17. Sawyer

17

Brinlee just… left. Smashing my hopes and my heart with one perfect blow.

My fault. The book was probably too much. Don't chase after the person you want, isn't that the consensus? Be cold and distant. The only way to catch their attention.

I read that somewhere. It didn't sound right. Now I wonder, though. I wonder what the hell I was thinking.

Thinking with my dick? No, it wasn't like that. It's… different. It's more.

What the fuck, Sawyer.

Today is the day I will meet the pack my family chose for me, and I'm jittery. Have been jittery for days, and Brinlee's sudden departure threw me for an extra loop. I wince as I remember how I all but chased away the McGraw Pack after that. How I locked myself up in my apartment and just… lost time.

Oh, I know I played videogames and read books. I know I cleaned, scrubbing and disinfecting floors and counters and tables and every surface in the apartment.

Then I played some more videogames because I couldn't focus enough to read. Anything to escape my own mind.

After that, I disinfected the console and the screen, the table, the seat…

I hate myself for driving her away. I hate myself for kicking them out. Why am I such a loser? Why?—?

"Sawyer! Where's the milk?" someone yells from my kitchen.

Okay, I know who it is. Don't get over-excited. No secret half-naked lover hiding in my closet.

"I ran out of it!" I yell back, tapping my fingers on the armrest, while flipping through channels on the TV. Click-click-click. The sound is soothing, but at the same time, I feel like I need to click again, make the number of clicks even. But then the tapping of my fingers interferes, and I need to even it out again?—

"You have a café two stories down. How can you have a café two stories down and not have milk?"

"Go and get it, then, if you're dying for an udder. Who's stopping you?"

Eric comes out of my kitchen, scratching his balls like an asshole. "Who took a shit in your smoothie today?"

"Fuck you."

"Hell, Sawyer," he snarls, "stop it."

"Stop what? Replying to you?"

"Flipping through the channels like a lunatic." He wrestles the remote from my hand and turns the TV off. "Enough."

"No! Dammit." My heart races. My fingers drum faster on the armrest. "No. Give it back."

"Will you stop with this OCD bullshit? Stop doing that. Stop… fidgeting."

I swallow hard. "Right. Let's just stop the bullshit."

He thinks it's so easy, he thinks I can control it. Okay, I thought I was doing much better these days. But it's not true. Not anymore. Not judging by the present situation.

"Is this about meeting the Ulfrig Pack?" Eric asks.

I shrug. Tap some more. With an effort, I pull my hand into my lap. "Maybe."

"They are a good pack," he says.

"Are they?"

"Not all packs are evil. Just because your friend Casey was sold to assholes doesn't mean all packs are like that."

"I know that," I snap. "I just don't know this… Ulfrig Pack. Never met them, never heard of them."

"Nobody is going to hold a gun to your head to make you stay with them."

"Are you sure about that? Our parents sure seem to have their finger on the trigger, holding my loan over my head."

"Sawyer…" He sits down beside me, shaking the entire sofa as his huge frame lands with a thump. "Come on. I won't let them force you into anything."

I narrow my eyes at him. "That's not the tune you were singing last time you were here. You said I shouldn't live alone, that I should find a pack."

"Yes, and I stand by that. But if you hate them, then no, you shouldn't be with them. I should be the one choosing a pack for you, not our parents."

A growl rises in my throat. "Kindly fuck off, Eric."

"But—"

"Get out!"

"Oh, come on! Why?"

The funny thing is, he can't even see the issue with the things he blurts out.

"Because I need to get ready. I'm meeting this pack tonight and I need to freshen up. That good enough for you, or will you stay to hold my hand?"

He sighs. And goes, as bidden.

Leaving me alone with my crazy thoughts once more.

Yeah, I kicked my brother out the same way I kicked the McGraw Pack out. It's getting to be the theme of the week.

Kick some ass.

Take some names.

It makes me sound badass instead of annoyed and flustered.

Truth is, with all the goddamn ticks and rituals heaping over me as my stress increases, I will need the rest of the day to get ready. That much is true. OCD sucks.

But I still don't feel ready when I climb out of the cab and look up at the house.

Mansion, rather. Colonial style, two stories, palm trees and jacarandas outside, and it reeks of old money.

Small wonder my parents chose this pack for me. For them, money is security and security is happiness, as well as a guarantee they won't be stuck supporting their omega son someday.

Their greatest fear, apparently.

Or second greatest, after their fear of me finding a poor pack and then having to support all of us.

As if I'd ever ask.

Once when I was about eight, I broke my ankle and I walked up to my room without telling anyone. Sometimes I felt I'd be smothered to death by their worry and their rules. And yeah, I know it's normal for parents to worry.

But like I told them—and Eric—a million times: I'm not a child anymore, dammit.

It feels like I have to prove it every day.

Taking a deep breath, checking the address on my phone again, I climb the steps to the porch and ring the bell. It echoes from inside the house, a sound of bells. The door is enormous. It even has a bronze knocker, old-fashioned—or maybe just old.

The longer I stand here, taking in this mansion, the more sweaty my hands become. I mean, sure, I come from money, too, but new money. Does it matter? Not sure, but here I feel as if I'm on the doorstep of a palace, waiting for a butler to open the door and lead me to his masters, the royal princes.

I feel like I'm supposed to know which fork and knife goes with which dish, and that I should have worn a formal suit and tie. Or maybe a bow?

A bow tie, at my neck, not me jumping out of a gift box with a bow around my waist. Now that would have been a sight to behold…

All in all, I feel unprepared.

Oh God, my hands are shaking. I shove them into my pant pockets. My jeans pockets. Like I said: woefully unprepared. And unwilling.

Is there still time to turn around and go before they know I was here?

But steps echo from inside the house and the door swings open. A man is standing there, tall and big-shouldered, his green eyes blazing under a mop of black hair.

He says nothing, and I swallow hard. The urge to turn and go hasn't left me.

"Hi," I manage. "I'm Sawyer."

After a moment, he nods. "Come on in. We've been expecting you. I'm Ezekiel. Welcome to the lair of the Ulfrig Pack."

"Lair." I whistle under my breath. "Okay."

He steps back and I walk into the house, instantly greeted by the rest of the pack. Three of them, and all of them look like alphas, huge and hulking.

Oh, God.

"No butler," I whisper.

"I'm sorry, what?"

"Nothing. I'm just saying, I'm glad there's no butler to open the door and usher me inside."

One of them chuckles. He's blond and freckled and built like a brick shithouse. "You're a funny one."

"Am I?"

Quickly they introduce themselves—Jake, Atlas, Titus, and of course, Ezekiel who opened the door for me.

They lead me deeper into the mansion, sharing secret glances I can't decipher. Do they find me silly? Ugly? Stupid? Annoying?

And why are all the adjectives provided by my brain negative? How about they find me funny, clever, handsome? Sexy?

Do I want them to find me sexy? The question echoes inside my head as they lead me down a hallway and I slow down. Do I?

"Everything okay?" Ezekiel asks.

I nod, glancing up, and… staring. I point with a shaky finger. "Are those… portraits of dogs?"

"Wolves," he says.

"Okay. I mean… why?"

"There is a legend in our family, that we are descended from wolves. Ulfrig, you know? It means wolf in German."

"Oh, boy."

"I'm sorry? Did you say something?"

"Me? Oh no." This is insane. I shake my head. "Impressive, is what I was thinking. So this is your family home?"

"Yes," he confirms. "I'm Ezekiel Ulfrig. Top alpha of the Ulfrig Pack."

He does look a little wolf-like, with his wild black hair and wide-set green eyes.

"Come on," he says. "Let's make you comfortable."

"Comfortable?" I squeak. "For what?"

His mouth twitches. "To talk. Why, was there something else you wanted to do?"

"No." I shake my head again, so hard my brain rattles. "Nope."

Could this get any more awkward?