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Makes me wonder what sort of people Sawyer has been dealing with, in his life. Makes my protective streak flare again.
Dammit.
He’s fucking adorable.
Fuck my life.
“And why are you so stressed out?” Archer asks, and I frown because I sort of skipped over that bit. “Is everything okay?”
“Oh, you know.” Sawyer gives the bar with the coffee machine a longing glance, as if he’s dying to escape this interrogation. “Work. Family. Meeting people. Thinking about finding a pack.”
“Another pack?” Roman snaps. “Other than us?”
He blinks. Damn, he has long, long black lashes. It’s fucking mesmerizing. “A pack looking for an omega. Are you looking for an omega?”
“No,” I say.
“Nope,” Archer confirms.
“Maybe?” Roman says at the same time.
Both Archer and I turn to stare at him. “Really?”
He shrugs. “Why not?”
“What is…? What are you talking about?” Now Sawyer looks flustered, and damn him, even flustered looks good on him.
“Nothing,” I growl. “This isn’t something we have discussed as a pack.”
“Sorry,” Roman mutters, his jaw clenching.
What is going on here? Roman wants an omega to join our pack? Since when? Like I said, we have never discussed such a thing as a pack, except to mention a couple of times that we don’t need an omega. That we’re fine, just the three of us.
Even if this omega is hot, even if he triggers all my alpha instincts and sends sharp feelings through my heart.
“We need to talk,” Archer growls at us.
“About what?” I growl back. “I thought we had an agreement. An understanding.”
“So we set down the laws, and they can never be changed ever again?” Roman grumbles.
“It’s not like that,” I hiss.
“Then what is it like?”
I just… hate change. I like our life. My life with them. Not sure I want to change the rules, the agreement, whatever it is that keeps us going.
Meanwhile, Sawyer has taken a few steps back. We’ve scared him off, I think, and I shouldn’t give a damn, only I’m already reaching for him, opening my mouth to ask him to wait.
Until I realize it’s not us he’s looking at.
He’s staring at the far end of the café. At the entrance.
A girl is standing there. She’s short and on the thin side, a pixie of a girl with a riot of blond curls and wide eyes. I’ve never seen her before, but everyone else—yes, including Sawyer—sort of freeze and let out a shocked breath.
“Brinlee,” Sawyer says.
“The girl from the shelter,” Archer and Roman say in unison.
