Layleen
Oliver leads me down the stairs, and with every step, my heart sinks lower. He hums a tune under his breath, the occasional lyric slipping past his lips, but I don't recognize the song.
"Don't be nervous." He taps my shoulder in what's meant to be a reassuring gesture, but I flinch as if electrocuted. My body is wound so tight that I feel like I might snap if he touches me again.
"Sorry," he says quickly, clearly startled by my reaction.
As we reach the first floor, a wall of noise crashes over me—a loud, chaotic blend of voices spilling from the kitchen and dining room. My stomach clenches. I don't need to see them to know there are a lot of people in there. And most of them are men.
It shouldn't surprise me, given what this pack does, but anxiety coils around my ribs all the same. I'm not good with men. Not in the way the rumors claim.
And then I see them.
My heart stutters, then takes off at a sprint.
