Chapter 16 Emergency Pack Meeting #2
"I didn't help her when she needed it. I saw the signs—we all did—and I did nothing.
Just ran away like a fucking coward." He finally looks up, and his eyes are bright with something that might be tears if Rowan ever cried.
"But I'm done running. She's here, she's free, and those assholes today proved she still needs protection. Support. Pack."
The word hangs in the air between us. Pack. Not just three Alphas interested in the same Omega, but pack. It's old-fashioned, some would say archaic, but my Alpha practically purrs at the rightness of it.
"She's been hurt with words," Rowan continues, his voice stronger now. "You heard what those fuckers said today. 'Damaged goods.' That's probably nothing compared to what Korrin told her. Made her feel like garbage, like she was lucky he wanted her at all."
"Bastard," I growl, and mean it. I only met Korrin once, at some town function years back, and instantly disliked him. Too smooth, too charming, with dead eyes that reminded me of a shark.
"So we prove Alphas aren't all bad," Rowan says firmly. "Actions, not just words. Show her we can love and cherish her properly."
"If she'll let us," Luca adds quietly. "She might not want any Alphas after what she's been through."
The possibility sits like lead in my stomach, but I force myself to nod. "Then we respect that. Her pace, always."
"Agreed." Rowan stands, pacing to the window that overlooks the back pasture. The setting sun paints his profile in gold and shadow. "But if we're doing this—if we're really considering pack courting—we need rules."
"Christ, you sound like Luca," I complain, but I'm already nodding. We need structure, boundaries. Without it, we'll end up competing, and that will only hurt Hazel in the end.
"He's right," Luca says, pulling out his phone and opening a notes app because of course he does. "First rule: her pace, always. No pushing, no pressing, no matter what our Alphas want."
"Second," Rowan turns from the window, "no competing. We court together, not against each other. Pack means pack."
I think about that, about sharing Hazel's attention, her affection. My Alpha should rebel at the thought, but instead, there's a strange sense of rightness. The three of us have been friends since elementary school. We've shared everything else—might as well share the most important thing too.
"Communication," I add. "No secrets about intentions, no sneaking around behind each other's backs. We're honest with each other and with her."
"What about..." Luca hesitates, then forges ahead. "What if she chooses some other pack?"
The question I've been dreading. I force myself to consider it objectively.
"Then we step back with grace," I say firmly. "No hard feelings, no broken friendships. We're brothers first, potential pack second, and we'll support her whether rejected or accepted."
"No questions, no pressure. We keep being her friends, her support system, whatever she needs us to be," Rowan emphasizes.
We all nod, the agreement settling over us like a pact. Then Rowan's mouth quirks in what might be a smile.
"And if she chooses all?"
The question hangs in the kitchen along with the scent of over-strong coffee and three Alphas trying to hope. My mind immediately goes to dangerous places—Hazel surrounded by the three of us, safe and cherished and thoroughly claimed—before I yank it back.
"Then we figure it out together," Luca says simply. "Pack means pack."
"Pack means pack," I echo, and find I mean it. The three of us have been through everything together—Rowan's dad's death, Luca's brutal residency, my mom's cancer scare. We can handle this, too.
Rowan opens one of the high cabinets, the one that requires reaching, and pulls out a bottle of whiskey that looks older than dirt. "My dad's," he says by way of explanation, grabbing three glasses that almost match. "Seemed like the right time."
He pours generous measures, the amber liquid catching the last of the sunlight. The smell of it—oak, smoke,and time—mixes with our combined scents, creating something new. Something that smells like pack.
I raise my glass, feeling the weight of the moment.
"To Hazel."
"To not fucking this up," Luca adds with a wry smile.
"To second chances," Rowan finishes quietly.
We clink glasses, the sound ringing through the kitchen like a bell, and drink. The whiskey burns, but it's a good burn, warming me from the inside out.
"So what now?" Luca asks, setting down his empty glass.
"Now we let her know we're here," I say, pulling out my phone. "All of us. Together."
I type carefully, aware of both men reading over my shoulder:
We're here if you need anything, Hazel honey.
Simple. Direct. No pressure, but a promise all the same.
"Send it," Rowan says roughly.
I hit send before I can second-guess myself. The message shows delivered, then read almost immediately. My heart jumps.
But no response comes.
"She needs time," Luca says, though he's staring at his own phone like he can will a reply into existence.
"Yeah." I pocket my phone, ignoring the urge to stare at it. "We should probably—"
"Stay for dinner," Rowan interrupts. "I've got steaks. We can talk strategy."
"Strategy?" I raise an eyebrow.
"How to court her without scaring her off.
How to show her we're different." Rowan is already pulling meat from the fridge, falling back on the familiar routine of feeding people when emotions get too heavy.
"Besides, when's the last time the three of us actually hung out?
Without work or women or drama getting in the way? "
He has a point.
We've been friends forever, but adult life has a way of pulling people in different directions. Maybe this—pack—will bring us back together in more ways than one.
We grill as the sun sets, painting the sky in purples and pinks that remind me of the lavender Hazel grows behind her shop.
We drink beer and talk about safe things—Luca's latest nightmare patient, Rowan's pregnant mare, my upcoming bathroom renovation project.
But underneath it all is the awareness of what we've agreed to, what we're trying to build.
It's nearly midnight when I finally head home, slightly buzzed from the whiskey and beer, feeling something I haven't felt in a long time: hope.
Real, tangible hope that maybe we can do this.
Maybe we can show Hazel that not all Alphas are like Korrin.
That she deserves to be cherished, protected, loved properly.
My phone stays silent the whole drive home.
But the next morning, when I open my front door to grab the paper, there's a white bakery box sitting on my porch. I recognize it immediately—from Hazel's shop. My heart hammers as I lift the lid.
Six perfect cinnamon rolls, still warm, the icing melting into the spirals of cinnamon and sugar. The scent of them—butter and spice and something uniquely Hazel—makes my mouth water and my chest tight.
No note. But then, there doesn't need to be.
I pull out my phone, find the group chat with Luca and Rowan.
ME: Anyone else get a delivery this morning?
LUCA: Cinnamon rolls.
LUCA: Still warm.
ROWAN: Same…
ROWAN: Think she was up all night baking?
I picture it: Hazel in her kitchen, flour in her hair, kneading dough and thinking about us. About our message. About what we're offering.
LUCA: It's a good sign, right?
ME: It's a start, I type back.
I bite into one of the rolls, the sweetness exploding on my tongue, and let myself believe that maybe—that hopeful possibility—this can work. We can be what she needs. What she deserves.
A real Pack that can love her to the moon and back.