That gives me the next few hours to formulate a concise, logical argument in my head rather than the rambling, incoherent words of rage swirling up there right now.
“Can I help you?” Hudson’s angry bark pulls me out of my thoughts in time to see a young beta male jump at the harsh words. The guy isn’t much of a threat at no more than five foot seven and one hundred and fifty pounds soaking wet. I recognize him as the guy who lives at the end of the hall from me, so I give him a small, brief wave and an apologetic smile.Sorry,I mouth to him and let Hudson use his body to shield me from the poor beta.
Once the four of us are in the elevator, I pull my hand from Hudson’s. “Would you guys relax? He wasn’t a threat.”
“We don’t know that. All we do know is that your old pack knows where you live, and anyone could have told them,” Maverick grumbles, clearly on Hudson’s side.
“Well, it certainly wasn’t Ben from apartment four-ten. The guy wouldn’t hurt a fly,” I argue, leaning into the corner of the elevator, away from them. Yeah, maybe I’m pouting still. Sue me.
Hudson and Maverick both take in breaths like they’re gearing up for a fight, but Mason chimes in.
“Drop it.” His tone is soft in a dangerous sort of way while he glares at the two of them. I can’t lie. The way they fall silent at his words–and the look on Mason’s face–makes a flush of heat travel up my spine. I can feel a little slick escape, and by the looks of all three of their faces, they can tell just how turned on Mason’s dominance makes me. Maverick’s and Hudson’s nostrils flare while they get a good whiff of my arousal in the small space. Luckily, the elevator dings and the doors open just as it looks like they may jump at me.
“Don’t even think about it.” I hold up a finger as I pass them, and it looks like they may still try to touch me. I’m holding onto this indignation and anger over being escorted to pack my things as long as I can. Even if my resolve is wavering with each smoldering glance thrown my way.
When I have the door to my apartment unlocked and usher everyone in, they immediately get to work. Or rather, Mason takes charge, and it doesn’t help much with the way my body is reacting to him.
“Okay. You two, start packing clothes up in trash bags. I’ll go back downstairs and see if I can find some boxes with the recycling for the heavier stuff.” He looks at me this time, eyes softer than they were for Maverick and Hudson. “Pack whatever you would for a short trip in a backpack so it doesn’t get lost in all the other stuff. Toiletries, makeup, toothbrush, a few pairs of work clothes, whatever.” His smirk tells me the dreamy feeling floating through me is reflected on my face as I nod at him.
Mason disappears back through the front door while we get to work on my apartment. I already have the small backpack with the few things I’d packed before heading to the Hog’s Head earlier. That’s now somewhere at the pack house; I didn’t see where Brooklyn set it.
The cabinet door under my kitchen sink creaks as Hudson grabs the box of trash bags. I don’t even question how he knows exactly where to find him. They were both here for my heat, and when they left, my cabinets were filled to the brim with food.
The apartment is quiet, except for the shuffling of feet and banging of cabinets as we work to pack up the meager amount of belongings I’ve managed to buy for myself since landing in Chicago. Besides the clothes on my back and cash in my pocket, I didn’t have a single possession. I’ve pillaged a small wardrobe from thrift stores, purchased plates, cups, and silverware from dollar stores, and pennied my way into a couple of pots and pans as well. But I’m not much attached to any of it. So when they start talking about renting a small moving van for my bigger items, I interject.
“I don’t need any of that stuff.” Their heads turn toward where I’m leaning against the bathroom door frame, half of my toiletries and makeup in my backpack already, and looks like they’re about to argue. Or at least insist I bring my belongings. Probably hoping they’ll make me feel more at home in the pack house they’re forcibly moving me into. So I plow ahead. “I got the end table from a yard sale for fifteen dollars.” I begin with the table by the door and then continue by pointing at each item after it for emphasis, “That couch is practically ripped to shreds. I got it and the coffee table in front of it online. Both from this wealthy pack that was practically giving them away for free. Besides my mattress, everything in here isn’t worth more than ten dollars anymore. None of it has any sentimental value. I don’t need them. We can just donate it all.”
Maverick eyes the space a little more critically, and Hudson eyes me. I hold his stare and let him see how much I couldn’t care less about these things. He sighs.
“Fine. We’ll leave the couch and coffee tables. But we’re bringing everything else. It won’t fit in the Jeep since we all came, but I’ll come back in the morning and grab the rest of the boxes and your mattress.” I shrug. His prerogative.
The rest of the evening goes by in a blur of trash bags and boxes that Mason did indeed find downstairs. After a few hours, I’ve got my bag slung across my shoulder, and each of the guys are carrying two trash bags a piece, full of the rest of my wardrobe. There are maybe half a dozen boxes left to grab tomorrow with the rest of my shoes and kitchen supplies along with my mattress, but at least I won’t be hauling them over myself.
In the few hours we were packing, I’d lost all my indignation. They were being so sweet and helpful that I forgot for a minute that it wasn’t my idea to move in. Or that I wasn’t asked. So now that we are driving back to the pack house in silence, it comes rushing back. I need to have a few words with Brooklyn.
