Packing Up
Dakota
Knox catches my eye and gives a subtle tilt of his head toward the tent.
He wants me to go in with him?
I rush across the campsite, nerves flaring hard behind my belly button. Bending down, I follow my alpha inside the tent, slipping through the narrow zipper opening into the dim, tight space.
It’s warmer in here, but only barely. The chill still bites at my skin through my thin T-shirt.
Skyla’s curled under a pile of blankets, only a few strands of her curly blonde hair peeking out. I can’t see her face, but her scent hits me like static in the air. Even as a beta, I can smell how upset she is. Raw. Like her emotions soaked straight into the fabric around her.
Is she having a bad dream?
Knox crouches beside her, moving slow and careful. He brushes the blanket aside from her face and says gently, “Time to wake up, little one.”
Skyla stirs. Blinks. Then rolls over to face us.
And I forget how to breathe.
She’s so pretty.
No, more than pretty. She’s exquisite. Her dark eyes are still heavy with sleep, her hair is tangled around her face, and her cheeks are pink from the cold. Even the tip of her nose is red.
Slowly, her brown eyes focus, and her lips part as she takes in Knox, then me.
So damn beautiful.
Knox’s voice is low, almost husky, when he talks to her. “Dakota’s going to help you get dressed, okay?”
Skyla nods like that’s completely normal. Then she slowly sits up, and the blanket falls away, revealing her exposed upper body.
My heart stutters, and my eyes snap down to her breasts before I can stop them. She has perfect tits, small but sweet. Quickly, the cold makes the skin around her little nipples wrinkle as they harden, and she shivers slightly as she looks right at me, catching my stare.
Shit—
I look away fast, my cheeks burning. “Sorry,” I mumble at the floor, praying it will swallow me whole. Then I lean in close to Knox and whisper, “Why am I getting her dressed?”
Knox doesn’t even blink. “You’re the beta,” he says, pushing a bundle of clothes into my arms. I think they’re mine. “It’s your job to care for the omega.”
I glance at Skyla again—at her face this time. Her eyes meet mine, calm and steady. She doesn’t look embarrassed. Doesn’t look upset or confused or anything like I expected. She looks like she’s used to this. Like it’s all fine.
I guess the beta in her last pack dressed her…I assume.
“Okay,” I say, and Knox gives me an approving nod. Then he turns and presses a kiss to Skyla’s mouth.
Her lips part just enough when he touches her, and her cheeks turn a darker shade of pink—but she doesn’t pull away.
I look down again, heat crawling up my neck.
It’s weird watching my pack alpha kiss a woman I don’t know.
Everyone did warn me about this—especially Tadeo. Knox and Alex said that omegas need touch to seal our pack bond. Then Tadeo pulled me aside and said that our touch will comfort and soothe her, so we’ll need to do it often.
But it’s still weird.
Knox tucks a strand of Skyla’s hair behind her ear and cups her cheek. “You okay?” He looks deep into her eyes.
She nods slightly, then whispers, “Yes.”
Knox pinches her chin between his thumb and forefingers. He smiles slowly, before turning to me. “She needs to be warm,” he says, eyeing my T-shirt. “Make her wear all the layers, and don’t take too long—we’ve gotta break down camp.”
Then he stands, ducks out of the tent, and zips it closed behind him, leaving me alone with her.
When I turn back to the omega, she’s still sitting in the same place, watching me with those soft, stormy eyes.
I sit back on my heels and swallow hard. “Um… okay.” I set the clothes down in front of me. “Let’s get you dressed, I guess.”
Skyla doesn’t say anything. She shifts her weight a little on the crumpled blankets and lifts her arms.
Okay.
Okay.
I can do this.
I grab the T-shirt from the pile—soft cotton and a little oversized—then I carefully slide it over Skyla’s wrists first. I keep my eyes trained on the ceiling of the tent, like that patch of canvas is the most fascinating thing I’ve ever seen.
I don’t breathe until the shirt is over her head.
She wriggles a little as she gets her arms through the sleeves, and I help guide the hem down, careful not to brush her skin more than I have to.
“You’re, uh… doing great,” I mutter.
She doesn’t laugh, but I catch a tiny smile on her lips. I don’t know if she’s amused or just trying to be kind. Either way, it makes my chest feel tight.
Then she stands, her knees wobbling, and I see her thighs.
My stomach flips.
They’re streaked in dried…stuff. Thick and crusty, smeared from her inner thighs down to her knees. Alpha scent. Omega slick. And maybe even a little blood.
It’s not exactly graphic, but it’s obvious what she and Knox did last night.
My face heats so fast it feels like my ears are on fire. Hell, my whole chest burns. I wrench my gaze away, staring at literally anything else.
Come on, Dakota. Suck it up. This is your job. Dress her. Feed her. Take care of the omega. That’s what pack betas do. That’s what I’m supposed to do.
We’re the helpers of the pack. The steady ones. The ones who don’t freak out over—
Oh, shit.
The thought hits me out of nowhere, sharp as a slap.
Am I supposed to…clean her up?
I took a class in high school—Omega Healthcare Sciences. It wasn’t mandatory for betas like me. Just alphas. But I signed up anyway, mostly because I heard it was an easy A and had no final exam.
There was a whole unit on post-rut hygiene. Diagrams. Charts. How to bathe an omega properly—male and female. Where fluids can pool, what to watch out for. The importance of not letting stuff sit too long. Infection risks. Scent bonding. Emotional recovery. All that shit.
But the part that still sticks in my head now—clear as anything—is how they showed us how to clean between an omega’s legs.
How to use warm water and soft cloths.
How to be gentle.
How to wipe away the mess without making the omega feel shamed or exposed.
I swallow hard.
There’s no warm water here.
No soap.
No clean towels.
Not even a damn baby wipe in sight.
And there’s no way I’m asking this poor girl—this stranger—to lie back and spread her legs so I can wipe her down like some clinical exam.
I wouldn’t know where to start. What to say. Where to look…or not look.
Besides, she doesn’t seem bothered or uncomfortable. Maybe she’s fine.
I think I’ll wait.
We’ll figure it out when we get home. Maybe I’ll show her to the bathroom and let her take care of it herself. That feels more respectful. Less weird.
“Okay,” I say, voice still rough with embarrassment. “Let’s, uh…get these pants on.”
She nods. Still calm. Like all of this is fine. Like it’s not awkward or strange at all.
I wish I had her chill.
Instead, my hands shake as I reach for the extra pair of sweatpants I brought just in case. Thank god I brought them.
I hold the sweats open at the waist and Skyla steps into them, one foot, then the other. Her balance wobbles and I steady her elbow before I can think twice. Her skin is warm against my fingers, soft, and I jerk my hand back too fast, pretending it never happened.
Once the pants are up around her hips, I drop to my knees to fix the cuffs, tugging them over her ankles.
Then I grab the socks—two pairs, like Knox said.
She lets me roll them onto her feet, no hesitation or complaint.
I try not to think about how intimate this feels, kneeling in front of her like this, dressing her piece by piece.
The hoodie’s the last piece. I hold it open, and she slides her arms through the sleeves. Her curls tumble free from the collar, a messy halo of blonde spilling around her face. Her cheeks are still pink from the cold, lips soft, almost flushed.
She smooths the front of the hoodie down, and something deep in my gut gives a hard kick. It’s my hoodie—big and dark, swallowing up her small frame—and somehow that makes her look even sexier. Like she’s actually mine. Ours.
Skyla gives me the faintest smile. “Thanks.” And my chest squeezes.
I can’t stop staring. She looks like a dream in my clothes, hair all wild, shoulders lost in the hoodie. Dreamlike and breakable at the same time.
It’s only when her gaze flickers away that I realize I’ve been staring too long. My throat goes dry, and suddenly I forget what to do with my hands—whether to shove them in my pockets or cross my arms or let them hang there like an idiot.
“So...How’re ya doing?” The question stumbles out of my mouth, clumsy and too loud, and I instantly hate myself for it. Of course, she’s not doing great. After everything she’s been through? She has to feel like absolute shit. Right?
But Skyla doesn’t snap or roll her eyes. She smiles and says, “I’m good.”
I know she’s lying. She has to be. Still, she’s kind enough to spare me the truth.
“Alright.” I look her over, head to toe, and my eyes zero in on her neck. She still has the bandage on. But it’s peeling up at the edge. “Uh—wait.” I gesture vaguely. “It’s coming loose.”
Skyla combs her hair forward with her fingers, then sweeps it all to one side, baring her throat so I can see.
The bandage is barely clinging on. When I reach to peel it back, it falls away almost instantly, like the tape’s lost all its stick.
“Does it look…bad?” Skyla asks, but I don't know what to say.
The wound is ugly—jagged and uneven. The skin around it puffed and hot-looking. The bruise has faded to yellow at the edges, but the center is still an angry, wet red, like it refuses to heal. Infection, maybe. A week old, if I had to guess.
I squint, trying to figure out what could cause this. An accident maybe, or maybe she was attacked by an animal? But then I see it—the crescent curve. Teeth.
My gut goes cold.
This isn’t some random wound. It’s a mating bite.
A fucked up, violent one.
No alpha should ever mark an omega like this. It looks brutal and cruel, like whoever did it wanted to abuse her instead of bond with her. My stomach twists, bile pressing up the back of my throat.
I can’t stop staring at it, can’t stop thinking about how much it must’ve hurt. And the worst part? How normal she looks carrying it—like she’s used to pain like this.
“That bad. Uh?” Skyla ducks her chin, like she knows exactly what I’m thinking. Embarrassment rolls off her, thick as smoke.
I swallow hard, trying not to let my horror show. “It’s okay. Let’s show this to Knox.”
The second his name leaves my mouth, Skyla jolts.
“No!” Panic flashes in her eyes as she scrambles to cover the mark with her hand.
“Please don’t—don’t tell anyone. I’m fine, really.
It’s fine.” Her voice begins to shake. “I really don’t want to bother anyone with it.
” She forces a smile like she’s hoping it will somehow convince me she’s fine.
And I feel like shit.
She’s begging me for something so small—a little secret—but I can’t give it to her.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, guilt burning hot in my throat. “But Knox needs to see this.” My gaze flickers to her wound. “You should probably see a doctor.”
I reach up, just to tug the hoodie away from her wound, and she flinches so hard her whole body rears back—like she thinks I’m about to hit her.
Her reaction knocks the air out of me, and something inside cracks wide open. I’m flooded with a mix of fury and grief so sharp I can barely see straight. Who the hell made her react this way to a simple touch?
I want to punch the asshole who made her react this way.
But she’s right here, watching me, and I can’t let her feel even a flicker of my rage. It’ll only scare her more. So I swallow hard and force my hands to be gentle. Then I take hers carefully, folding them in mine, like I can shield her with the warmth of my palms.
“Hey,” I murmur, rough around the edges but steady. “You don’t have to be scared anymore. Not with us. We’ll show Knox your neck once we get home, and he’ll make it all better.” I lean down, looking deep into her eyes. “You’re safe now. I swear. You’ll never be hurt again.”
Skyla gives me a smile, small and sad, like she wants to believe me. But there’s so much doubt in her eyes. It makes me wonder if she’s heard these kinds of promises before.
The thought makes my chest ache so badly I can barely breathe. I want to grab hold of her pain, take it out of her, smash it to pieces so it can never touch her again.
But all I can do is hold on tighter, hoping she feels how much I mean it.