Mark’s story appears at the very tippy top of my feed. My finger hovers, knowing I shouldn’t look, knowing it will only twist the knife. I tap it anyway, which is my second mistake.
The image loads. Mark grinning, his arm around a petite blonde woman, surrounded by three others in what looks like a cozy living room.
The caption reads:“Pack movie night! #blessed #foundmypeople”
A cold weight settles in my chest. They’re in our apartment, the one I moved out of eight months ago because I couldn’t bear to sleep in that bedroom anymore. But now the walls that were bare when I left are covered with photos. The couch where I used to grade design samples now holds a tangle of people who look like they belong there, like they’ve always belonged.
They’ve built a home in the space where I couldn’t.
I close the app and stare at my reflection in the black screen. My practical bun has started to come loose, tendrils of reddish-brown hair framing a heart-shaped face that looks more tired than I want to admit.
For just a moment, one moment of weakness, I let myself imagine what it might be like. To have someone who stays. Tohang pictures and paint walls and buy furniture that isn’t just functional but chosen together. To build something permanent.
The label printer beeps, pulling me back to reality. Right. More packages.
I reach for the next box, forcing myself back into the rhythm. Print, pack, seal, repeat. No time for daydreams that never materialize. No space for wishes that always disappoint.
But as I work, the email from Jessica sits unopened, a quiet challenge. By the time I finish the last package, stacking them neatly by the door for tomorrow’s pickup, my resolve has weakened.
Just look at the website. That’s all Jessica asked. It doesn’t commit me to anything. It’s not like a pack is going to reach through the screen and yoink me into their world only to leave me at the curb when they’re ready to move on like all the others.
I grab my phone and open the email. The link stares back at me.
Beyond Bonds. Find Your Forever.
My finger hovers over the registration button. This is stupid. I’ve been down this road before.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I tap the link. The page loads with an elegant simplicity. Soft colors, tasteful font, none of the desperate neon flash of other dating sites. A banner across the top reads: “We go beyond traditional matching to build connections that last.”
I scroll down, despite myself. The testimonials show couples and groups of all configurations. They’re photos with names, ages and locations, not just stock models. Traditional alpha and omega pairs, beta triads, mixed pack families. The common denominator isn’t their designation but the look in their eyes. They all seem... settled. Like they’ve found their place. Their people.
A knot forms in my throat. I want to dismiss it as marketing, as carefully curated success stories hiding a mountain of failures like mine. But something about the simple certainty in their faces makes my practiced cynicism falter.
I go through the sign-up process on autopilot. Practically an expert at this point.
I get halfway through before deciding this is a mistake.
I lock the screen and set the phone face-down on the floor. I have inventory to count, designs to finalize for next season, a business to run. I don’t have time for false hope.
And I sure as hell don’t have time for a pack.
Chapter
Two
DARREN
The crowd’s roar hits me like a tidal wave as I push off from behind our net. Eighteen thousand fans packed into the arena, and every one of them on their feet as Zayn breaks away with the puck. Typical. The pretty boy never misses a chance to showboat.
I dig my skates deeper into the ice, driving forward to catch up. My breath fogs my mask as I bear down, scanning for openings. We’re tied 2-2 in the second period against the Raptors, and if Copeland tries another one of his fancy solo shots instead of passing, I might just check him myself.
“Zayn!” I bark out, voice barely audible over the crowd. “On your right!”
He ignores me, of course. Alpha prick. Three alphas converge on him, and just like that, the puck’s gone, stolen by the Raptors’ captain who cuts a clean path toward our zone. Exactly what wouldn’t have happened if he’d just passed to me in the first place.
I pivot hard, feeling the familiar burn in my thighs as I hustle back on defense. That’s my job, always cleaning up after the glory hounds.
The rush of cold air against my face steadies me as I gain speed. The rink narrows to the simple geometry of angles, trajectories, the quickest path between me and the guy threatening our net. Nobody gets past the Brick. That’s not just a nickname, it’s a fucking promise.
