Chapter 20 Pack Promises #2
The way she talks about it—with such genuine love and excitement—makes me want to taste everything she makes. Experience Christmas through her eyes. See what we've been missing all these years.
"Did your pack eat what you made?" Theo asks.
Her expression falters.
Just slightly. Enough that we all catch it.
"No," she says, trying to keep her tone light. "They never ate them. Just gave them away to neighbors or coworkers or whoever. None of them liked sweets, apparently."
None of them liked sweets. What kind of pack doesn't eat their Omega's baking? That's... wrong on multiple levels.
"They didn't even try them?" Grayson asks, his voice careful.
"Nope." She pokes at her remaining pancakes with her fork. "They ordered from this really expensive bakery in the city instead. You know those commercial companies that make billions putting a hundred grams of sugar in each cookie instead of supporting local small businesses?"
So they wouldn't eat what their Omega made with love and care, but they'd pay premium prices for mass-produced garbage.
Every new detail about her ex-pack makes me angrier.
She's quiet for a moment.
Then…
"I haven't really celebrated properly in years. My pack was never the celebratory type unless it meant getting laid or showing off at parties."
Getting laid. The way she says it—casual, matter-of-fact—sends up red flags in my lawyer brain.
"Getting laid by you, right?" I ask, keeping my voice neutral even though my hindbrain is starting to growl.
She laughs, but it's not a happy sound. She pokes at her pancakes again, not meeting our eyes.
"Oh no. Like, they had other partners."
The table goes dead silent.
Did she just say what I think she said? Other partners? While they had an Omega? While they had her?
"What," Theo says flatly. Not a question.
A demand for clarification.
Reverie must hear something in our voices—or smell something in our scents—because she looks up.
Her expression shifts to uncertainty.
"They had other Omegas," she explains, her voice getting smaller.
Quieter. Like she's ashamed of something that isn't her fault.
"Or side chicks, I guess. Whatever you want to call them.
I was just the main Omega. The official one.
The one who handled the boring stuff like paperwork and cleaning and making sure they looked good at business functions. "
Just the main Omega.
JUST the main Omega.
Like being their bonded pack member—their supposedly cherished and protected Omega—was some kind of job title instead of a sacred bond. Like she was interchangeable.
Replaceable.
A role that could be filled by anyone as long as they checked the right boxes.
My hands are clenched into fists under the table so tight my knuckles are probably white.
I can feel my scent spiking with anger—probably filling the booth with aggressive Alpha pheromones that are making nearby tables nervous.
Grayson's gone completely rigid beside her, his maple-honey scent turning sharp and dangerous.
Theo's jaw is so tight I'm genuinely surprised his teeth don't crack from the pressure.
The cedar-smoke of his scent has gone acrid.
The three of us are a unified front of barely contained rage. I've prosecuted criminals who made me less angry than hearing about what her ex-pack did to her. And we're in public. In a family diner with Christmas music playing and kids at nearby tables.
Otherwise I'd probably be flipping furniture.
When none of us respond—when we're all too busy trying not to flip this table and track down her ex-pack to commit justifiable homicide—she continues awkwardly.
"That's why I haven't, um." She clears her throat. "Done the dirty deed with anyone regularly. Because they always got that outside the home. So I figured..."
Did she figure we'd be the same? She thought we'd treat her like they did—as convenient when needed but ultimately disposable. Replaceable with other Omegas whenever we felt like it.
"That's not how packs work," I say, and my voice comes out rougher than intended. Harder. "That's not how any of this works."
She shrugs—trying to appear casual but her scent gives away her discomfort.
"Well, it was okay for them. I had no choice but to accept it."
No choice.
She had no choice but to watch her pack fuck other Omegas while treating her like hired help. No choice but to accept being treated as less than. No choice but to stay because what were her options?
I'm going to kill them.
I'm actually going to find Kael and his pack and end them. Slowly. Painfully. Make sure they understand exactly what they did wrong before they die. I’m sure Theo would be down to join. Grayson would simply be the get away driver…
"That's never happening again," Grayson says, his voice tight with barely controlled anger. "Whether we see how things go with us or if this doesn't work out—you're never accepting that again."
"Whatever pack you end up with next," Theo adds, his olive eyes hard as stone, "they wouldn't dare try that shit. Or we're killing them."
Reverie blinks at us.
Then, a small smile tugs at her lips despite everything.
"Murder is bad, gentlemen," she says with mock seriousness.
Theo cracks his neck. The sound is loud in the booth.
Deliberate.
"With reason."
She groans but she's smiling.
Actually smiling despite the heavy conversation.
That's what gets me. Her resilience. Her ability to joke and smile even when discussing trauma that would break most people. She's stronger than she realizes.
Jeremy the waiter picks that moment to return with the check.
Perfect timing to break the tension that's been building in our booth.
"Here you go, folks," he says cheerfully, completely oblivious to the heavy conversation we've just had. Setting down the black leather folder on the table between us. "Whenever you're ready. No rush."
I reach for my wallet. So does Grayson. So does Theo.
We all throw our cards into the folder at the exact same time with the kind of synchronized movement that comes from being packmates who know each other too well.
It's automatic. Instinctive. Competitive in that way pack Alphas get about providing.
None of us are letting the others pay without a fight.
None of us are letting her pay under any circumstances.
This is our Omega—temporary or not, fake or not—and we take care of what's ours. That's non-negotiable.
Meanwhile, Reverie is scrambling for her purse, digging through it with increasing panic.
"I must have left my wallet at home," she mutters. Then she looks up at us, her expression stricken. "I'm so sorry, I can Venmo you or—"
All three of us are frowning at her.
Probably identical expressions of confusion and offense.
"Why the hell would you pay?" I ask.
She blinks at me like I just spoke in a foreign language.
"Because... I always pay?"
Always pays.
Say what now?
She always pays?
For dates?
For meals?
For three Alphas who should absolutely be paying for her? Hell wasn’t there four?
I'm gawking at her now. So is Grayson. Even Theo looks shocked, and Theo never looks shocked.
"You always paid," Grayson repeats slowly, like he's trying to process information that doesn't make sense. "For your pack? For everything?"
"Well, yeah." She fidgets with her purse strap, not meeting our eyes.
Embarrassed. "That's why I'm not really rich anymore.
Not that I was super wealthy or anything, but I had loads of savings accumulated over years.
You know? Inheritance from my grandparents who left me some money.
And I did well for myself before the pack—not social media wise, that came later when I needed extra income, but other hobbies and a semi-successful career. "
Inheritance from her grandparents. Money they probably left her specifically to take care of herself. To give her security and options. And her pack took it. Used it. Drained her savings until she had nothing left.
"What kind of career?" I ask, genuinely curious now.
"Art, crafts, and design." There's wistfulness in her voice.
Pride mixed with sadness and longing for something lost. "I wanted to be a fashion designer at one point.
Had this whole business plan mapped out.
I'd design clothes—nothing crazy fancy, just beautiful pieces that made people feel good about themselves.
And I'd bake themed cookies that I'd sell at the shows depending on the season. "
She's animated again, hands gesturing as she describes her dream.
"Spring florals with flower-shaped cookies decorated to match the collection.
Fall collections with pumpkin spice cookies and maple leaf designs.
Winter whites with snowflake sugar cookies.
I had suppliers lined up. A small boutique in the city wanted to carry my designs on consignment. It was actually happening."
That's brilliant. Creative and practical.
The kind of unique business idea that could have really taken off with the right support and marketing. She could have been successful. Should have been successful. Built something amazing for herself.
What happened?
I already know the answer but I need to hear it confirmed.
"It all went down the toilet when my savings were used on Kael and his pack," she continues matter-of-factly. "They needed money for investments, gambling, or something. I don't really know. Omegas don't get the privilege to know the details, so."
They took her inheritance.
Her savings.
Everything she'd worked for.
Used it for their own purposes without telling her what it was for.
And she just... accepted it.
Because that's what she thought being in a pack meant.
I exchange looks with Grayson and Theo. We're all thinking the same thing.
That shit isn't happening with us. Never.
Jeremy returns, picking up the check folder. He looks at the three cards inside and—because the universe has a sense of humor—picks the top one.
Mine.
Grayson and Theo both groan. I can't help but smirk.
"Better luck next time," I tell them.
"There's always dinner," Grayson mutters.
While Jeremy processes my card, I turn to Reverie. Make sure she's looking at me. Understanding what I'm about to say.
"You don't need to worry about food or anything else in our company," I say firmly. "Not meals, not bills, not any of it. That's not how this works."
Her eyes get suspiciously shiny.
"But—"
"No buts," Theo interrupts. "We'll help you pack your things. By the weekend, you'll be moved in with us temporarily so we can get the renovations started as soon as possible."
"And you don't need to worry about the renovation costs either," Grayson adds. "We're handling that."
She's stunned. Just sitting there staring at the three of us like we've grown extra heads.
"Why?" she whispers finally. Her voice is so small. Vulnerable in a way that makes my chest ache. "This is... fake. I mean, we haven't even started any of the contract activities yet. You don't owe me anything. This is just business."
Fake. That we're just fulfilling contract obligations. That we don't actually care about her beyond what's required on paper. That this is transactional instead of... what this could turn into.
I signed those papers thinking it was just business—help an Omega get a contract, help my pack get some money, fulfill some obligations and move on. Nice and clean. Professional. Uncomplicated.
But sitting here now?
Watching her try not to cry while talking about her past? Smelling her scent mixed with ours in a way that feels right? Knowing she's been hurt so badly that she doesn't understand what basic pack care looks like?
Deep down, I want to see where this leads.
If we can actually make it work.
I exchange one more look with my pack mates. They both nod.
Agreement. Unity.
We're trying this.
"You're our Omega now," I say, holding her gaze.
Making sure she hears me. Really hears me.
"Even if it's temporary. Even if it's just for six weeks. If this never becomes anything more than what it is right now, we’ll ensure you find the right pack that will treat you like a true princess and you won’t have to do anything but be yourself.
We'll show you what it's like to be in a pack that actually cares about their Omega. What it's supposed to be like."
She tries to blink away tears. Fails spectacularly.
One escapes, rolling down her cheek and leaving a wet trail.
Then another.
But she's smiling through the tears. That bright, genuine smile that lights up her whole face and makes her eyes sparkle even while crying. It's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.
"Then I'll show you guys what it's like to enjoy Christmas in the heart of Oakridge Hollow," she says, her voice thick with emotion but determined.
Strong despite the tears. "With a festive Omega in full Christmas spirit.
You're getting the complete experience—baking, decorating, caroling, the works. No arguments."
Oh boy.
I recognize that determined look. That spark in her eyes.
That set to her jaw. That's the look of someone who's about to turn our quiet, boring, tradition-less holiday into complete and utter chaos.
We're going to be baking cookies at midnight and decorating trees with way too many ornaments and doing all the festive things we've been actively avoiding for years.
There will probably be caroling. She'll probably make us watch Hallmark Christmas movies.
We'll probably end up at every holiday event Oakridge Hollow has to offer.
Our house is going to look like Christmas threw up in it.
We're going to be exhausted and covered in glitter and constantly surrounded by the smell of cinnamon and pine.
And honestly?
I'm looking forward to every chaotic second of it.
All of it.
The cookies, the decorations, the traditions, the Christmas spirit she's going to force on us whether we like it or not. Because it means she'll be there. In our home. Part of our lives. Making us feel things we've been avoiding.
Showing us what we've been missing.
Six weeks might not be long enough.
I smirk at her.
"Hope we survive."