“Keep her away from this, for now,” Kaiden decides, dragging a hand through his hair. “We’ll talk tonight. Just get back out there and act normal.”
***
The rest of the day is a blur of dread. It bleeds through the bond that’s been otherwise silent. I catch myself checking my phone way too much, every headline worse than the last. Questioning how a packless omega could ever possibly succeed.
“Hey—”
I flinch when Revea suddenly touches my hand.
“Sorry, didn’t you hear me?” she asks softly, a worried smile lining her face.
“No, sorry.” I slip my phone away.
Her brows pinch together. “It’s okay. Sorry I didn’t get to have lunch with any of you today. I’ve been trying to fit in as many clients as I can…” Her smile falters. “Is something wrong?”
“Nothing,” I lie, and I hate myself for it. I shake out my shoulders. “You ready? Car’s about to come round.”
She watches me for a moment. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
Sylvan steps in beside us. “Time to head out.”
He hardly looks at her before he turns away again.
“We’re talking about this later,” she murmurs, a deep line set between her brows, before she follows Sylvan to the door.
She steps outside, and we follow closely behind. It’s the same as every night. Shouting, flashing lights, pink placards with sayings more creative than the last. The crowd is at least getting smaller, and Revea spends most of her time signing things rather than speaking to reporters.
But then one shoves through the crowd, right to the barrier, just as Revea moves—
“Can I get your response to today’s headlines?”
A newspaper is thrust under her face.
She freezes.
“Do you have a secret pack funding your business? Is it Pack Arden?”
Another reporter appears. “Are you anti-pack, Ms Monroe?”
“What? No, I—” Her voice cuts off because I’m steering her to the car.
But they follow.
“You’renotanti-pack, but you don’thavea pack? Make it make sense, Ms Monroe.”
“No, I—”
“So youdohave a pack? Have you lied to your supporters? Given them a false symbol?”
Her body tenses, and she stops. Feet set, jaw tight, those sharp eyes burning bright as she turns on both reporters.
“Listen,” she says in a tone I remember from the first time we met. Firm, determined. Deadly. “Whatever the newspapers are saying, it’s all lies. I built this business myself. I run it myself. I’m not lying to anyone.”
“So you don’t have a pack—”
“No, I don’t,” she snaps. “I don’t have a pack, I’m not in a relationship, and I’m not interested in being so.”
The reporters stumble back. One tries to say something, but it’s a mumble of words.
