Pack Obsession (Love Knot War #3)

Chapter 7

Chapter

Seven

CASEY

M y hair is still damp from the shower. The borrowed sweatpants pool around my feet, clearly meant for someone much taller, and the t-shirt smells like expensive laundry detergent. I try not to think about whose clothes these might be.

Everything in this room screams money and taste, from the thousand-count Egyptian cotton sheets to the obviously original artwork on the walls. Even the air feels expensive, filtered through some high-end system that keeps the temperature perfect. But there are no specific scents, telling me no one has used this room for a long time. The room is a far cry from my cramped bedroom, with its temperamental heating and thrift-store furniture.

Nash’s words from earlier echo in my head. Do you know what you do to us? The memory of him looming over me sends electricity down my spine. Those green eyes darkening as he leaned closer, the raw power radiating from him making every instinct inside me stand at attention. The way his voice dropped low and dangerous when he said my name...

Stop it.

I pace the room, trying to shake off the memory. This isn’t a romance novel where the dangerous Alpha turns out to have a heart of gold. These men kidnapped me. The fact that they’re protecting me now doesn’t change that. The fact that Nash’s presence makes my skin tingle, that Axel’s laugh does things to my insides, and that Logan’s stare melts me definitely doesn’t change any of that.

But standing at the window, watching moonlight paint shadows across the small manicured lawn that backs into the woods, I contemplate how different they are from Julian. How they haven’t tried to hurt or break me. How Nash backed away when he could have...

My stomach growls, mercifully derailing that train of thought. Back home, I always kept snacks handy—protein bars, dried fruit, anything to keep my energy up for when I can’t sleep. My brother used to tease me about my hamster tendencies , always storing food away. But old habits die hard, and right now, I feel exposed without my usual stash. And my stomach growls once more for food.

11:23 p.m. glows on the clock by the bed, so I head out. The hallway beyond my door is quiet except for the faint sound of a television somewhere down the hall. The rug muffles my bare feet as I creep toward the stairs, curiosity making me peek down other corridors. The place is massive, with hallways branching off like a luxury maze.

Artwork lines the walls—not the generic prints you’d expect in a safehouse, but pieces that look like they belong in a gallery. One catches my eye—a storm-tossed ocean at night, waves like black glass under a blood-red moon. Something about it pulls at me, makes me want to reach out and touch the textured surface, but I move past it to where my kitchen light draws me.

There’s no one else down here. The massive fridge hums softly as I open it, scanning the contents. Containers of leftovers, various drinks, more food than three guys should reasonably need... ah. There in the back—string cheese and hummus. Real food.

The pantry yields more treasures—crackers, dried mango, even those expensive protein bars my brother used to splurge on when he could afford them. My throat tightens, thinking of him. Is he worried? Does he think I’m dead in a ditch somewhere?

As long as we’re under the same sky , Case , we’re together. His words echo in my memory. I blink back sudden tears and focus on gathering supplies, knowing I will see him again, along with my three friends, praying they are safe.

Arms full of my scavenged treasures, I pause at the massive windows in the main room, peering in closer to see outside. The moonlit yard stretches before me, solar lights dotting the darkness like fallen stars. A shadow moves between them, too precise to be random.

My breath jams in my throat, and I freeze, gawking at the figure.

Logan suddenly appears in one pool of light, moving like a bullet across the lawn before melting back into darkness.

What’s he doing?

I press closer to the glass, curiosity overriding caution. He reappears again, moving like he’s fighting invisible enemies, each strike and dodge quick and sharp.

"Sharing your snack hoard?" a male’s voice comes from behind.

I flinch around, nearly dropping my bounty. Axel leans against the fireplace, all dangerous grace. His hair is deliciously rumpled, that scar through his eyebrow more prominent in the dim light.

"I..." My gaze drops to the protein bar in my hand, the expensive kind with dark chocolate and sea salt. I lift my attention to his quirking lips.

"Good taste. Those are my favorite."

"Oh, sorry, I can–"

"Keep it." He pushes off the stone fireplace, strolling closer. He’s all shoulders and chest and so tall. My mouth’s suddenly dry. "But maybe we can negotiate shared custody?"

Despite everything, a laugh escapes me. "Of the protein bar?"

"And the..." He peers at my collection. "Salt and vinegar chips? Now, I’m definitely not letting you escape with my entire stash."

"Your stash?"

"Who do you think keeps this place supplied with the good stuff?" He gestures toward the stairs. "Come on. Best view of the yard’s from upstairs."

I hesitate, but curiosity wins out. He leads me upstairs, not to the wing where my room is, but to a different corridor. He opens a heavy wooden door, and the inside steals my breath. Floor-to-ceiling shelves filled with books, leather chairs, and a window seat that overlooks the yard and woods down below.

"Wow."

"Rich people and their libraries, right?" Axel drops into the window seat with ease, patting the space beside him. When I hesitate, his lips tug down in a fake frown. "I don’t bite… unless asked nicely."

Heat floods my cheeks, but I settle down at the other end. Below, Logan continues his midnight training, moonlight revealing his movements. With the lights off in the library, it’s easy to spot him down there, the moonlight throwing a silvery hue over us.

"Here." I offer Axel half the protein bar, trying to ignore how my pulse jumps when our fingers brush. "Since I’m stealing your stash."

"Temporary reallocation of resources." His attention catches mine. "Very professional."

"I’m practicing for a life of crime."

"Amateur." But his widening grin has warmth unfurling in my chest. "First rule—never share your stolen goods with the enemy."

"Is that what you are? The enemy?"

His expression shifts, becoming something more serious. "What do you think?"

I study him in the moonlight, his sharp cheekbones and jawline. Dangerous, yes. But enemy?

"I think..." I take a small bite of my protein bar. "I think labels are overrated."

A low laugh escapes him. "Diplomatic answer."

I swallow down the food. "Survival instinct."

"Is that why you’re up here, sharing snacks with a dangerous Alpha instead of hiding in your room?"

"No, that’s just poor judgment."

His grin is wickedly charming, and just being in his company has my stomach fluttering with butterflies. I shouldn’t be enjoying his company as much as I do, yet I don’t want this moment to end.

"At least you’re honest about it."

Silence falls. Below us, Logan executes a series of moves that look like lethal poetry.

"He’s good," I say softly.

"The best." Axel shifts, and suddenly, we’re closer, his thigh almost touching my knee. A buzz travels through me that I try to suppress. "Each of us... we came to this life, where we are now a pack, differently. Logan through war, Nash through necessity. Me, through fighting."

I tilt my head in confusion.

"Cage fighting. Underground circuit," he explains quietly. "Good money if you’re good at violence." Something dark flashes in his eyes. "I was very good."

"Was? So you stopped?"

His jaw tightens, and I watch his knuckles flex. Even in the dim light, I can see the thick scars across them.

"Three nights a week, I’d step into that cage. No rules, no mercy. Just pure savage instinct." He pauses, a muscle working in his cheek. "The crowd loves watching men tear each other apart. And a part of me loved it, craved it, lived for the adrenaline."

I should be terrified. I should be looking for an escape route. Instead, I find myself leaning closer. "But you don’t seem like someone who fights for crowds."

A bitter smile crosses his face. "Not anymore. I also fought because it was the only way to quiet the beast inside." His tone drops lower. "Still is, sometimes."

Moonlight spills through the library window, casting shadows from the branches swaying in the wind across the room. He’s closer than he should be. I find myself studying his hands where they rest on his knees, powerful and scarred, but there’s something else. In the silvery light, I notice traces of dark blue paint embedded in the creases of his fingers, stark against old scars.

"Your hands," I say before I can stop myself. "Is that paint…?"

He turns his palm up, examining it. This close, heat radiates from his body, the faint scent of turpentine beneath his cologne. "Noticed that, did you?" There’s something almost vulnerable in his voice. "The paintings in the hall… the ocean at night."

I shift to face him, my knee brushing his again. Part of me says to pull away, to remember he’s one of my captors, but there’s something magnetic about this moment, about seeing this other side of him.

"You painted those?"

"That’s not violence," he says quietly, his eyes meeting mine in the darkness. "That’s control." He looks at me then, really looks at me, and my pulse races at the intensity in those ice-blue eyes. "When the brutality threatens to spill over..." He trails off, glancing across the library. "I paint what I wish I could feel. Calm. Peace. Fucking serenity."

I smile. "I’m impressed. I can barely draw a stick figure without it looking deformed."

He huffs out what might almost be a laugh, reaching for the protein bar between us. He tears off a chunk and tosses it into his mouth. Once swallowed, he says, "Wasn’t born with it. Never touched a paintbrush until I was sixteen."

Something in his tone makes me curious. "What happened at sixteen?"

The sharp angles of his jaw shift. "Juvenile detention. Third strike for fighting. The judge thought he was being creative with my rehabilitation."

"Art classes?"

"Twice a week. Thought it was bullshit at first." Another piece of protein bar disappears. "Until I broke another kid’s jaw in the yard. Guard gave me a choice—solitary or the art room." His mouth twists. "Chose the art room. Figured at least I’d be warm."

"And?"

"And I sat there for six hours straight, painting the worst fucking sunset you’ve ever seen." Now, there is a real laugh, low and rough. "But for the first time in years, my hands weren’t shaking with the need to hurt something."

I watch him tear up and eat more of the protein bar.

"So, you kept painting."

"Yeah." His eyes find mine again. "Turns out violence isn’t the only way to empty yourself out. Sometimes..." He pauses, and I notice a vulnerable flash across his face. "Sometimes, beauty works better than brutality."

"To stay in control?"

"Partly." He offers me the final piece of the protein bar. When I take it, his fingers brush mine, and he’s deliberate about it. I can tell he can’t get enough of touching me, and I hate to admit that I’m craving it, too. "Also, because the ocean at night doesn’t judge the darkness in a man’s soul. It just... accepts it. Mirrors it back."

"That’s deep."

The words hang between us with unspoken meaning.

"Your turn."

"My turn?"

"To share secrets in the dark. I’ve shown you mine—the cage fighter who paints oceans to keep from drowning in his own violence." His words soften, but there’s an edge to them. "What monsters are you running from?"

I wrap my arms around myself, suddenly cold despite the warmth of the room. His confession should make me fear him more, this man who admits to such brutality. Instead, I want to match his honesty with my own, but the words stick in my throat.

"We all have demons," he says quietly. "Some of us just learn to make art with them."

I study him, this contradiction of a man who paints and breaks bones. I shouldn’t trust him. I shouldn’t feel this pull. But in the night, with his secrets laid bare, I long to share my own.

"I used to dance. Before everything."

"Ballet?"

"Hawaiian. Hula kahiko, the ancient style. My grandmother taught me." The memory aches, but in a good way. "It tells stories through movement. Every gesture means something."

"Show me."

"What, now?" My shoulders pull back.

He turns toward me fully, one knee drawn up onto the seat. "Just one movement. One meaning."

Maybe it’s the late hour, the warmth in his eyes, or the way this room feels separate from reality, but I lift my hands. The gesture is simple—fingers curling like waves, wrists rotating in the ancient pattern.

"This movement means the sea is treacherous but beautiful."

"Best things usually are." His attention drops to my mouth, then away. He reaches for the bag of chips between us, his fingers brushing my knee. "Tell me something else. Something you’ve never told anyone."

Us embraced by the night has me feeling brave. Or maybe it’s the way he’s staring at me, as if he cares about what I have to say.

"I dream about the ocean almost every night. Even after all these years away. Like it’s calling me home."

"But you don’t go."

"Can’t." I trace patterns on the window glass, watching Logan fade into the shadows again. "Life got... complicated."

"How so? Julian Hayes?"

"I don’t want to talk about him."

"No?" He leans back against the wooden window frame. "What do you want to talk about?"

Heat crawls up my neck. I can’t remember if I’ve ever felt this bizarre mix of wariness and comfort.

"Tell me about your paintings," I say finally. "The one in the hall with the cliffs and crashed ship. It feels angry."

"It was." His voice roughens. "Painted it after a bad night. The kind where the walls close in, and you need to either create something or destroy something."

"Which did you choose?"

"Both." He rolls his shoulder, and moonlight brightens a scar I hadn’t noticed before, disappearing under his sleeve. "Canvas didn’t survive the first attempt."

I think about the painting—those savage strokes of black and midnight blue, the jagged cliffs rising like teeth against a storm-dark sky. The shipwreck below half-swallowed by violent waves, its broken masts reaching up like desperate fingers. There’s something beautiful about it, but it’s a brutal kind of beauty.

"Poor canvas."

"Poor me. That shit’s expensive."

I burst out laughing, and he joins me.

"Your turn again," he insists.

"For what?"

"Secrets in the dark." His arm stretches up as he runs a hand through his hair, and my gaze locks in on the flexing of his huge bicep. "Fair exchange."

"I have nothing interesting." The truth is that mine are painted in blood and heartache, and I freeze up just thinking about mentioning my loss.

"Liar." But his tone holds something soft, and I can tell he’s a man who gets his way. "Anyway, you know what’s funny?" He says, breaking the comfortable silence that’s fallen between us. "For someone who paints oceans, I’ve never actually been on a boat."

I turn to look at him, surprised. "Never?"

"I don’t trust anything I can’t control."

"Silence is what I hate," I admit. "Real silence. The kind that fills empty rooms at three a.m. So, I always sleep with the radio on or one of my playlists. Anything but complete silence."

I stop as his fingers find a loose thread on my sleeve, toying with it. The casual intimacy of the gesture makes my heart stutter.

"Sometimes I talk to myself just to fill the space."

"And what do you say?"

When I look up, I find him watching my lips.

"Mostly curse words in different languages that I learned online." That pulls a genuine laugh from him. I forget how to speak, falling prey to the deep sound. The air between us feels electric.

"You’re shivering," he murmurs.

"It’s cold by the window," I lie. It’s being this close to him, enjoying his company, that has me trembling with a strange excitement.

His mouth curves into something that’s almost a smile, but there’s a predatory edge to it. "Is that what we’re calling it?"

I should pull away. Should remember who he is, what he’s done. Instead, I sway slightly closer, drawn into his gravity.

"Tell me something true," he whispers, his breath ghosting across my cheek.

The words slip out before I can stop them. "You terrify me."

"Good." His hand slides into my hair, gentle despite the heaviness in his stare. "You should be terrified. I’m not a good man."

"Are you sure?" With his fingers tangled in my hair and his gaze holding mine, I’m no longer sure if I’m more afraid of him... or of how much I want to taste his darkness for myself.

He shifts closer, and my heart hammers against my ribs. He’s looking at my mouth again, and the raw hunger I see on his face steals my breath. Every cell in my body screams to close that final distance, to discover if his kiss would be gentle or savage, to feel those powerful hands on my skin. My fingers itch to trace the hard planes of his chest.

But the rational part of my brain whispers warnings. This isn’t just attraction—it’s playing with fire. I’m only here until I know Julian can’t find me, until I’m safe enough to disappear. Getting tangled up with Axel would only complicate everything. Would make leaving impossible. Would make staying even more deadly.

A soft whine breaks the spell. I glance down to see Logan in the yard, his golden eyes staring up at us. I freeze, reality crashing back, and pull away from Axel’s touch.

I should leave. Should go back to my room and remember all the reasons this is not a great idea. But I can’t remember the last time someone looked at me the way Axel does...

"You’re thinking too loud," he murmurs, standing up, towering over me, reminding me just how small I am in comparison.

"Someone has to."

His laugh rumbles through me, and I realize I’ve somehow ended up nearly tucked against his side. When did that happen?

"Axel..."

"Hmm?" His fingers trail down my arm, raising goosebumps.

"This is probably a bad idea."

"Probably." But he doesn’t move away. If anything, he draws me closer. "Want me to stop?"

The smart answer would be yes . The safe answer would be yes .

Instead, I turn to face him, chest to chest.

"Please, no."

His fingers trace patterns on my arm. I should make a joke, break this tension before it drowns us both. Something about Stockholm syndrome or the dangers of midnight snacking with kidnappers.

I study how his eyes seem to glow in the moon’s reflection.

Then he takes his hands off me and takes a step back.

"Casey..."

"Don’t." I press my hands into the pockets of my loose sweatpants, breathing in that scent that’s becoming too familiar. "Don’t say we should stop."

"Why not?"

"I can think of several reasons."

But he’s drawing me closer with this stare alone until I’m touching him again. "Starting with how risky this is for me."

"What part?" he asks. "The midnight snacking or the temptation with your kidnapper?"

"Both." I’m aiming for sass, but the word comes out breathless.

His thumb traces my bottom lip, and my eyes flutter closed.

"Everything about you is potential destruction for someone like me."

"Says the cage fighter."

"Ex-cage fighter." His forehead rests against mine. "I’m losing my mind." He cups my face, tilting it up. "Like my mind screams to slow down, but every part of me wants to drown in you, anyway."

"That’s..." I swallow hard. "That’s a lot."

His laugh rumbles through both of us. "Casey." The way he says my name leaves me shuddering. "Look at me."

I do and immediately regret it. The heat in his eyes makes my bones melt.

"If you want to go back to your room right now, I won’t stop you." His words contrast with how his fingers tighten in my hair. "If you want to pretend this night never happened, we can do that, too."

"And if I don’t want either of those things?"

"Then we’re both in trouble." He’s close enough now that I can feel his breath on my lips. "Because I really want to kiss you."

My heart stops. Restarts.

"That’s... probably a terrible idea."

"Definitely." But he’s leaning closer. "Tell me to stop."

I should. God, I should. Instead, I slide my hands up his chest, feeling the way his breath catches.

"What if I don’t want you to stop?"

Reality crashes back like a bucket of ice water. What am I doing? Curled up with an Alpha I barely know, wanting things I shouldn’t want, forgetting everything that brought me here.

"I should go," I blurt. The words hurt coming out, but I force myself to untangle from him. "This is..."

"Don’t." His tone holds an edge now, something primal.

When I dare to meet his eyes, the heaviness in them steals my breath. Every line of his body screams predator, screams Alpha, screams mine . But he doesn’t move.

"Axel..."

"Go." The word comes out rough. "Before I forget all the reasons I should let you."

I take a step back, grab the snacks, except for the chips, and clutch them like a shield. "I’m sorry."

"For what?" Now, his smile holds something dangerous. "For making me want impossible things? Or for wanting them yourself?"

"Both. Neither." I’m babbling, but I can’t stop. "I don’t know. I just... I can’t."

"Can’t?" He stands in one fluid motion, and suddenly, the room feels very small. "Or won’t?"

"Does it matter?"

"Yes." He stays where he is, though everything in his stance says he wants to follow. "It matters very much."

"Goodnight, Axel." I back toward the door, hating how my body protests with each step away from him.

"Sweet dreams, my little thief." His words wrap around me like dark silk. "Try not to steal any more hearts tonight."

I flee before I can do something stupid like run back to him. The hallway feels colder, emptier, but it’s safer than drowning in those ice-blue eyes that promise things I’m not ready to want.

Back in my room, I press my forehead against the door and try to remember how to breathe normally. Try to forget the feel of his hands, the heat of his skin, the way he looked at me as though I was something both precious and dangerous.