Chapter 17
chapter
seventeen
Pack No Name is really fucking up my aesthetic.
The three gym bags stacked next to my kitchen door are not the vibe.
Nor is Colt’s snoring.
I hear his deep rumble from the side entrance of the house, where I do my best not to let my keys jingle too much as I let myself in.
After dodging Adrian and Jesse’s offers to order dinner, I wound up going to Emma’s for Gunnar’s televised match. He’s out of town this weekend, playing a stretch of away games. Zane went with him this time, leaving my bestie at home with her firefighter and her mountain man.
Or, as she likes to call him, Daddy.
I’m sorta glad her chef-influencer alpha was out of town. Pictures of the guys moving into my house are all over the internet, and I know Zane would have had a million questions about why I wasn’t home with them for their first night as my live-in fiancés .
I still got some side-eye from Daddy Knox when Fireman Micah asked me how the whole day went, but thankfully, neither of them pressed too hard. It helped that Gunnar had a good game and Emma was practically frothing with excitement while we watched it.
I may have lingered a bit later than usual, hoping to come in after the guys had fallen asleep. Judging by the sounds of alpha men snoring?
Mission accomplished.
Orrrrrrr not.
Because the second I drop the deadbolt and turn to the dark kitchen, I catch a muscled silhouette ducking into my fridge.
Dante .
Adrian comes close, but of these four alphas, the all-star shortstop still looks the most built. His shoulders alone make my body seem narrow—which, I can assure you, it is not.
Hearing my purse land on the island, Dante jerks upright and bangs the back of his head against the frame of the refrigerator. I snort a quiet laugh as he growls, spitting a few foreign words into the appliance before slamming its door shut.
When he spins and finds me trying not to laugh, his square, handsome features drop into a glower. “Don’t you know better than to sneak up on a finely-honed machine like me, cupcake? I could have karate-chopped you.”
I smirk again despite myself. He’s sort of funny. I never noticed before, but he has a tendency to spit whatever random nonsense pops into his mind. Which might be a trait we share.
I nod at the container of pasta salad in his left hand. “Is that for some sort of secret spy mission?”
His dark eyes flash as his mouth kicks into a crooked smile, his chin dimple deepening. “Basically. I’m not supposed to have carbs after eight when we’re in training, so I have to wait for the rest of these fuckers to fall asleep.”
Memories of the dozens of diets my sister—and, before that, our mom—subjected me to put a wince on my face. I step around him, going for the freezer.
“In that case.” He effortlessly catches the pint of cookies and cream gelato I toss him.
Lord, his hands are quick. And big. And strong …
No surprise there. Given how sculpted the rest of him is.
Now that my eyes have adjusted, the dim moonlight flooding through my French doors highlights every line and dip of his exposed torso.
Jesus .
This guy doesn’t just have abs. He has obliques— and hips so chiseled, visible shadows outline them.
By the time I manage to tear my eyes off the stacked ripples, his cocky smile has heated to boiling. “I was going to thank you for the ice cream, querida , but it seems like you should be the one thanking me.”
He rolls his abdomen in a practiced move, punctuated with a sharp thrust toward me. My insides tweak, taut muscles thrumming between my hips.
No , I yell at my Omega. He’s mocking us, not flirting .
I flip my hair back, rolling my eyes at him. “Easy there, slugger.”
Dante sets his ice cream and noodles on the counter, still grinning. “‘Easy’ isn’t really in my vocabulary.”
A slow smile spreads over my face. “Easy—as in, you’re making it too easy for me to make fun of you, claiming that you don’t know anything about being easy . See? Two different ways to use it in one sentence.”
To my surprise, Dante’s smile takes on a wild, delighted quality. “Anyone ever told you you’re kind of a bitch?”
He says it so fondly, I nearly laugh. “Anyone ever told you you’re kind of a dick?”
Dante’s answering shrug is casual. “Only like once a week.”
Shit .
Of all the alphas crammed into this house—Adrian’s calm insistence on shouldering my burdens, Jesse’s stumbling apologies, Colt’s mysterious rage—I really thought Dante would be the simplest one to keep at arm’s length. He hated me; I didn’t like him. Straightforward.
I never expected him to be funny and relatable. Hiding all sorts of self-awareness under the same sort of rueful quips I like to use.
I really don’t want to like him.
So I should probably get the hell out of here.