Page 10 of Puck Your Bunny

I stare at the phone in Wally's hand.She has a lot on her plate.It's a vague statement, leaving us in the dark about her living situation, her job, or the marks on her skin.

The three of us huddle up. We pull into a tight circle, dropping our voices to keep Henry out of the conversation while he suits up across the room.

Wally taps his phone, swapping the call log for a web browser. He holds the device up for Simon and me. Blocks of text from medical journals and pack dynamic forums fill the glowing screen.

"I stayed awake all night." Wally swipes his thumb down the screen, scrolling past a bunch of ads. "I looked up Omega scent matching for a previously bonded Omega. Finding out how this is even possible became my top priority."

Leaning in closer gives me a better look at the text. The science is straightforward. Once an Omega is claimed, their scent shifts to neutral, mimicking a Beta to any unbonded Alphas. They belong to their pack. Nature uses the change to prevent bloody, violent challenges over claimed mates.

But Vayda smelled like an open invitation. A perfect, intoxicating match.

"The forums point to two specific cases." Wally locks his phone and shoves it into his pocket. He meets my gaze with dead-serious eyes. "Either they bonded out of convenience with zero scent-connection, leaving their scent unaltered."

"Or?" Simon tightens his voice with impatience.

"Or they lost their Alphas." Wally finishes the thought. "Death or a severe trauma severed the bond."

The air in the locker room turns to ice. The words hang between the three of us, sinking deep into my bones.

"The second option makes the most sense." Wally lowers his voice. "Think about her reaction to us. She looked at us like ghosts. An Omega in an unhappy convenience bond acts differently. She just looked terrified. She’s grieving."

Simon drags a hand down his face. "My cousin lost her Alphas." He pauses, staring a hole into the floor. "She died sixmonths later from bond rejection symptoms. Her body viewed their death and the loss of their knots as a total rejection."

Wally swears under his breath. He drags a hand through his dark hair as the color drains from his face.

A low, vibrating growl starts deep in the center of my chest. My body reacts involuntarily to the thought of our Omega suffering through that kind of agony. Picturing her system slowly shutting down turns my blood to ice.

Closing my eyes brings up the image of her pale neck. I remember the silver, raised tissue of the bite marks. They were old scars. Whatever happened to her pack occurred years ago. She carries this grief around as a constant weight. She survives on her own, fighting off a lethal condition while convinced she is unworthy of a second chance at a real pack.

A protective rage boils up, consuming the frustration from earlier.

It all makes perfect sense now. The exhaustion pulling down the corners of her eyes. The oversized sweater hiding her frame. The sheer panic taking over her face when she realized we’re scent matched. Her reaction goes beyond a simple rejection. She is drowning in grief for the pack she lost.

Her complicated life changes nothing for me. All the baggage she carries and whatever Kristy thinks she needs to do are irrelevant.

If she hurts, fixing it is our job.

Opening my eyes, I look at my packmates. Simon nods with his jaw set in a hard line. Wally stares right back at me, his leadership and resolve returning in full force. We are all on the exact same page, facing one massive hurdle.

Kristy holds all the cards right now. She serves as the only bridge between us and the Omega who smells like lavender and honeysuckle. Earning a chance to prove Vayda is safe with us means convincing her protective friend to grant us access.

Chapter 5

Iwake up with a loud gasp, my fingers tangled tight in the bedsheets. My heart hammers a frantic rhythm against my ribs. I kick the blankets away to expose my cold, sweat-slicked skin to the air. The bedroom sits dark, with Monday morning light bleeding through the gaps in the cheap plastic blinds.

A couple of days have passed since the game, yet my brain clings to the memory. I sit up and drag both hands down my face to clear the lingering images burned into the back of my eyelids.

The dreams were relentless. They played on a brutal loop all damn night.

Wally Nelson, Kel Lars, and Simon Clark. The Reapers' star first line. Watching every single game turns them into untouchable celebrities on a screen, but my traitorous brain tookthat terrifying moment we realized we were a scent match and spun the professional athletes into a vivid, explicit sex dream.

Rough hands pinned my hips to the mattress. Teeth scraped against my scent glands. The sheer size of them stretched my limits while their names tore from my throat.

The ghost of their combined scent still coats the inside of my nose. Crisp bergamot, rugged leather, amber, and sea breeze. My mouth waters. The guilt hits hard, but the memory leaves my core throbbing with an intense, confusing ache. I'm soaked, my underwear ruined by a desperate, hungry reaction to just the phantom trace of their pheromones.

I swing my legs over the edge of the mattress. My skin feels raw and hypersensitive. The air in the room brushes against my arms and stings.

Pushing upright, I walk into the small guest bathroom attached to my bedroom. I moved out of the master suite three years ago when sleeping next to Bren became too much of a risk.