Well, their front door. But semantics.
The porch light casts everything in harsh shadows that make me look like I'm starring in my own personal horror movie titled "Omega Makes Terrible Decisions and Lives to Regret Them." I can see Logan's jeep in the driveway next to Xavier's pristine sedan, which probably still smells like leather and good decisions unlike some people's vehicles that now reek of poor impulse control and questionable life choices.
Griff's work truck isn't here yet, which means I have exactly however-many-minutes to steel myself before facing the entire pack and explaining why I fled this morning before seeing anyone.
The thought makes my stomach clench with something that might be dread, anticipation, or possibly just hunger because I stress-ate nothing but cake samples today and Emma's commentary on my sex life.
The front door opens before I can work up the courage to actually turn the handle.
"Savannah." Logan fills the doorway. He's wearing dark jeans and a gray henley that clings to his chest in ways that should probably be illegal, and my brain immediately starts replaying highlights from last night like the world's most inappropriate movie reel.
Focus, Savannah. You're here to have a mature, adult conversation about boundaries and expectations, not to mentally undress the alpha who already saw you naked and apparently liked what he found enough to mark you like his personal property.
"You got my text," Logan says, his voice rough like he's been gargling gravel or possibly yelling at his pack mates about omega-related complications.
"Hard to ignore a summons from the alpha who marked me," I reply, stepping past him into the hallway before my brain can fully process the way his henley stretches across his shoulders when he moves to close the door.
The house smells like coffee and something that might be dinner, normal domestic scents that feel completely surreal given that I'm about to have what amounts to a relationship summit with three alphas who collectively destroyed my ability to make rational decisions about alphas and their questionable boundary issues.
Logan closes the door behind me with a soft click that sounds suspiciously like a trap snapping shut, and I have to resist the urge to bolt back outside and maybe relocate to a different state where bite marks aren't considered valid relationship status updates.
"It wasn't supposed to happen like that," Logan says, and I can practically hear the guilt in his voice.
"But it did happen. And now we need to deal with it." I shrug out of my coat, hanging it on the hook by the door with hands that are steadier than they have any right to be considering my internal emotional state currently resembles a natural disaster. "Unless you're planning to pretend it never happened, which would actually be impressively mature for someone who marked me in the back seat of his jeep like we're still teenagers."
"We need to talk about it. All of us."
"Right. The pack meeting I've been dreading since I woke up this morning and realized I no longer need suppressants because apparently your bite has rearranged my entire biological system."
Logan's eyes drop to my neck, where the scarf is hiding evidence of his complete lack of self-control. "How do you feel?"
"Like I've been claimed by an alpha who didn't bother asking if I wanted to be claimed." The words come out sharper thanI intended, but honestly, I'm tired of pretending this isn't a monumentally complicated situation. "I need a drink and a time machine."
Footsteps echo from the kitchen, and Xavier appears in the hallway like some kind of perfectly groomed reminder that not all alphas lose their minds and bite people without permission. He's still in his work clothes, charcoal slacks and a white shirt that somehow remains crisp despite whatever medical emergencies filled his day. His dark hair is perfectly styled, not a strand out of place, and his mint and cologne scent carries the kind of clinical calm that makes me want to hide behind him and let him handle this entire conversation.
"Savannah," Xavier says, his voice gentler than Logan's guilty gruffness, but with that underlying clinical note that says he is cataloging every odd thing I have done since walking through the door. "Are you okay?"
"Like the star of a very awkward pack drama that I didn't audition for." I gesture vaguely at my neck, almost losing my balance in the process because apparently three glasses of wine and a bite mark make for terrible coordination. "But otherwise peachy. Thanks for asking."
Xavier studies me, his gaze moving over my defensive posture, the careful distance I am keeping from Logan, and the way I am gripping my purse as if it could provide emotional support. He tilts his head slightly, taking in the fact that I might be swaying just a little on my feet.
The front door slams hard enough to rattle the windows, and Griff's voice carries through the house like he's announcing the arrival of chaos incarnate.
"Whose car is that in the driveway? We expecting company?"
Heavy work boots thunder across the hardwood, and Griff appears in the hallway like a tornado made of construction dust and male irritation. His sandy hair is disheveled from whateverconstruction crisis filled his day, his flannel shirt is rolled up to reveal forearms that are frankly distracting, and his jeans are covered in enough dust to suggest he's been wrestling with power tools and losing.
When he sees all three of us standing in the hallway like we're attending a funeral for my common sense, his eyebrows climb toward his hairline with the kind of curiosity that usually precedes disaster.
"Well, this looks ominous. Someone die? House burn down? Logan finally admit he can't actually cook?"
"We need to talk," Logan says, dragging a hand through his hair in that universalI’ve screwed up againmove. "All of us."
Griff's gaze sharpens as he takes in Logan's tension radiating like heat from a furnace, Xavier's rigid control, and my defensive stance that probably screamswoman on the edge of a breakdown.
"About what?" Griff asks, but his voice has dropped to that careful tone alphas use when they sense pack drama brewing.
Right. Time to rip off the bandage and get this over with.
