The Packaged Deal

POV: Delaney

I hit the heavy double doors of the pack training center and push through, the metal handles cold against my palms. The cavernous gym sits in suffocating darkness. I reach out and flip the bank of switches on the wall. The harsh fluorescent lights buzz to life in a staggered, mechanical rhythm, flooding the sprawling mat space and row of heavy bags with sterile white glare.

I ignore the silence echoing off the high ceilings. I drop my duffel bag on the floor. I dig past my water bottle and pull out a fresh roll of athletic tape and my worn hand wraps. My fingers tremble as I loop the fabric around my thumbs, pulling the material tight across my knuckles, securing my wrists. I bind my hands until the pressure feels grounding, until the physical restriction offers a tiny distraction from the crushing weight in my chest.

I step onto the padded mat. I do not bother stretching. I do not bother easing into a warm-up routine. I walk straight to the heaviest canvas bag at the end of the line, the one usually reserved for the fully shifted sentinels. I plant my feet. I drop my chin. I throw a jab.

The sharp crack of leather against wrapped bone echoes through the empty room.

I throw a cross. A hook. Another cross. I let the momentum carry my hips, twisting my torso, putting every ounce of my meager human strength into the strikes. The impact jars my wrists, sending dull shockwaves up my forearms. I ignore the sting. I welcome it. I need the physical pain to drown out the deafening, toxic loop currently playing on repeat inside my shattered mind.

*Weak.*

I drive my right fist into the dense canvas. The bag barely sways. My knuckles throb.

*Orphan.*

I launch a flurry of punches, my breath hissing through my teeth. The phantom memory of my parents' empty house claws at my throat.

*Alone.*

A heavy roundhouse kick. My shin slams into the unforgiving base of the bag. Pain flares hot and bright up my leg.

*Replaced.*

I swing harder, my technique crumbling as raw, unfiltered anger takes over. The image of Sienna standing in the packhouse—her smug, territorial glare, the immediate dismissal in her eyes—flashes behind my eyelids.

*Unwanted.*

I scream. A guttural, tearing sound rips from my lungs as I unleash a devastating barrage of strikes. I punish my own body. I hit the bag until my shoulders burn. I hit it until my lungs scream for oxygen, dragging in ragged, jagged breaths. I hit it until the friction tears the skin off my knuckles beneath the wraps, the warm, wet slide of fresh blood soaking into the cotton. My weak human stamina fails me. The natural endurance of the werewolf friends I grew up with is a cruel, unreachable standard. My muscles lock up in sheer agony.

I throw one final, desperate punch. My legs give out.

I collapse onto the hard training mat. My knees hit the floor. I slump forward, pressing my sweaty forehead against the rough canvas base of the heavy bag. I drag air into my burning lungs, my chest heaving. The metallic scent of my own blood mixes with the chalk and stale sweat of the gym. I stare at my hands. The white wraps are stained a deep, stark crimson across the knuckles. Crimson drops hit the gray mat between my knees.

A shadow falls over me.

Dex steps quietly into my line of sight. He does not say a word. He crouches down, his large frame moving with silent, predatory grace, and gently extends a chilled plastic bottle of water. Condensation drips down the sides, catching the harsh overhead light.

I flinch, startled by his sudden proximity. I trace his massive arm up to his face. He wears a heavy, unreadable expression. My eyes dart past his shoulder. The shadows near the gym entrance shift. Cody and Wyatt step forward, their boots silent on the rubber flooring.

A heavy heart sinks like a stone in my gut. They stayed. The entire time I was losing my mind, destroying my hands against a bag, they silently stayed behind. They dutifully stood guard in the shadows, watching over my broken form, forced into babysitting duty because their Alpha lost his grip on the situation.

I take the water bottle with shaking, bloody hands. The cold plastic stings my raw skin.

"Did you get it out?" Dex asks, his voice a low rumble.

The emotional dam inside my chest shatters. The cracks I tried to tape over with anger burst wide open. The tears come hot and fast, blurring my vision.

"He didn’t even tell her about me," I cry out, the sound pathetic and cracked in the massive room.

I look at the towering wolves surrounding me. They are supposed to be my brothers. They are the only family I have left.

"I am his best friend. I live in his house. And he looked at her like I was a ghost. You saw her face, Dex. You saw how intense it was. She was pissed. She was so pissed that my mere existence polluted his house." I wipe a bloody hand across my cheek, smearing crimson and tears together. "I hugged him, and she looked ready to rip my throat out."

Cody kneels on the mat next to me. Wyatt steps closer, his massive hands shoved deep into his pockets, his jaw tight.

"I can’t get in between them," I sob, the raw undeniable fact tearing out of me. "I know how the mate bond works. I know humans do not matter when the Moon Goddess snaps her fingers. But I can’t stay there. I can’t just sit in that house and passively watch him pull away from me, slowly, day by day. Watching him replace me. Having her glare at me every time I breathe the same air. That will literally kill me."

Dex drops to both knees. He reaches out, wrapping his massive arms around my trembling shoulders, pulling my face into his chest. His wolf warmth radiates against my cold skin. Cody rests a heavy, reassuring hand on my knee. Wyatt crouches on my other side, his presence a solid wall of protection.

"We got you, Del," Cody says, his voice thick with solemn conviction. "You are not alone. He is just... blinded right now. The bond is new. But we are right here."

"We won't ever leave you hanging," Wyatt vows, his tone dark and serious. "You know that."

I nod against Dex's chest, letting my tears soak into his workout shirt. I absorb their desperate comfort. I let them offer their massive warmth. But deep down, beneath the tears and the exhaustion, a cold, hard resolve takes root in my chest. They are wolves. Someday, they will find their own fated mates. Someday, another female will walk into this territory, snap a bond into place, and glare at the human girl lingering in the shadows. I begin mentally and emotionally preparing myself to cut ties. I need to sever the connections with all of them to survive the inevitable pain. If I leave first, they cannot leave me.

We sit on the mat until my breathing evens out. My tears dry, leaving my face stiff and salty.

The guys insist on walking me back. We move in a tight formation through the dark woods separating the training center from the main packhouse. The night air bites at my sweaty skin. Dry leaves crunch under the heavy boots of the sentinels flanking me. They maintain a silent, vigilant perimeter. They are escorting a fragile liability.

We reach the edge of the tree line. The massive packhouse looms in the dark, its lower floor blazing with light. Dex gives me a short nod. They stop at the edge of the grass, giving me a moment of privacy.

I cross the lawn alone. I step onto the back patio. I reach out, my bloody, wrapped hand turning the brass knob of the back door. I push it open and slip inside, hoping to bypass the kitchen and ghost my way up the back stairs to my bedroom.

The second the door clicks shut behind me, a chair violently scrapes across the floorboards.

"Where have you been?"

Harrison’s voice cracks like a whip through the quiet kitchen.

I jump, my heart slamming against my ribs. I spin around. Harrison stands beside the massive marble kitchen island. His entire posture is agitated, aggressive, and coiled tight with tension. His broad chest heaves. His golden eyes flash in the overhead lights.

The heavy, sweet scent of floral perfume hits me like a physical blow. It clings to the air. It clings to his clothes. It permeates the space that used to smell strictly of coffee and pine. The cloying floral notes trigger every single defensive instinct in my body. She is nearby. Her scent is fresh.

I refuse to give her, or him, any emotional ammunition. I lock my knees to stop them from trembling. I school my features into a blank, unreadable mask.

"I was out," I say, my voice clinical and cold.

"Out where?" he demands, taking a step toward me. His jaw ticks. The dominant Alpha aura rolls off him in suffocating waves. "You vanished from my sight, Delaney. You ran off, you left your phone on the floor, and my sentinels blocked me out of the mindlink. They shut me out. I had no idea where you were."

I stare at him. The sheer audacity of his anger fuels my own.

"I was down at the gym," I point out the obvious fact, keeping my tone dead and flat. "I was blowing off steam. Specifically because you callously iced me out the exact second she arrived. You looked at me like a stranger."

Harrison stops. The anger in his golden eyes falters, replaced by a flash of desperate guilt. He opens his mouth to speak, but I do not give him the chance. I do not want to hear the wolf-logic excuses. I do not want to hear apologies dictated by a mate bond he cannot control.

I adjust the strap of my duffel bag on my shoulder. I turn away from him, attempting to silently walk past his massive frame to reach the hallway. I just need to escape upstairs. I just need to lock my bedroom door.

I take two steps before he moves.

His hand shoots out with terrifying, supernatural speed. His long fingers clamp around my wrist in an inescapable, vice grip. He halts my forward momentum instantly.

I gasp, trying to yank my arm back.

His eyes drop. He looks down at my trapped arm. His gaze locks onto my hand. The overhead kitchen lights illuminate the brutal state of my knuckles. The white athletic tape is shredded. The fabric is soaked black and red with dried and fresh blood. The bruising swells angry and purple beneath the torn material.

Harrison freezes. A low, wounded sound vibrates in his throat. His thumb brushes the edge of the bloody wrap.

"Delaney..." he breathes, his voice losing all its aggressive edge. "Your hands."

I expect him to release me. I expect him to let me go upstairs to clean the wounds, to bandage the raw skin. Instead, his grip on my wrist shifts. He uses his supernatural strength and pulls.

With one swift motion, he yanks my entire body forward.

I crash against his solid chest. His powerful arms wrap around me, crushing me into a desperate, suffocating hug. He buries his face in my hair, his chest heaving against mine. The physical pressure of his embrace steals the breath from my lungs. It is a bone-crushing hold, laced with a terrifying amount of possessiveness and fear.

I freeze. My bloody hands hover in the air, unsure of where to land. I try to hold onto my anger. I try to maintain the cold, hard wall I built in the gym. But I am exhausted. I am physically drained and emotionally starved.

My resolve crumbles.

I slowly lower my arms. My trembling, bloody hands wrap cautiously around his broad back. I grip the fabric of his shirt. I squeeze my eyes shut, letting the last of my defenses fall away. Hot, angry tears spill over my lashes, soaking silently into the collar of his shirt. I inhale his familiar pine scent, ignoring the sweet floral notes invading it. I hold him tight, intimately treating this embrace like the absolute final goodbye it most likely is.

We stand there in the center of the kitchen, frozen in the wreckage of our friendship.

A sudden, visceral growl rips through the air.

It erupts from the doorway directly behind Harrison. The sound is deep, menacing, and deeply territorial. It vibrates through the floorboards and rattles the silverware in the drawers.

Sienna steps into the light. She stands in the entrance of the kitchen, her eyes locked onto us, her lips pulled back to bare a flash of sharp canines.

The aggressive sound does not scare me in the slightest. It does not trigger human prey instincts. Instead, it acts like a bucket of ice water dumped over my head. It brutally snaps my mind right back to the harsh, unforgiving reality of my new existence. I am trespassing. I am holding a wolf that no longer belongs to me.

I immediately pull my body back.

I press my bloody, wrapped hands firmly against his solid chest. I shove. I try to create physical distance between us, smearing a faint trace of my blood against the fabric of his shirt.

"Harrison," I command him sternly, looking directly into his face. My voice is devoid of warmth. "Let. Me. Go."

His golden eyes darken. The muscles in his jaw bulge.

"Never," he fiercely insists.

His powerful arms refuse to yield. He tightens his possessive, iron grip around my waist, refusing to accept the changing dynamics of his own life. He holds me captive against him, ignoring the furious mate standing just feet away.

I firmly clench my jaw. I violently fight back the fresh wave of threatening tears burning the back of my eyes. I will not cry in front of her. I will not be the pathetic, weak human clinging to the Alpha.

"Well, it’s not only your solitary decision to make anymore, Harris," I say, my tone sharp and unforgiving. I glare up at him, forcing him to look at the reality of the room. "You are now a packaged deal. You deeply need to consult your other half before you go blindly making forever promises you can't keep."

He flinches. The truth of the words hits him like a physical blow.

I use the last ounce of my physical strength. I push off his chest hard.

This time, his grip falters. I break free, stumbling back a step. The air between us turns suffocatingly awkward. The kitchen is incredibly tense. Sienna’s watchful, burning glare tracks my every movement. She stands her ground, claiming her space, claiming her mate.

I do not look back at Harrison. I grab my duffel bag from the floor where it dropped.

"I'll see you around," I mutter to the floor.

I endure the heavy silence and quickly retreat. I slip past the kitchen island, avoid Sienna's territorial stance, and take the back stairs two at a time. I flee to the solitary safety of my bedroom.

I shut the door and lock it. The snick of the deadbolt echoes in the quiet room.

I drop my bag. I walk straight to my bed. The room feels foreign. The walls feel like they are closing in, pressing the thick packhouse air against my windpipe. As a deeply painful but necessary first step toward emotionally surviving this devastating new reality, I walk to my pillow.

I reach down and pick up the oversized gray t-shirt sitting there. It belongs to Harrison. It is the shirt I normally wear to sleep in to ward off the nightmares of my parents' death. It smells like pine and safety.

I hold the fabric in my bloody, raw hands. I stare at it for a long moment. Then, I meticulously fold it. I match the sleeves. I smooth the hem. I carry the folded square of fabric across the room. I place it gently but firmly on top of my dark wood dresser.

I step back. I leave it untouched. I reject the comfort.

I cannot rely on his protection anymore. I turn away from the dresser, feeling suffocated by the very walls of the house. I move to my closet. I pull out my largest travel duffel bag and throw it onto the mattress. I frantically pack. I shove in a week's worth of jeans, sweaters, and undergarments. I pack enough gear for school and training. I grab my toothbrush and my phone charger. I am desperate to spend as little time breathing the air in this packhouse as humanly possible.

I zip the bags shut.

I pull my phone from my pocket. The screen is cracked, but the signal bars are full. I open my messages and select Dex's name. My thumbs fly across the keyboard, ignoring the stinging pain in my knuckles.

*I packed my bags. Come pick me up. I need to get out of here.*

I hit send. I drop the phone onto the mattress, staring at the locked door, waiting for the escape.