Found by the Pack (North Coast Omegaverse #5)

Chapter 1

Sadie

I’ve lived on Beale Street my whole damn life.

Grew up above a juke joint, fell asleep to blues riffs and the clink of whiskey glasses, and smelled like smoke long before I hit puberty.

The floorboards creaked under every pair of boots that ever passed through my mother’s third-floor walk-up.

The place was loud and gritty and alive.

It was home.

Now I’m five hours into the longest fucking drive of my life with no plan but out.

Not north. Not west. Just... away.

Away from the three-bedroom shotgun near where my husband died. Away from the pack that stopped seeing me as a person the second he did. Away from the city that watched me shatter and did nothing to help me.

I don’t know why I stopped driving, pulling in at some no-name gas station outside Memphis.

Half the lights are busted and the guy behind the counter didn’t look up when I asked for the bathroom key.

It smells like pine cleaner and piss. I’m parked out front in my truck with the engine off, phone screen glowing in my lap.

3:09 a.m.

I should be tired. Hours of driving. No dinner. No plan. No sleep.

But my brain won’t shut up. Just keeps replaying that damn email from Mayor Jake Marshall.

Subject line: MURAL OPPORTUNITY IN DRIFTWOOD COVE—URGENT

It’s a commission for six murals across town. I don’t know who threw my name in the hat. Haven’t shown in a gallery in almost two years. My socials are dead. I haven’t painted for anyone but myself since—

Well. Since everything went to hell.

But the commission is solid. Fifteen grand up front. Housing. Travel. Full artistic control.

“Either it’s a scam,” I mutter, “or this guy’s desperate.”

I open the photos he attached. Driftwood Cove. Foggy little coastal town I’ve never even heard of. Lighthouses. Wind-bent trees. A red brick city hall with a massive blank wall screaming for color. It looks like something out of a postcard.

Quiet. Cold. Clean.

So unlike Memphis it almost hurts.

I swipe to the folder I shouldn’t open. The one marked “MAX” in all caps.

He’s there. Always is.

Max, shirtless and sunburned, sipping from the carton. Max pinning me to the kitchen sink, that smirk daring me to resist. Max carrying me down Beale Street, laughing loud enough to turn heads.

Max... buried before our story finished.

I scroll slower. Pause on the one where he’s dozing with my sketchbook in his lap, marker ink smudged all over his hands. He never understood my art, but he loved watching me do it. Said I was the only quiet he ever knew.

I click through to the next image. There’s one of us at a fundraiser. Me on his lap, arms around his neck, laughing so hard my eyes are closed. Max has one hand up my skirt and no shame about it.

“Still the sexiest asshole I’ve ever met.” I blink fast. “Still. Goddamn it.” My throat goes tight. “He’d hate this town,” I whisper.

He would. Too quiet. Too still. Too empty of everything we were.

But he’s gone. And the rest of them?

Fuck the rest of them.

I was twenty-one when Max died. And they were supposed to be my family—my pack. But without him, I was just some heat-drunk Omega they wouldn’t even look at unless they wanted to fuck me. No meals. No aftercare. No help. Just use and toss. Knot and walk away.

I stopped talking after a while. Stopped painting. Stopped asking.

I pinch the inside of my thigh. Hard. Focus, Sadie.

The car is silent except for the wheezing heater. My eyes burn, but no tears come. I think I’m too dry inside for tears anymore.

I look at myself in the mirror, and the image that stares back at me catches me off guard. I look like shit. My eyes used to be bright blue. Max used to say they reminded him of a clear sky before a storm.

Now they’re just storm.

“I said I’d try once more,” I say into the dark. I owe it to my late husband to try one last time. One more town. One more job, then I’m done.”

I look at the road ahead. GPS says four hours to Driftwood Cove.

Four hours to maybe starting anew.

Or ending it. Either way, I’m going.

It’s raining when I hit the edge of town.

Not the polite, drizzly kind of rain you’d expect from a sleepy coastal postcard.

Nah, this is sideways, windshield-smearing, wiper-blurring, cold-as-fuck rain.

The kind that makes your bones ache even when the heater’s blasting and your hoodie’s pulled up over your ears.

I clutch the steering wheel, squinting through the blur as I creep past what must be the town square. The buildings look... quiet. Closed. Like I’m the only idiot alive driving around at 7 a.m. in a place that looks like it forgot people existed.

“Where the hell is City Hall?” I mutter, leaning closer to the glass. The GPS keeps rerouting me like it’s also unsure what the fuck Driftwood Cove is doing. “Left on Main, then left on... Main again? Seriously?”

There’s a small brick building up ahead with a flagpole out front. Red brick. Big windows. A faded sign that says “City Hall” in gold paint that’s peeling around the edges.

I pull into the tiny lot and park, blinking at the building.

It’s closed.

Of course it is.

The windows are dark. No lights on. No cars. No movement. Just a soggy bench and a paper flyer slapped against the door, soaked straight through.

I exhale, nose scrunching.

I’m supposed to meet Mayor Jake Marshall here. That was the plan. That’s what his email said. I even double-checked last night, between crying over Max’s picture and debating whether I should just ghost the whole damn thing and turn around.

I tap my phone: 7% battery. Figures. Charger’s tangled in the back seat with my duffel bag and my backup sketch pads.

“Cool. Love this journey for me.”

I glance around, hoping maybe a diner or gas station’s nearby. Nothing. Just sleepy streets, shuttered shops, fog sneaking down from the hills like it’s got nowhere better to be.

Hunger punches me in the gut. I haven’t eaten since a protein bar yesterday. And even that tasted like cardboard. My stomach growls like it’s pissed.

“Okay.” I sigh. “Drive ‘til I find somewhere open. Then I’ll figure out the rest.”

I crawl my truck through town, wipers slapping against the glass. Everything looks… sealed up. Like the town collectively decided it didn’t feel like existing today. I pass a coffee shop—dark. A flower shop—lights off. Even the gas station is chained shut.

I’m one more closed sign away from crying when I spot it. A squat, wide old building tucked between two brick storefronts, set back a bit from the street. There’s a sign: DRIFTWOOD COVE LIbrARY.

And the porch light’s on.

“I’ll take it,” I mumble, throwing the truck in park.

I grab my sketchbook and my hoodie, not bothering with my bag. I’m soaked in seconds just from the dash to the door, my boots squelching on the steps. I grab the handle.

It opens.

Warm air rushes over me. Dry, dusty. And something else—old paper. Ink. Leather bindings. The kind of smell that Max used to love.

Instantly, I’m back in our old place, the tiny shotgun he insisted on renting even though we could barely afford it. Books stacked in every corner. On the kitchen counter. The toilet tank. My nightstand. He always said he liked being surrounded by stories.

I hated how cluttered it was back then.

Now I’d sell my soul just to pick one of his dog-eared books off the floor and pretend he’s still on the other side of the bed.

I shake the rain off my hoodie, hugging my sketchbook to my chest as I step inside.

The place is beautiful. Old, but not rundown.

The walls are lined with tall, pale wood bookshelves, each labeled in clean lettering.

The floors are dark oak, and there’s a stained-glass skylight overhead—purple and green swirls that throw soft color on the floor.

There’s a fireplace in the far corner. Fake, but warm-looking.

A few cozy armchairs are scattered near it, and somewhere in the back, I swear I hear a printer whirring.

“Hello?” I call out, voice echoing too loud.

Silence. Then—

“Hey there,” a voice says behind me.

I whirl.

There’s a man standing halfway down the hall. Tall. Lean. Black turtleneck tucked into black pants, a leather belt pulled snug at his waist. A thick black watch gleams on his wrist, catching the library light. I have no idea why I notice that first, but I do. The watch. The belt. The glasses.

He’s... not what I expected.

Soft brown curls brush his shoulders. His eyes are green, warm but curious. He’s holding a closed book in one hand, a pen in the other.

I inhale to apologize—and then catch his scent.

Leather. Rain. Something quiet and grounding. Not overpowering, not Alpha, not aggressive.

Beta. But still warm. Still… God, it smells good.

“I’m sorry,” I blurt. “I didn’t mean to track water in. I was just… I needed to get out of the rain.”

“It’s fine,” he says, voice smooth, a little deeper than I expected. “You must be new in town.”

“Yeah. Just got in.” I glance down. My hoodie’s dripping all over the floor.

He steps closer. “I’ve got an old T-shirt in the back if you want to dry off.”

I nod. “Thanks. That’d be... yeah, thank you.”

He tilts his head. “Wish I had a change of clothes to offer.”

“It’s okay,” I say. “I’ve looked worse.”

He smiles. Not Max’s smile. Nothing like Max. This one’s small, crooked. I hate that I notice it.

“Do you know where I can find the mayor?” I ask. “I was supposed to meet him at City Hall but the place was locked up.”

He hums. “Jake’s usually around but… today’s been quiet. Weather keeps people inside.”

“I’ve noticed,” I mutter, looking at the fog outside. “Is this always the goddamn weather? I hate the fucking rain.”

He raises an eyebrow.

“Sorry,” I add quickly. “I’m not usually this grumpy.”

He gives a slow nod, like he doesn’t believe me but he’s not going to argue. “The cold’ll do that to you.”

I huff a soft laugh. “That obvious, huh?”

“Little bit.”

There’s a beat of quiet. Just the rain outside and the hum of the heater vents kicking on.

“What’s your name?” he asks.

“Sadie.”

He nods once. “Shepard.”

“Nice to meet you, Shepard.”

He steps back, gestures toward a doorway. “It’s not much, but I’ve got some lukewarm cocoa if you want it. Microwave’s busted.”

My stomach answers for me with a loud, angry growl.

“If you don’t mind,” I say.

“Not at all.” He heads down the hall. “Stay here. I’ll be right back.”

I watch him walk away. He’s definitely over six feet. Moves like someone used to silence. Graceful, even in black librarian clothes.

I wipe my face with the sleeve of my hoodie and exhale. For the first time in hours, my shoulders drop just a little. Not much. But enough.

My phone’s at 3% now.

I set it down on the counter and glance around the room.