Chapter 12 #2
And Grayson can focus more on his writing—the romance novels he publishes under a pen name that he thinks we don't know about but absolutely do.
We've both read them, actually. They're good.
Really good. The man understands emotions and relationships in a way most Alphas don't, which probably explains why he's the pack peacemaker.
This house will be our main base for the winter months. Three Alphas learning how to actually live together instead of just existing in proximity.
And Theo—miracle of miracles—isn't taking any assignments this winter.
First time in three years he's turned down work.
First time he's committed to actually being present and stationary for an entire season instead of disappearing for weeks at a time on some classified mission he can't talk about until months later when the details are declassified and even then only in vague terms.
Which means this will be the first winter we're all together as a pack. The first Christmas we'll actually celebrate together without someone missing, without makeshift video calls from overseas, without the constant undercurrent of worry about whether everyone will make it home safe.
Which is honestly a miracle. I never thought we'd get here—three Alphas managing to form a functional pack without killing each other over territory disputes or hierarchy bullshit.
Without the constant territorial pissing matches that usually happen when you put too many Alphas in one space without an Omega to mediate.
We've made it work through sheer stubbornness and genuine affection for each other, but it's not always easy.
The problem is, we don't actually know how to celebrate Christmas. Not really. Not properly.
For Alphas, the holidays are like every other day with slightly more inconvenience.
Just more sweets showing up at the mechanic shop from grateful customers who think a tin of cookies makes up for paying their bills late.
Horrible amateur carol singers going door-to-door asking for donations to causes you've never heard of.
Small-town gossip reaching absolute fever pitch about who's dating who and who bought what for whom and who showed up to whose party.
Mistletoe being hung everywhere out of commercial convenience more than any genuine romance.
If we had an Omega, though... that could change everything.
Omegas are the ones who make holidays feel like holidays instead of just inconvenient calendar dates.
Who bake cookies that actually taste good instead of the store-bought shit people give as obligatory gifts.
Who decorate with intention and joy instead of just throwing up whatever's left at the hardware store.
Who create traditions that feel meaningful.
Who turn a house into a home and a season into something magical instead of just cold and annoying.
If we had Reverie—
Stop. Don't go there, Nash. You don't even know her beyond one elevator conversation and watching Theo claim her in a bar.
One encounter where she smiled at you and smelled like heaven doesn't make her yours.
Doesn't give you the right to fantasize about Christmas mornings with her in your kitchen making hot chocolate.
"Tell me one good reason why I should reach out to her," Theo mutters from the backseat.
Oh. Oh, I have a reason. A really good fucking reason that's been sitting in my chest like a live grenade since I left that office building hours ago.
I sigh, the sound heavy with the weight of what I'm about to admit. "Well, I kind of just signed us up to be her pack. For the holidays."
Grayson gasps—actually gasps like a scandalized grandmother—and the truck lurches slightly as he hits the brakes harder than necessary, coming to a complete stop in the middle of the dirt road.
He twists in his seat to stare at me, horror written across his usually calm features. "What? What do you mean?"
Here we go. Time to explain the impulsive decision I made in a corporate office while trying not to think about how good Reverie smelled in that elevator.
I take a deep breath, organizing my thoughts into something coherent despite the alcohol making everything feel slightly fuzzy and disconnected.
"I went into the city for an assignment.
Quick work, easy money. Legal consultation for Evergreen Media Collective—you know, that influencer management company that's been blowing up in the social media space? "
Grayson nods slowly, his writer brain probably already spinning this into some kind of narrative. Theo has gone suspiciously quiet in the back, but I know he's listening now. Actually listening instead of pretending to ignore us while planning whatever stalker shit he's going to pull.
"Long story short, I met Reverie in the elevator before my meeting. Didn't know who she was at first—just knew she smelled incredible and looked nervous as hell. Like she was about to walk into something that terrified her but was doing it anyway."
She'd been wearing normal clothes, not the Mrs. Claus costume. Tights with snowflakes on them, t paired with a sweater dress that looked soft, hair pulled back in a messy bun. No wig, no contacts, just her natural beauty making my brain short-circuit in a professional elevator.
"We had a moment," I continue, knowing how inadequate that sounds but not having better words for it.
"A moment," Grayson repeats, his eyebrows climbing toward his hairline like they're trying to escape his face entirely.
"A moment," I confirm, defensive. "She was... fuck, she was adorable. Rambling about life choices, apologizing for nothing, just this burst of nervous energy and sunshine that made me want to cancel my meeting and spend the rest of the day making her laugh."
Grayson and Theo are both staring at me now. I can feel their judgment even without looking at them.
"Then I went into the main office for my meeting with Charlotte Webb, their head of talent acquisition. Professional shit, contract review, standard legal consultation. And there on her desk, at the very top of the candidate list with a paperclip marking the page, was Reverie's profile."
I can see it in my mind—crystal clear despite the alcohol—the photo of Reverie smiling at the camera with that genuine joy that you can't fake.
Her real hair visible instead of the silver wig, honey-gold with those orange tips that make her look like a sunset.
Those blue-grey eyes bright with genuine happiness, not the ice-blue of contacts.
The kind of smile that makes you want to be the reason for it.
The statistics underneath painted the picture of an Omega who'd worked her ass off to build something from nothing: follower counts in the hundreds of thousands, engagement rates that most influencers would kill for, demographic reach across multiple platforms. All impressive.
All pointing to someone who understood social media and knew how to connect with her audience authentically.
"Charlotte said they'd been considering her for years.
Literally years. Watching her content grow from small-time book reviews to full lifestyle content, tracking her engagement metrics month by month, waiting for the right opportunity to approach her with an offer that would be big enough to be worth the contract but not so big it would overwhelm her. "
"And now they finally had one—a holiday ambassador campaign that would pay her twenty-five thousand dollars for six weeks of work and give her the kind of mainstream exposure that could change her entire career trajectory.
Network television spots during morning shows, national brand partnerships with companies that have actual advertising budgets, feature articles in magazines that people actually read.
The kind of opportunity that could take her from 'successful influencer' to 'household name' if she played it right. "
I remember Charlotte's exact words, clear as day despite the beer: 'She's got something special.
That authenticity you can't manufacture or fake.
The audience responds to her because she's genuinely that person, not because she's performing.
But corporate wants pack representation for liability reasons, and I can't fight them on it. It's policy.'
"But?" Theo prompts from the backseat, his voice suddenly alert.
"But she needs a pack for the deal," I explain, frustration bleeding into my tone.
"Some bullshit about brand safety and Omega protection policies.
They won't sign an Omega without pack representation.
And Charlotte was about to pass her up for the role—give it to someone else who already had their pack in order. "
Grayson's hands tighten on the steering wheel. "That's discrimination."
"That's corporate policy," I correct. "Legal, unfortunately. They can require pack representation for contracts involving travel and public appearances. It's written into federal Omega protection laws."
"So you signed us up," Theo says. Not a question. A statement of fact.
"Yeah. I did." I don't apologize. Won't apologize. "The alternative was watching them give the opportunity to someone else. Watching Reverie lose out on something she's worked years for because she doesn't have a pack to rubber-stamp her career."
"And the timeline?" Grayson asks, always thinking about logistics.
"Twenty-four hours," I admit. "Charlotte said if Reverie didn't come back with pack representation within twenty-four hours, they were moving to the next candidate.
And honestly? I don't think it would have lasted that long.
There were three other Omegas on that list, all with packs, all ready to sign immediately. "
Grayson gawks at me, his mouth literally hanging open. "So you just... signed us up for it. Just like that. Without asking us first."
I shrug, unapologetic. "Well, yeah. And apparently now it's a conflict of interest for me to work for them as legal counsel, so I guess this is our main quest for the foreseeable future. At least until I get a different assignment that doesn't involve our fake Omega's employer."
Our fake Omega. The words taste strange in my mouth. Wrong. Because nothing about what I felt in that elevator or what I saw in that bar felt fake.
Grayson is quiet for a long moment, processing. Then: "I met her at the bookstore. Briefly. She was reviewing books and looked like she was doing mental math to figure out what she could afford. So I got her a few extra. She deserved to be pampered."
That's so Grayson. Sees someone struggling and immediately wants to help. Wants to make their day better. It's why he writes romance novels—to give people happy endings, even if they're fictional.
"Seems like good fucking timing for me then," Theo says, and I can hear the smirk in his voice. "So when are we telling her the news?"
I roll my eyes so hard it actually hurts. "Well, you're gatekeeping the fucking number, so you tell me."
"Hmm. Yeah..." Theo trails off, noncommittal.
Grayson sighs, putting the truck back in gear and continuing down the road toward the house. "Then this is going to be an interesting Christmas if we're acting like her fake pack so she can get this deal."
"Agreed," I say. "But I think maybe it'll be helpful for her. Her ex-pack was clearly a bunch of douches who didn't deserve her. Maybe we can show her what a real pack looks like. Even if it's temporary."
Even if it breaks my heart when it ends.
Grayson nods in agreement. "Theo, can you send that number over? We should probably coordinate before—"
A soft snore interrupts him.
Theo. The bastard is already asleep in the backseat, his head tilted against the window, his breathing deep and even.
Grayson and I share a look—the kind of long-suffering expression that comes from years of dealing with Theo's ability to fall asleep anywhere, anytime, and become impossible to wake once he's out.
Waking that man up is like trying to revive the dead. We've tried everything over the years. Loud noises, cold water, physically shaking him. Nothing works until his internal alarm decides it's time to be conscious again.
"I guess tomorrow morning we'll have to find our new fake Omega," I mutter, resigned to the situation.
Grayson pulls into the driveway—gravel crunching under the tires, the motion-sensor lights flickering on to illuminate the house and garage. "You think this is going to be a good idea? With the holidays coming up and everything?"
Do I think pretending to be the pack of an Omega I'm already half in love with based on one elevator conversation and watching her get kissed by my packmate is a good idea?
Do I think fake claiming someone for a business deal when we all clearly want her for real is smart?
Do I think we can pull this off without making it complicated?
I laugh—the sound is slightly unhinged even to my own ears. "I don't fucking know, man. But we'll have no choice but to find out."