Chapter 20 Pack Promises
Pack Promises
~NASH~
She stares at us.
Just stares with those blue-grey eyes going wide and her mouth falling open slightly in shock. Like we just told her we're planning to move to Mars or that Santa isn't real or some other earth-shattering revelation that doesn't compute with her understanding of reality.
Her scent spikes hard—vanilla-caramel-citrus going sharp with surprise and confusion and something that might be panic.
It cuts through the diner smells of coffee and bacon and maple syrup like a blade through butter.
Clean and bright and impossible to ignore.
I can feel Grayson tense beside her and Theo shift on her other side.
We're all tracking her reaction with the kind of attention usually reserved for opposing counsel about to make a critical argument in court.
The kind where everything hinges on their next words.
Her fingers are fidgeting with her napkin. Twisting it into knots. She does that when she's anxious—I've noticed since she’s been awake. Little nervous habits that give away what she's feeling even when she's trying to hide it.
"Stay with you," she repeats slowly, like she's testing the words on her tongue. Making sure she heard correctly. "For the holiday season."
"Yes."
"Live with you. In your house. For weeks." Her voice is getting higher with each repetition.
More disbelieving.
"That's generally what staying means, yeah."
I'm trying to keep my tone light, casual, like this isn't a huge deal.
Like we haven't just offered to let an Omega we barely know—have known for literally two days—move into our space for over a month.
Like my hindbrain isn't currently doing backflips and victory laps at the idea of her scent in our house, her presence in our territory, her things mixed with ours, her belonging with us even temporarily.
Because that's what Alphas do, right?
We lose our minds over Omegas who smell good and look at us with wide eyes and make us want to provide and protect and claim.
I've seen it happen to other Alphas. Watched them fall hard and fast and completely.
Never thought it would happen to me.
Apparently I was wrong.
She blinks a few times. Then it seems to settle into her mind—the reality of what we're offering sinking in slowly. What it means. The implications. The fact that three Alphas she barely knows are offering her a place to stay for weeks.
"No." She shakes her head emphatically, blonde honey-colored hair swinging with the movement. "No, I can't do that. That would be invading your space, especially during the holidays!"
There she goes. Putting everyone else first.
Worrying about inconveniencing us instead of accepting help she desperately needs.
It's admirable and frustrating in equal measure.
"You need to spend time with your families and do holiday stuff!" she continues, gesturing emphatically with her fork.
A piece of pancake goes flying and lands on the table between us. She doesn't notice. "Activities and traditions! You can't possibly have me in your space…i—i-it would mess everything up!"
Activities and traditions. Right.
If only she knew how empty our holidays usually are. Three Alphas sitting around doing nothing because we've never figured out how to celebrate properly without it feeling forced or fake.
I exchange a look with Grayson and Theo.
One of those silent pack conversations where we're all thinking the same thing.
We should tell her. She needs to know what she's getting into.
Or rather, what she's not getting into.
"We don't have any traditions," Grayson says quietly.
Reverie's fork stops halfway to her mouth. "What?"
"We don't really celebrate Christmas," I add, watching her face carefully.
She gawks at us. Actually gawks. Sets down her fork with a clatter that draws looks from nearby tables.
Her scent spikes again—this time with genuine shock and something that might be offense.
"What?!" Her voice comes out louder than intended. She leans forward, pressing both hands flat on the table. "Who doesn't celebrate Christmas? Who's the Grinch of the group who thought that was a good idea?"
I can't help it—I glance at Theo. So does Grayson. It's automatic. Instinctive. Because yeah, if anyone in our pack is the Grinch, it's the ex-military Alpha who thinks emotions are weaknesses and sentimentality is a waste of time.
Theo catches our looks and rolls his eyes.
"I didn't suggest shit."
"You absolutely did," Grayson counters. "Last year when I tried to—"
"Last year doesn't count because I got unexpectedly deployed." Theo's voice is flat. Final.
The tone that says the subject is closed.
Right. Last year. We'd actually planned to do something—Grayson had been excited about it, bought decorations and everything.
Then Theo got the call that he was being deployed overseas for three months with barely forty-eight hours notice.
By the time he got back, Christmas was over and Grayson had packed away all the decorations without comment.
We decided as a pack not to try again.
Seemed easier to just skip the whole thing than deal with the disappointment.
"Okay, so deployment screwed up last year," Reverie says, her tone softening slightly. "But what about your families? Don't you do anything with them?"
Families. Right. That complicated subject none of us like discussing.
Grayson shifts uncomfortably.
"My family's in Montana. It's a fifteen-hour drive or an expensive flight. We're not... particularly close anymore."
That's putting it mildly. Grayson's family basically disowned him when he quit being a paramedic to become a romance novelist. They saw it as throwing away his potential. Wasting his life on 'trashy books.' He hasn't been home in three years.
"Mine are in Oregon," I say. "Similar situation. Distance makes things complicated."
What I don't say is that my parents wanted me to join the family firm—a prestigious law practice that's been in the family for generations. Instead, I chose to open my own practice in a small town defending people who can't afford big-city lawyers. They took it as a personal insult.
We exchange Christmas cards. That's the extent of our relationship now.
Theo doesn't say anything for a long moment.
Just stares at his black coffee like it holds the secrets of the universe.
"Most of my family is dead," he says finally, his voice carefully neutral. "Military casualties or accidents. The ones who aren't dead, I'm not in contact with. It's just us now."
The table goes quiet.
Even the diner noise seems to fade—the clink of dishes, the Christmas music, the chatter from other tables. Just the three of us and Reverie in this booth with our collective family baggage spread out between us like unwrapped presents nobody wants.
Reverie's scent shifts again. The shock fades, replaced by something softer. Sadness mixed with understanding.
Like she gets it on a level most people wouldn't.
"So it's just the three of you," she says quietly.
Not a question. A statement.
"Just us," Grayson confirms.
She's quiet for a moment, processing.
Then she looks at each of us in turn with those expressive eyes that show every emotion she's feeling.
"What did you normally do for Christmas?" she asks. "Before me. Before this contract thing. What would you three do?"
Nothing. We do nothing. Work. Watch TV. Avoid the whole holiday spectacle happening around us. But admitting that out loud feels pathetic somehow.
But Reverie is looking at us expectantly, waiting for an answer.
And something about her openness makes me want to be honest.
"Nothing," I admit. "We work. Order takeout. Maybe watch a movie if we're feeling festive."
She looks genuinely horrified. Like we just told her we kick puppies for fun.
"That's...that's tragic," she says. Then her expression brightens with that bubbly energy she has. "Okay, well. New plan. You're getting the full Christmas experience this year whether you like it or not."
Oh no. I recognize that look. That's the look of someone who's about to make our lives interesting. Possibly chaotic. Definitely overwhelming.
"What do you normally do?" Grayson asks, genuine curiosity in his voice. "For Christmas, I mean."
Her entire face lights up. It's like watching the sun come out from behind clouds.
"Oh, plenty of things!" She's animated now, hands gesturing as she talks.
Her whole demeanor changes when she discusses things she loves.
"Baking—like, so much baking. Cookies and cakes and pies and hot chocolate from scratch with real cocoa powder, not that powdered mix stuff.
Shopping for gifts, though I don't really shop much because I have no money, but buying cards for a dollar is nice.
The cheap ones from the dollar store work just as well as the fancy ten-dollar ones from Hallmark. "
The casual way she mentions having no money makes my chest tight.
Like it's just a fact of life she's accepted without bitterness or resentment. Not something that should bother her or us. Just reality. But it does bother me. Because she shouldn't have to worry about whether she can afford Christmas cards.
"I love to cook during the holiday season," she continues, eyes bright with enthusiasm.
"Make everything from scratch using my grandma's recipes.
She wrote them all down in this old recipe book—the pages are stained and falling out but it's my most treasured possession.
Traditional stuff like sugar cookies and gingerbread, but also experimental things.
Peppermint bark with dark chocolate and crushed candy canes.
Gingerbread houses that actually stay standing because I figured out the right royal icing recipe.
Hot cider with real cinnamon sticks and fresh orange slices that you simmer for hours until the whole house smells amazing. "