Reverie groans again, louder this time. The sound vibrates through the hallway.
"I'm on the phone!" She gestures wildly with the hand that's not clutching her towel. "Why are you three here? What is happening right now?"
Theo and Grayson both point at me in unison.
Thanks, guys. Real supportive pack behavior. Throw me under the bus immediately.
I finally find my voice. Clear my throat. Hold up the sushi bag and envelope like they're self-explanatory.
"The delivery."
She blinks. Stares at all three of us like we've collectively lost our minds and she's trying to figure out if this is a prank or a mental health crisis.
"So," she says slowly, her tone carefully measured like she's talking to particularly slow children. "Out of all the people in Oakridge Hollow—all the delivery drivers, all the random strangers—you're the one who got my food delivery?"
I nod. Slowly. Because explaining the side gig thing and the address recognition and the irrational need to make sure she eats seems too complicated right now when my brain is still mostly focused on the towel situation.
She sighs. Deep and long-suffering. Like we're the greatest trial she's ever had to endure.
"Fine. Gimme." She reaches for the sushi bag. "And shoo. All of you. I have to finish this call and?—"
"Uh, delivery for Reverie Bell?"
A new voice. Male. Coming from the other end of the hallway.
All four of us—me, Theo, Grayson, and Reverie—turn to look.
There's a man in a delivery uniform standing there—professional courier service based on the embroidered logo on his chest. Premium delivery company. The kind that charges extra for same-day service and guaranteed freshness. And he's holding a massive bouquet of flowers that probably weighs as much as a small child.
Roses. Red roses. At least three dozen of them—maybe more—arranged in an elaborate crystal vase display that probably cost more than my motorcycle payment. Long-stemmed, perfect, the kind you get from an actual florist instead of a grocery store. Baby's breath filling in the gaps. Green filler creating visual interest. A massive red bow tied around the vase.
Expensive. Thoughtful. Romantic.
Who the fuck is sending our Omega roses? Who thinks they have the right? Who's trying to court her with overpriced flowers when she doesn't even have a pack yet—when WE'RE supposed to be her pack?
Reverie is halfway into the hallway—one bare foot out of her apartment, clearly intending to sign for them and probably put them in her apartment where she'll look at them every day and think about whoever sent them—when instinct takes over.
The three of us move as one. No discussion needed. No coordination or planning. Just pure pack synchronization born from months of living together and fighting together and learning each other's tells.
We form a wall between Reverie and the delivery guy. Shoulder to shoulder. An impenetrable barrier of Alpha muscle and possessiveness.
She squeaks—an actual squeak of surprise that's adorable and indignant all at once—as she finds herself suddenly blocked by three Alphas who've collectively decided without discussionthat she's not getting anywhere near those flowers or that delivery guy.
"What the—oh my god, what are you guys doing?" Her voice is muffled behind us, frustrated and confused. I can feel her trying to peer around shoulders that are definitely not budging. Small hands pressing against my back, trying to create space. "Move! I need to sign for them!"
Theo ignores her completely. His attention is laser-focused on the delivery guy, his entire body language shifting into something harder, more dangerous. His voice drops into that interrogation tone that probably worked wonders when he was extracting information from enemy combatants.
"Who are the flowers from?" Each word is clipped, precise, allowing for no evasion.
The delivery guy looks increasingly uncomfortable, shifting the massive bouquet in his arms like it's suddenly gotten heavier. His eyes dart between the three of us, clearly trying to assess the situation and whether he should just abandon the delivery and run.
"It's from a private sender," he says, voice wavering slightly. "But that's not really your concern. I just need a signature from Ms. Bell and I'll be on my way."
Wrong answer, buddy. So very wrong. You don't tell three protective Alphas standing between you and their Omega that her business isn't their concern. That's how you get your ass kicked in a small-town hallway.
Grayson steps forward, his usual gentle demeanor completely replaced by something harder, sharper. More possessive than I've ever seen him. The romance writer who cries at movies is gone, replaced by an Alpha who's not backing down.
"It is our concern." His voice is firm, absolute. "We're her Alphas." He gestures to all three of us with a sweeping motion."Her pack. And none of us ordered flowers for her. So why don't you take them right back to whoever thought they could court an Omega who's already claimed?"
