Pack Obsession (Love Knot War #3)

Chapter 10

Chapter

Ten

CASEY

T he sand scorches my feet as I madly rush along the beach. Salt spray stings my eyes, but I don’t slow down. Can’t slow down. The waves crash alongside me, my heartbeat thundering, but they can’t wash this away. Nothing can wash this away.

Julian’s laughter follows me down the shoreline, carried on the wind. "You can’t run away from me Casey."

I stumble. The sand shifts beneath my feet, no longer solid. Dark hands reach up from the depths, grabbing, pulling. His fingers close around my throat ? —

My eyes snap open as I gasp for air, my heart slamming against my ribs so hard, it hurts. Sheets tangle around my legs like grasping hands, and for one terrifying moment, I don’t know where I am. The light is wrong. The ceiling’s too high. Nothing makes?—

Then reality filters back in, piece by jagged piece. The Alphas’ house. The strange bedroom. The Nexus bus crash.

I crane my neck up from the pillow and find Nash slumped in the oversized armchair not far from my bed, one long leg stretched out, the other bent at the knee. His head rests against the wing of the chair, deep blonde hair falling across his forehead in a way that softens his usual sharp edges. His glasses sit slightly askew on his nose, and in sleep, the tension in his jaw has eased. An empty whiskey glass rests by the chair leg.

I vaguely remember his words cutting through my earlier nightmare. "I heard you crying out," he’d said during the night, appearing in my room like some dark guardian angel. Great. Nothing says ‘totally stable person’ like me screaming through my night terrors in front of the Alpha who was involved in my kidnapping.

Though I guess I kidnapped myself when I offered to help with their heist instead of letting them deliver me to Julian.

Just thinking his name makes my skin crawl, like phantom hands ghosting across my skin. I shove the feeling away, the nightmares that never leave me, focusing instead on the sleeping Alpha in the room. It’s strange seeing Nash like this, all that controlling side of him at rest. He looks almost innocent.

The need to use the bathroom hits me, and I glance down to see I’m only wearing my tank top and underwear with a grimace. Perfect. Real dignified, Casey.

Slowly, carefully, I ease out from under the covers. The bed creaks once—a sound as loud as a gunshot in the quiet room—and I freeze. Nash doesn’t stir, his breathing still deep and even. The rug is soft under my bare feet as I take one step, then another, passing him to reach the en suite. Just three more steps to freedom. Two. One?—

His hand snaps out and catches my wrist as I almost slip away. I flinch hard, can’t help it, old memories rising like bile. But his grip is gentle despite the lightning-fast grab, his skin surprisingly warm against mine.

"Did you sleep okay?" His voice is rough with sleep, eyes still closed, and something about the casual question makes my breath catch.

I stare at him, at the way his dark lashes fan against his cheeks, at the slight stubble shadowing his jaw. Really? That’s his question? Not ‘where are you going’ or any of the thousand things Julian would have said?

"Yeah, thanks," I manage, ignoring how his thumb brushes absently across my pulse point. "You can leave my room now. I’m safe."

His fingers release me—no lingering touch, no attempt to maintain control. I scurry toward the bathroom door but can’t resist glancing back. He’s turned in the chair, very intently awake now and very much studying me. Those storm-green eyes trace a path from my bare legs up to my face, and the heat in them has nothing to do with dominance.

I roll my eyes and shut the door with perhaps more force than necessary, but my heart’s still racing. Not from fear this time, and that’s... dangerous. The way he looked at me, like he wanted to... Not going there. These Alphas might be better than Julian, but I have to be cautious because even Julian was charming in the beginning. After all, what kind of person chooses to help criminals just to avoid their ex?

A desperate one , whispers a voice in my head that sounds suspiciously like my brother. A smart one .

The bathroom is surprisingly luxurious for a safe house, all gleaming tile and brushed metal fixtures, with fluffy towels. The shower calls to me like salvation, and I strip quickly, stepping under spray hot enough to scald. Steam rises around me as I let the water pound away the nightmare’s lingering touches, washing away memories that never quite fade.

A sharp knock at the door makes me jump, water splashing into my eyes.

"I’m in the shower!" I call out, proud that my response doesn’t shake.

"I’m heading into the city for supplies," Nash replies through the door, his deep words somehow carrying clearly over the water. "Need anything specific? Any..." There’s a pause. "Female stuff?"

I mirror the cringe in his voice but appreciate the awkward thoughtfulness. Then, his words fully register. The city. Where I lived with my brother, Kai. Maybe...

"Wait a second!" I shut off the water and grab the nearest towel, not caring about the puddles I’m creating as I rush to the door. I crack it open just enough to peer out and find Nash filling the doorframe, all six-foot-something of him somehow managing to look both rumpled and devastating. His black t-shirt clings to broad shoulders, still twisted slightly from sleeping in the chair. Deep blonde hair curls damply at his neck like he’s already showered, and those arms... Focus, Casey.

"Can I come with you to the city?"

"Hell, no." The answer is immediate, his expression sharpening from sleepy to alert.

"Come on, Nash." I tighten my grip on the towel as cold air from the hallway raises goosebumps on my wet skin. Water drips down my back, and I’m acutely aware of how little separates me from his gaze. "I’ll wear a hoodie, lie low..."

"Why?" His eyes narrow behind those steel-rimmed glasses, and he takes them off to clean them on his shirt. "What do you want? I’ll get it for you."

"I want to see my brother."

He slides the glasses back on and folds his arms across his chest, muscles flexing. His glasses slide down his nose slightly as he fixes me with a look that clearly says not on your life .

"You realize everyone’s probably watching him?" There’s an edge of Alpha authority creeping into his tone. "Nexus, Julian... you think going there is a smart move?"

I grind my teeth, tasting the metallic tang of frustration. "I just need to contact him. I’m guessing a phone call is out of the question, too?"

"You bet." His lips press into a thin line. "Probably tapped."

A frustrated sigh escapes me, and I lean against the doorframe, forgetting for a moment how exposed I am until his gaze drops to where the towel has slipped slightly. I adjust it quickly, but not before catching the way his pupils dilate.

"He’s worried about me and..." I meet his gaze, hating how my words softens, how vulnerable the truth makes me feel. "He’s all the family I have left."

Something shifts in Nash’s expression. The hard edges crumble for just a moment, and I see past the tough-guy facade to something raw underneath.

Loss recognizing loss.

"Leave it to me," he says quietly, running a hand through his hair. "I’ll think of a way to reach him." He pauses, then adds so softly I almost miss it, "I know what it’s like to have almost no family. The ones you do have, you hold on to for dear life."

The unexpected vulnerability in his words catches me off guard. Questions bubble up—about his family, his past.

"I’ll let you get back to your shower."

I retreat to the bathroom, racing back under the hot water.

After a long wash, I step out of the shower, wrap myself in one of those ridiculously soft towels, and freeze. There, laid out on my bed like some high-end boutique display, are clothes. Not just clothes—an entire wardrobe. Price tags still dangling, and… holy shit, is that Gucci? My fingers brush over soft denim, trembling slightly as I check the tag. Yep. Gucci. More zeros than my bank account’s ever seen.

But it’s the lingerie that makes me pause. Black lace La Perla underwear and matching bra, exactly my size, which is either impressive intel-gathering or seriously creepy. Probably both. Did Nash pick these out? The mental image of him in a lingerie store, those stern glasses sliding down his nose as he debates cup sizes, makes me snort despite myself.

The pile of clothes seems endless. Three pairs of designer jeans. Silk blouses in jewel tones, casual shirts, too. Cashmere sweaters soft enough to sleep in. There are even dresses—a black cocktail number that probably cost more than my old apartment’s rent and a flowing sundress in a deep blue that.. actually looks like something I’d pick. And tucked beside them, a pair of Louboutin heels that have my mouth gaping open. Apparently, I’ll need six-inch stilettos while running from whatever chaos these guys have planned.

I grab the Gucci jeans, admiring how perfectly they fit. The cropped black top hits just above my navel, showing a strip of skin that makes me feel both powerful and exposed. The Balenciaga trainers are practical, at least, though I try not to think about their price tag. I quickly hang the rest of the clothes in my wardrobe, the least I can do after being given such an expensive set of clothes.

A flare of anxiety curls through me about how much they’ve spent on me, yet when I look around the house, they have money. It’s just something I’m not used to. Which then leads my worries to float to the heist, and what if I’m making a terrible mistake and I will ruin their chances of completing it? What if I cause them to get caught?

I curl the tips of my hair, gnawing on my lower lip, trying to remind myself that if they didn’t want me, then they would have agreed, right? Pushing back those thoughts, refusing to let them drown me, I head out of the room. I have no space for doubt as my options are limited right now.

The house is tomb-silent when I step out, my footsteps echoing on hardwood floors. No sign of Nash, though his whiskey glass has vanished like morning mist. Logan mentioned something about me hunting him, which sounds like the world’s worst first idea or some twisted Alpha power play.

I check the back door, pressing my face against the cool glass to peer into the dense woods behind the house. The trees stand lofty, branches swaying in a breeze I can’t feel. No sign of movement. No sign of life at all of any of the Alphas.

This whole hunting thing seems ridiculous, anyway. Maybe it’s his kink. Rich boy likes playing prey.

The kitchen yields better discoveries—fresh bagels and cream cheese, the fridge mysteriously restocked overnight. I devour one bagel, cream cheese dripping down my fingers, and contemplate a second while chugging orange juice straight from the bottle. Not like anyone else is around to judge my manners.

Speaking of around... The silence starts to feel heavy, pressing against my skin like a warning. I head upstairs, but every door is either locked tight or leads to empty rooms that feel staged, like a movie set waiting for actors. My knocks echo unanswered down long hallways that all look the same.

"Hello, anyone around?"

Silence.

Time to do what any self-respecting kidnapping victim would do—go snooping.

The first floor reveals nothing interesting—a couple of sterile offices with locked computers, a gym that looks barely used despite the expensive equipment, and some kind of tech room humming with servers behind a locked door that probably costs more than my entire life. But as I’m heading back to the kitchen, I spot another staircase. Leading down.

Wait. Didn’t Logan specifically mention not going to the east wing basement?

My feet are moving before I can talk myself out of it. The stairs curve down into darkness, concrete replacing hardwood under my feet. The temperature falls with each step, raising goosebumps on my arms. My hand traces rough stone walls until I find a light switch. The bulb flickers once, then twice before steadying into a sickly fluorescent glow that illuminates a long hallway with only a few doors in either direction. Definitely where the torturing happens. I cringe at my own joke.

The last door creaks when I push it open, the sound skating down my spine like ice. I fumble for another switch and?—

"Oh, shit."

It’s like walking into a movie scene. The kind where they show the serial killer’s lair, except everything here is meticulously organized. Military grade. Weapons line the walls—handguns, others I don’t want to think about. Display cases hold knives that gleam under the fluorescent lights, their edges promising beautiful violence. There’s a table with straps that I really hope is for weapon maintenance and various implements that look designed for extraction—of information or teeth, I’m not sure I want to know.

These guys aren’t just retrievers. No way. This is... this is...

"Finding everything okay?"

I spin so fast, I nearly fall, my heart leaping into my throat. Logan leans against the doorframe, a heavy duffle bag slung over one shoulder. His usual tech-bro outfit is replaced with tactical gear that hugs his lean frame, and the look in his eyes is anything but amused. Something dark lurks there, something that screams for me to run while another part of me wants to step closer.

"Just admiring the decor." I aim for casual but miss by several miles. My words shake slightly, and I know he catches it. "Very murder-chic. Though the lighting’s a bit harsh. Maybe some candles? Fairy lights? Really soften up the whole torture chamber vibe."

"You’re late." He steps into the room, dropping the bag with a metallic clank that makes me jump. "And breaking rules. What do you think the punishment should be?"

I force a laugh, though it comes out more like a squeak. "Nothing? We could call it even for the whole kidnapping thing. Or maybe time served for good behavior?"

His grin is slow, predatory, sending heat curling through my stomach despite my fear. Or because of it. He moves past me to unzip the bag, and the scent of gun oil and manly Alpha fills the small space, making my head spin.

"Casey, come here."

"I’m good, thanks." I take a step back and bump into a shelf. Something metallic rattles.

"Casey." His command threads through his words like steel wire. "Come. Here."

My feet move before my brain can object. Stupid Omega instincts. Stupid Alpha voice. Stupid everything.

"Know what this room is?" He asks as I approach, his attention never leaving mine.

"Your personal Dexter cosplay space? Though you’re giving off more Patrick Bateman vibes with the whole tech-bro aesthetic."

He chuckles, but there’s no humor in it. The sound raises the hair on my neck.

"Storage. For things that keep us and our clients safe." He straightens and moves closer to me in the cramped space. His scent wraps around me, intoxicating, leaving me inhaling the dark chocolate and sea salt scent deeper. "See anything you like? Anything you want to try?"

I blink, thrown by the question. "Wait, you want to give me something? Not punish me?"

"We’re going hunting soon." His fingers brush my arm, barely there but sending electricity through my skin. "If you want to take a blade with you, you’re welcome to."

"Are you insane? I’m not hunting you with a knife." The very idea makes my stomach turn. Despite everything, despite the room full of evidence that these men are dangerous, the thought of hurting them feels wrong.

"Not saying to use it on me, sugar." The endearment slides like honey over broken glass. His hand moves to my lower back, guiding me closer to the display. "But if you’re going to break rules, you might as well learn to handle what you find."

I swallow hard as he reaches past me and pulls a knife from its display. The blade catches the light, looking wicked sharp and beautiful in a deadly way. It’s as long as my palm, so not large at all, the handle black smooth leather.

"Besides," he adds softly, pressing the handle into my palm, his chest against my back as he shows me how to grip it properly. "Sometimes, the most dangerous things are the ones that look harmless."

His breath fans against my neck as he adjusts my fingers on the handle, and I can’t help wondering…

Is he talking about the weapon in my hand or the Omega in his arms?

And which of us is more likely to draw blood first?