Brittney
PACK ‘EM UP GOSSIP COLUMN
The hotel conference room smells like recirculated air and lemon sanitizer, with a bitter undercurrent of descenter.
I hate it instantly. Every instinct in my body says this place is wrong, not just because of the bland walls and the quarter-inch-pile corporate carpet, but because of the way my mates move.
They’re too stiff, too sharp, like they’re prepping for a siege instead of a meeting with a ghost from my childhood.
They form up around me without a word. Saint stands behind my chair, his shadow cast long across the table.
Every so often, his hand grazes the curve of my shoulder, a silent check-in, as if he needs to confirm I’m still here.
Colton and Cody split the doorway, one on each side, so in sync.
Their arms are crossed, jaws set, matching tension in every muscle.
Hunter claims the window, eyes scanning the parking lot, tongue flicking over his teeth.
Fox is the closest. He takes the chair at my right, ankles crossed, posture lazy, but eyes never leaving the door.
There’s an unopened bottle of water at every seat.
No one touches theirs. Saint’s phone is face down.
I stare at the patterned carpet and pick at the edge of a hotel notepad, running my finger over the embossed logo until my nail catches and shreds a fiber.
Every sound in the room, the faint hum of the HVAC, the random click from the ice machine just outside, lands wrong, too loud, or too soft.
The door opens exactly on time. Robert Ryan steps in, and my anxiety spikes.
He’s nothing like my pack leader father, except in the way they both make every space feel smaller.
He’s heavyset, but not soft. He’s someone built to take a punch and then dish out three.
His hair is buzzed to the scalp, grayer than I expected, and there’s a star-shaped scar at his temple.
He walks with a limp, but it doesn’t look like pain.
Colton and Cody draw up, shoulders squared, jaws flexing. Saint’s hand finds the top of my chair and clamps down so tight I hear the frame creak. Hunter glances back, meets my eyes, and raises a brow like he’s asking if I’m ready for this.
I’m not, but I nod anyway.
“Thank you for meeting me,” he says, voice rough.
Saint tips his chin, barely polite. “Get to the point.”
Robert gives a dry laugh. “I’m not here to make trouble. Just need to say a few things, then I’ll be gone if that’s what Brittney wants.”
Saint leans in, eclipsing my peripheral vision. “Say them.”
Robert ignores him. He turns, and now he looks right at me, like we’re the only two people in the room.
His eyes are shot with red, like he hasn’t slept in days, but there’s something steady there, something that makes me sit up a little straighter, even though every muscle in my body wants to curl in.
“You probably don’t remember much,” he says, voice softer than I expected. “Your parents didn’t want me around. They thought I was a bad influence.”
I nod, because it’s probably true.
Robert glances at Saint, then back at me. “You ran away. I heard about how furious they were.”
“Yeah,” I say, surprised by how normal my voice sounds. “And I don’t regret it.”
He barks a laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “They were shitty people. I’m sorry you were stuck with them.”
Fox shifts, and his knee bumps mine. I feel the echo of his comfort, the way his beta calm can dampen the spike of panic that wants to start in my stomach. I grab onto it.
Robert’s hands are steady on the folder he brought, but his thumb rubs a nervous circle over the top.
“I tried to keep tabs on you. I knew you made it out, at least.” He draws a breath, eyes flicking to the blank whiteboard at the far wall.
“I also know you probably don’t have any reason to believe me, or care what I have to say.
But you’re the only family I got left, so I had to try. ”
He slides the folder toward me, careful, like it might explode if he moves too fast. “Your parents are gone,” he says, not softening the blow. “It was a car accident. Nasty one. They’re buried in Austin, in the family plot.”
I don’t cry, not because I’m strong, but because I’m not sad. I’m numb, not sure how I’m supposed to feel.
Robert pushes the folder closer. It comes to rest in front of me, an inch from my hand. “I brought a few things,” he says. “Proof of their death and the address of their graves.” His voice cracks a little, just at the edge. “I’m not here to get anything from you. I just want you to know the truth.”
I stare at the folder.
Fox’s hand finds my knee under the table. He doesn’t squeeze, just rests there, a line of warmth.
Robert stands, the movement slow, every joint protesting.
“I’ll leave you to it,” he says, pushing back the chair until it groans.
“You don’t owe me anything. You don’t even have to open the folder if you don’t want to.
But if you ever need—” He stops, like the word is too much.
“If you ever want to talk, I’ll be around. ”
He heads for the door, and Colton shifts to block him, but Robert just gives him a nod, respectful, not cowed, and leaves without looking back.
The room is silent, except for the hiss of the vent and the tiny, sharp sound of my nails digging into the fake wood tabletop.
Saint is the first to move. He comes around, kneels next to my chair, and waits for me to look at him. When I do, his eyes are steady, but there’s a storm behind them.
“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to,” he says. “You’re safe. You’re ours.”
I nod, but the word gets stuck.
Fox leans in, voice soft. “You okay?”
“I don’t know,” I say, honestly.
Hunter leaves the window and sits on the table, facing me. “Want to open it together?” he asks.
I look at the folder, then at my mates, then at the empty space where Robert stood. “Not yet,” I say. “I need a minute.”
Colton and Cody trade glances, then move to block the door from the inside, a wall of muscle and attitude against the world. Saint doesn’t leave my side, and Fox just stays with his hand on my knee, thumb brushing in slow circles.
I stare at the folder until the room blurs. Then, slowly, I reach out and I just run my thumb along the edge, over and over, until the skin there feels numb.
When I open the folder, I see four death certificates. Three for my alpha fathers and one more for my omega mother. There’s also an address for their graves.
The ache inside me is sharp, then dull, then sharp again. I flip through the stack and accept the truth. They’re really gone.
My mates watch me, every twitch and breath cataloged and evaluated for threat. They want to help, but they don’t know how. I want to tell them it’s not their job to fix me, but I know they’d never believe it.
After a while, I find my voice. “When the tour gets to Texas,” I say, “I want to visit their graves.”
Saint’s jaw flexes, molars grinding. Cody makes a noise, almost a whimper, but meaner, like he’s been stabbed in the ribs. Hunter, perched on the table behind me, shakes his head, curls bobbing. “It’s a bad idea,” he says.
“It’s not safe,” Saint adds, still looking up at me. “We don’t know who’s watching, or what’s waiting there.”
Fox glances at him, then at me, then back at the folder. “It’s dangerous, but… she needs closure,” he says. His voice is barely audible, but it hits harder than any shout.
Colton and Cody slide a step closer, a twin movement that screams protection but also nervousness. “We can all go,” Colton says. “And keep her safe.”
Cody’s face is blank, but his hand is on the back of my chair, squeezing until his knuckles go pale. “You don’t have to do this, Brittney,” he says. “It won’t change anything.”
I look at my pack, really look. The five of them, a wall of muscle and drive.
I stand, suddenly enough that the chair tips and wobbles. I’m not tall, especially compared to them, but in this moment, I make myself as big as I can.
“I’m going,” I say. “You can keep me safe, but I need this.” I pick up the folder, holding it like a shield. “They’re my parents. I have to see them dead and fully gone.”
Hunter runs a hand through his hair, smearing the curl into a new, more chaotic configuration. “Damn it,” he mutters. “You’re not supposed to make sense.”
Saint stands too, and he’s so close I can feel the heat off his skin. He wants to argue. I can see it in the way his hands curl into fists, the way his scent spikes, but he doesn’t. Instead, he pulls me in, wraps me in his arms, and just holds on.
“We’ll make it happen,” he says, voice rough. “But you stick close. No wandering off.”
“No wandering off,” I repeat, burying my face in the black cotton of his shirt.
Cody and Colton close the distance, arms folding over us until I’m in the center of a cocoon. I feel Hunter’s hand on my back and Fox’s shoulder against mine.
The scents merge. Saint’s cracked pepper, Colton and Cody’s mirrored mocha, Hunter’s burst of frost, and Fox’s apple and cinnamon. I’m weightless, floating in the cloud of them, safe from everything but the past.
When they let go, Saint leans down, pressing his forehead to mine. “You sure?” he whispers.
I nod, answer final.
Fox threads his fingers through mine and squeezes my hand. “I can reach out to Robert,” he says, “if you want to see him again.”
“I do,” I say. “I want to talk to him again, but not today. We have a show tonight.”
Saint cracks a smile. It’s crooked, reluctant, but real. “You got it.”
The six of us file out. Down the hall, toward the service elevator, the carpet muffles every step. I feel the weight of what’s next, but it doesn’t crush me.
When we hit the lobby, there’s a burst of sunlight through the revolving doors. I blink, and the world tilts back into place.
Fox squeezes my hand again, and I squeeze back.
We move forward. Together.