Brittney
PACK EM UP GOSSIP COLUMN
Iwalk into the towering building with Hunter by my side. He escorted me to their office building today for a meeting with everyone about the security for the tour.
“I miss your scent,” Hunter tells me as we get into the elevator.
“I miss yours, too,” I confess as I look around the chrome finishes of this building. It’s sleek, modern, and screams security.
We have to wear scent blockers for meetings like this, but his scent would be comforting right now. I’m still getting used to the grandeur of this tour and the level of security the pack is providing.
We walk into the conference room. Riley’s at the end of the table, laying out stacks of folders in neat little units, each with a different shade of sticky note tab protruding like a flag.
Tommy’s perched on a windowsill, swinging his legs, shoes tapping a pattern against the drywall.
Oli is mid-argument with Jack, who looks like he’s trying to get her to leave Dax’s lap to get into his.
Aiden and Chase are watching with amused grins.
And then there’s the Phoenix Pack, arranged with military efficiency around the perimeter.
Colton and Cody are at the far end, mirroring each other with arms crossed and matching half-smiles.
Fox is on an office chair near the fire exit, eyes flicking between all the movement.
Hunter is behind me, and Saint is at the head of the table, spine straight as a steel rod and hands flat on the laminate like he’s waiting for a cue to begin.
Their eyes all turn to me instantly, like my presence in the room calls to them.
The twins make their way over in sync to press matching kisses to either side of my cheeks and whisper, “Hello, gorgeous.”
“Hi,” I whisper back.
Fox gives me space but waves with a shy smile from his spot by the door.
Saint nods, and his posture relaxes ever so slightly. It’s just enough to let me know my presence calms him, but he still doesn’t come to me.
My palms are instantly clammy. My pulse is in my throat. I can sense everyone’s emotions, and they’re all curiously watching us.
Riley clocks my entrance, raises a hand, and gestures to the open seat across from her. “Britt, over here. Blue folder’s yours. It has the tour schedule, arrangements, and allergy forms. We’re doing intros in five.”
I drop into the seat, ignoring the way my knees bounce with nerves. I grip the edge of the table, stare at the neatly printed cover page, and try to ignore the way every cell in my body wants to run.
All these eyes on me remind me of when my parents took me to an omega showing for interested packs.
Considering how that went, it’s no wonder all these people are making me nervous.
Tommy hops down and slides in next to me, already vibrating with concern hidden behind his bright smile. “Are you doing okay? We could always loop you in later if you want to go.”
“Thanks,” I mutter, wishing I could disappear into the folder but knowing I need to get used to this. “I should stay. This is what I signed up for.”
Tommy grabs my hand under the table while Saint gets everyone’s attention.
Saint’s presence is unreal. He’s the biggest person in the room.
He occupies more of it than anyone else.
The light from the overhead fluorescents catches on his sandy-brown hair, makes his eyes look even bluer, and every time I accidentally glance his way, I get a full-body shiver.
He hasn’t said a word yet, but the anticipation is palpable.
Colton and Cody join the table on either side of Saint. They both tip their chairs back and fold their hands over their chests. When they look at me, I feel double-exposed, like they’re seeing the part of me I keep hidden.
Fox is the only one who tries to look unthreatening, but he fails. When he offers a brief smile, it’s not predatory, just resigned, like he knows what I’m feeling and is too polite to mention it.
Hunter is watching the proceedings like a child at a birthday party, filled with bright anticipation and restless impatience. Every few minutes, he flips a pen in the air and catches it behind his back, then glances at me to see if I noticed.
Saint stands, smooth and deliberate, and every conversation dies. His voice, when it comes, is so calm and so deep that it sounds like a threat even when he’s just reading bullet points.
“We’ve divided personnel into two teams: each artist’s direct protection and external logistics.
That means we have separate details for the artists, and another for support staff and crowd control.
We will be using the personnel we already vetted from The Hart’s Edge’s last tour for the support staff. ”
Saint outlines emergency procedures, evacuation routes, and a full rundown of who’s allowed near the buses, who rides in which bus, and why no one is ever to go anywhere alone, not even to the bathroom. Every word is precise and every movement controlled.
Then he introduces two new security teams, bringing them into the room and assigning one to Oli and her pack and the other to Tommy.
They seem nice, but I’m too busy looking at my alphas for comfort to notice.
I can barely keep my eyes on the agenda, the words on the page wriggling away from me every time Saint speaks.
It’s not just his voice, though that voice is sexy; it’s the way he moves, the way his jaw flexes when he’s biting back a comment, and the way every gesture looks rehearsed but also dangerously close to breaking form.
I’m hyper-aware of my own breathing, the slight tremor in my hands every time I have to flip a page or pick up a pen.
Every few minutes, my gaze skates over to one of the Phoenix Pack alphas, sometimes by accident, sometimes because I want to, need to, just to ground myself in the reality that they’re real and they’re here.
I’ve spent the least amount of time with Saint, so I notice the shape of his hands, the blunt efficiency of his fingers as he annotates a map with a red pen.
I notice the tiny scar on his left cheek, a ghost of something ugly healed over.
I notice the way his tie is always perfectly straight, except for the moment he leans forward, and it goes just a fraction crooked, and he immediately corrects it without missing a beat.
And I notice, with creeping horror, that he notices me noticing.
Every time our eyes meet, even for a fraction of a second, a hot jolt rips down my spine. I can’t look away fast enough. It’s a game of chicken, except I lose every time.
Hunter notices my discomfort and, without a word, stands and circles the table, sliding into the open seat beside me.
The shift is subtle but seismic. His presence fills the space to my left, his knee brushing mine. He says nothing, just sits, perfectly at ease, hands folded in his lap.
Then, slowly, he lays his hand over my forearm, palm down. The heat of it seeps through my skin. I feel my whole body recalibrate, heart slowing, panic dissolving at the edges.
My breath evens out. I feel the urge to melt sideways, just to lean on him for a second, and I almost do, before my brain catches up and I jerk back to vertical.
Tommy notices everything, of course. He grins at me, eyes wide and delighted, and kicks my ankle under the table. “Smooth,” he whispers. “Very smooth.”
I nudge him back, hard enough to bruise, and he laughs.
At the front of the room, Saint’s voice cuts off mid-sentence. I glance up, and he’s staring straight at Hunter’s hand on my arm, then at Hunter, then at me. His expression doesn’t change, but the temperature increases a full ten degrees. For a moment, no one moves.
Then Saint clears his throat, clicks his pen, and goes right back into the next bullet point.
The rest of the meeting passes in a blur. I doodle on the edge of my folder and try to avoid looking at anyone for too long. But every time I risk a glance, I find Saint’s eyes on me, sharp as ever, measuring.
The meeting is wrapping up when Saint goes off the itinerary.
“There’s something else. This tour features three omegas, so everyone is expected to use scent blockers, with some exceptions.
Oli and her pack are mated; if they would like to forgo them, they can.
Also, since Brittney’s security is also her scent match, our scent can comfort her.
Because of this, one member from our pack will not use scent blockers at a time to help her on this tour. ”
My jaw drops open in shock. I shouldn’t be surprised that Saint and the whole pack care about me enough to implement this, but no one has ever cared about my comfort the way they do and so quickly.
Saint moves on before anyone can comment and finishes with a warning to the two new teams: “There will be zero tolerance for drama. If anyone breaches protocol, you will be removed from the team. No exceptions.”
Oli claps her hands, delighted. “Good, you run a tight ship. I love it.”
Saint sits, folding himself back into the chair without a sound. For a second, he looks right at me, eyes like ice, then shifts to Riley, and the spell breaks.
Riley moves to the next item. “Press interviews, first show details, and a list of allergies, food restrictions, and comfort items. If you need anything, now’s the time to say it.”
“Brittney is allergic to mushrooms, gluten, and shellfish. I want the entire tour free of those items. Each member of my pack has epinephrine on them at all times now, so if anything happens, you find one of us,” Fox declares to the room, shocking me.
Fox looks so serious as he stares down the rest of the room.
Tommy leans over, grinning, and whispers, “They’re totally obsessed with you.”
I don’t look up. “I’m going to die of embarrassment.”
“I promise not to take any pictures.”
I snort, and the sound is so loud it bounces off the walls. Every alpha in the room turns, and I want to melt into the floor.
Hunter stands, stretches, and gives me a wink so casual it’s almost obscene. “You good, hazel?” he asks, quietly, just for me.
I nod. “Yeah. Thanks.”
He smiles, slow and wicked. “You did great. It’s so impressive that this tour is going to have three omegas on it.”
My smile is slow to come, but I appreciate his praise. “Thanks.”
Colton leans over the back of my chair. “You holding up?”
I nod, but it’s a lie. “It’s just… a lot.”
He glances at his twin, who leans over the other side of my chair. “You’ve got us. We will do anything we can to make this easier for you.”
“Thanks.”
He’s quiet for a beat, then says, “If you have any questions about the security stuff, or if you need to change anything, let any of us know.”
There’s a warmth in the offer, no pressure, just an open line. Before I can answer, a shadow falls across the table.
Saint.
“You will be safe on this tour.”
The words are clinical, but the way he’s staring at me is anything but. There’s something raw in it, something that makes my skin go hot and prickly.
He leans in, bracing his hands on the table, head tilted just enough that I have to look up. The air between us is electric, charged with all the words we haven’t said.
He hesitates, as if searching for the right thing to say. Then, softer still, adds, “If you’re ever uncomfortable, if the pack gets too much, or if you need space, you tell me.”
It’s not a question or suggestion. It’s a rule. And the funny thing is, it makes me feel safer than anything else he could have said.
I nod, and the tension in my chest loosens by a fraction. This just might work.