The frustration burns in my chest as I slam my car door and stalk toward Tank's front entrance. This isn't a "pick a random bitch to be ours" type of situation. This isn't something you can solve with a dating app and a few dinners. This is choosing someone you'd want to spend the rest of your life with—someone who'd be part of your pack, your family, youreverything.
How they think that's as easy as eenie meanie miney moe is beyond me.
That's why I'm here at Tank's place in the middle of the morning instead of heading back to the city for my next gig—which is now pending. Because I need my pack. Because I need to figure out what the hell we're going to do. Because if I'm going to watch my career implode, I'd rather do it surrounded by the only people who actually understand why this matters.
I punch in the door code without bothering to knock—Tank gave us all access years ago—and let myself into the familiar warmth of his house. The scent hits me immediately: bacon and eggs and pancakes layered over something else. Something sweet. Something that makes my Alpha instincts sit up and pay attention in a way that has nothing to do with food.
Cinnamon sugar. Roasted coffee. Dark vanilla. Soft amber.
I know this scent.
I round the corner into the kitchen, already half-distracted by the mental calculations of how many calls I need to make today, how many bridges I need to try not to burn?—
And I stop dead.
Because standing in Tank's kitchen, holding plates of freshly made pancakes and fruit and bacon and eggs like some kind of domestic goddess, is the omega from the gym.
Sweet Ditzy.
She's wearing an apron that hugs the sinful curves of her body—curves I definitely noticed at the gym but tried very hard not to stare at because I was supposed to be helping her, not ogling her. Her dark hair falls in slightly messy waves around her face, the kind of bedhead that looks deliberate even when it's not. Her hazel eyes are wide with recognition as they meet mine.
And beneath the apron... is that Tank's shirt? It's black and massive on her, draped over her frame like a dress, revealing one bare shoulder and the graceful line of her collarbone.
She spent the night. She definitely spent the night. That's Tank's shirt and Tank's kitchen and Tank's house and she's standing here making breakfast like she belongs.
She looks... good. Better than good. She looks like she belongs here, in this kitchen, surrounded by the warmth and the delicious smells and the morning light streaming through Tank's windows. She looks like someone who could fit into a pack. Intoourpack.
Stop it. Stop thinking like that. You met her once. She's clearly already involved with Tank.
What the hell is she doing in Tank's house?
"It's Sweet Ditzy."
The words leave my mouth before I can stop them—automatic, instinctive. The nickname I gave her that morning at the gym, when she was spiraling too hard to even notice I was calling her anything at all.
She blinks, confusion flickering across her features before understanding dawns. Her expression shifts from surprise to indignation, those sinfully cute lips forming into a pout that makes something twist in my chest.
"I'mNOTditzy!" She huffs, plates still balanced in her hands with impressive grace. "You catch meone dayon my off day and you're using it against me? That's bullying!"
She remembers. She remembers that morning at the gym. She remembers what I called her, remembers that I was there when she was at her lowest point. And instead of being embarrassed or withdrawn, she's calling me out for it.
She's adorable when she's annoyed. That thought surfaces unbidden, and I shove it down ruthlessly. I don't have time for adorable. I don't have time for anything except figuring out how to save my career from a spectacular and very public death.
I huff, feeling suddenly amused despite myself. The irony of the situation isn't lost on me—how the hell is this woman in Tank's place? The same omega I couldn't stop thinking about after that morning at the gym. The same one whose scentlingered in my memory long after she'd left. The same one I'd secretly hoped I might run into again, even though I told myself I was being ridiculous.
And here she is. In Tank's kitchen. Smelling fucking amazing. Holding breakfast like an offering.
Reminding me that I haven't eaten since yesterday afternoon and I'm hungry as fuck.
Tank arches an eyebrow from his seat at the table, looking between me and the omega with an expression I don't particularly like. He's shirtless—typical—and even from here I can see the marks scattered across his chest and arms.
Hickeys. Bite marks. Scratches. Someone had a very eventful night.
Someone had a very eventful night with MY omega from the gym.
She's not yours, idiot. You met her once. At a gym. While she was having a panic attack. Get a grip.
But I can't help the twist of something that feels uncomfortably like jealousy in my gut. I saw her first. I helped her first. I've been thinking about her for days, wondering if I'd ever see her again, and here she is—wearing my packmate's shirt and smelling like him and looking at me like I'm the one who doesn't belong here.
