Chapter 8
chapter
eight
It’s a cute-ass house.
I’ve always liked it. Ever since the day Bridget sent me the listing.
It was about a week after we signed our stupid agreement. Per the terms, she had a month to move out of her sister’s place and into a “packhouse” furnished by us.
I remember being so surprised when I opened her email and saw what she’d chosen. Didn’t she know we were millionaires? Hadn’t she read the dollar figures in our contract?
This was the house she wanted?
Calling it a “house” is generous, actually. It’s more like a bungalow.
A really, really cute one.
I haven’t been here since the day we bought it. When I signed the papers and got the keys to the place, I came alone to check it out. Just, you know, out of curiosity.
I never imagined it would be so small and sweet. And I definitely didn’t expect to spend an hour wandering from room to room, feeling the deep swell of some aching emotion that may have been regret …
The home is even more welcoming now. Painted chipper white with a pale yellow door, surrounded by hydrangeas every bit as blue as Bridget’s eyes.
Bee .
A familiar ache yawns in my middle, stretching to fill my stomach. I’m going to miss our phone calls, however awkward they could be. Those were one of the few pack-alpha duties I didn’t struggle with—that one weekly check-in, making sure “our omega” had everything she needed.
What a joke.
I never really asked . About her heats, her happiness, her health—mental or otherwise.
On cue, shame joins the roil inside of me. I’ve been a shitty friend . Worse than I even let myself realize before I saw Adrian’s horrified expression last night.
Most alphas would probably be put out by losing their freedom—and, trust me, I try to summon any sort of anger about it.
But I just keep coming back to an almost manic sort of relief.
Watching Adrian steer his BMW into Bridget’s driveway feels the way I imagine a nanny would when the parents of a screaming horde finally come home.
Like, thank God I’m not in charge anymore . And at least no one died .
But it was a close call for sure.
Too close.
“This is it?” Adrian clips. He’s in his usual silk dress shirt and gray slacks.
Professional and put-together, with his longer black hair slicked on top of his head and the sides buzzed in a clean fade.
He’s bronzed, like Dante, but his eyes are a light, bright color.
They narrow in speculation while he stares at Bridget’s little house.
I nod, my gaze tracing the colorful wreath on the happy front door. “Yep, this is it.”
“It’s small,” he mutters. “And… cute.”
I almost smirk. He’s clearly never said that word out loud. I’m not surprised.
Adrian is a ball-buster. Even at rest, with nothing to provoke him, his dominance practically chokes me.
I never could have whipped the guys into submission the way he did this morning. A few smooth barks and he had Colt actually using both crutches. And Dante cleaning .
Though I suspect he got less resistance than he normally would because they were both trying to put off coming over here. Seeing Bridget.
I could put this delicately, but at this point, what the hell?
They’ve never liked her. And she can’t stand them.
Dante’s had an issue with the omega from the moment she walked into Alicia’s living room and started slinging orders at us. He fought her fire with his own; arguing with her over every single point in our deal. Generally being an arrogant ass. Which, granted, is sort of his default, but…
Colt surprised me. I knew his mysterious waters ran deep; although I honestly didn’t think he had the whole loathing thing in him.
Until he met Bridget.
For a while, I wondered if there was something wrong with me. Was I supposed to feel that strongly, too? Alicia told me Bridget’s scent was undesirable, but I’ve never agreed. It’s a clean, fresh lemon—sharp in ways that made my mouth water.
The guys and I never talked about it, but I assumed they must have really hated her citrusy aroma. So I was the one who called her every week.
And, each time, I liked her more.
And then a little more.
The blue-eyed omega is my friend .
Sometimes, it felt like she was my only one.
But maybe that isn’t fair. Because Adrian reaches over and gives my shoulder a firm squeeze, the same way any comrade would. “It’s going to be fine.”
He lifts his light eyes to the rearview mirror, pinning my packmates with reproachful, reassuring looks. “We’ll make sure she’s taken care of. But you each owe her an apology, and you know that.”
Damn. He doesn’t even have to bark. Pure, undiluted certainty oozes from every word, sinking into my center.
He’s right .
I do owe Bee an apology.
Maybe even a heap of them.