The hallway is quiet, sterile, with that same generic professional building scent. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead. A motivational poster on the wall shows a mountain peak with the word "ACHIEVE" in bold letters.
Achieve. Right. I need to achieve finding a pack in less than two weeks or I lose the opportunity of a lifetime. Easy. Totally achievable. The poster said so.
My heart is pounding—hard enough that I can feel it in my throat, my wrists, my fingertips. The anxiety that's been simmering since Charlotte's phone call yesterday is now at a full rolling boil.
Other candidates. Timeline. Pack required. Two weeks. Twenty-five thousand dollars. Everything I've ever wanted. Everything that could disappear if I don't figure this out.
I make my way to the elevator on autopilot, my mind spinning through possibilities and panicking in equal measure.The contract folder is clutched to my chest like a lifeline. Or a ticking time bomb. Both metaphors work.
How do you find a pack? Is there an app for that? A dating site but for pack formation? Can I just post on Reddit like 'ISO pack, must be non-toxic, available immediately, please don't be Kael 2.0'?
The elevator dings, doors sliding open with that smooth mechanical sound. I step inside, still lost in my spiral of anxiety, and press the button for the ground floor.
Maybe I could ask Hazel for advice? She found her pack. Though knowing Hazel, she probably manifested them through sheer force of baking talent and accidentally seduced three Alphas with croissants.
Maybe Mrs. Chen knows someone? She's lived in Oakridge Hollow forever. She probably knows every available Alpha within a fifty-mile radius.
Maybe I could?—
The elevator doors open on the second floor.
I'm so lost in my thoughts, staring at the contract folder, that I don't register someone stepping in until it's too late.
I walk forward.
They walk forward.
And we collide.
The contract folder goes flying. My purse slips off my shoulder. I lose my balance, stumbling forward with a very dignified squeak of surprise.
But I don't hit the ground.
An arm hooks around my waist, strong and sure, pulling me against a firm chest. The momentum carries us backward until we're both pressed against the elevator wall, and I'm forced to look up at whoever just saved me from face-planting.
And then the scent hits me.
Motor oil. That's the first thing—rich and dark, the kind that clings to skin even after scrubbing. But underneath it is leather, worn and soft like a vintage jacket that's been loved for years. There's something metallic too, sharp and clean like steel, mixing with coffee grounds and a hint of amber. It's masculine and rough around the edges, the kind of scent that makes you think of garages and motorcycles and hands that know how to fix broken things.
Alpha. Definitely Alpha. And familiar.
I blink, my brain catching up with my body, and focus on the face looking down at me.
Dark hair that's slightly too long, falling across his forehead in a way that's effortlessly attractive. Sharp features—strong jaw, high cheekbones, a nose that looks like it's been broken at least once and healed slightly crooked. Eyes that are somewhere between brown and amber, currently looking at me with a mixture of amusement and concern. A small scar cutting through his left eyebrow. And tattoos peeking out from under his collar—black ink that disappears beneath his shirt.
Oh no.
Oh no, oh no, oh no.
I know this Alpha.
"I'm so sorry!" I squeak, my face immediately flooding with heat. "I wasn't watching where I was going, I was having an existential crisis about life choices, and I just—wait."
I squint at him, recognition clicking into place.
"You're... Nash, wasn't it? The hot self-defense mechanic!"
Did I just say that out loud? Did I actually just call him hot to his face? Why am I like this? What is wrong with me?
