Chapter 4 Internet meltdown and other life choices

•Freya•

Chase had barely closed the door behind him before I flipped the deadbolt like it could lock out the scent of him and the incoming regret. 

My apartment felt smaller, somehow—his presence had sucked all the air out and left behind that stupid storm-front aroma that made my suppressed wolf roll over like a traitor begging for belly rubs. I leaned against the counter, staring at the contract he’d left like a bomb with fancy lawyer letterhead.

Six months. Fake fiancée. Temporary claiming bite. Erase the debt.

I laughed. It came out sounding like a hyena with asthma. 

“Congratulations, Freya. You just sold your soul to the devil, and he has better hair than you do.”

My phone buzzed on the counter. Frey. I let it go to voicemail because explaining to my brother why I was fake-engaged to the man he blamed for ending his pitching career and mangling his wolf felt like a conversation best handled with alcohol and a written apology to my future therapist. Instead, I poured a glass of the cheap red wine I’d been saving for a promotion that no longer existed and opened my laptop.

Big mistake.

The announcement had dropped while I was busy hating Chase’s smirk. Hashtags were trending faster than a rookie’s fastball: #ChaseFreyaEngaged, #EnemiesToLoversMLB, #BennettBitesBack. Someone had already made a compilation video of every press conference where I’d gutted him set to dramatic music. My face—mid-snarl, calling him “baseball’s biggest headache with cheekbones”—was now a meme.

I scrolled, wine forgotten. A sports blog had unearthed our high school yearbook photos. There I was at fourteen, freckles and fury.  

“Ugh, no.” I slammed the laptop shut, but the damage was done. My pulse was doing annoying fluttery things. “You still hate him, remember? He destroyed Frey’s future and yours. You can no longer shift! Your wolf is latent for life!”

Except the contract on my counter said otherwise. Every hospital bill with its cheerful sticker—Payment appreciated!—stared back at me like a judgmental ghost. Frey’s ongoing treatments weren’t healing the way they should. Wolf healing met human medicine and mostly sulked in the corner. Chase’s money would fix that. Set up the best pack healers, experimental rituals, the works.

I opened the laptop again. The internet had gone feral. Tabloids speculated we’d been secretly hooking up for years. One fan account had drawn fan-art of us as wolves—me silver and snarling, him massive and cocky even in fur form. 

My wolf stirred harder at that image, a low hum under my skin that felt suspiciously like approval. I told it to sit down and behave. Latent wolves didn’t get to have opinions after fourteen years of being told to stay quiet.

Another text from Frey: Call me. Now. What the hell, Freya?

I typed back: It’s complicated. But it’ll help with the bills. Trust me.

His reply was a string of angry emojis and one very pointed middle-finger gif. Fair.

By midnight I was three glasses deep and doom-scrolling Council-adjacent forums that normal humans never saw. Supernatural gossip moved at warp speed. 

“Bennett’s finally claiming a mate to secure the pup? Old-blood grandparents are circling like vultures.” 

Someone had leaked that Sophie was already calling me Luna in her dreams. 

What the hell?! 

My stomach did a weird flip—half dread, half something warmer that I refused to name.

I closed everything and stared at the ceiling. Chase’s cocky grin as he’d said “You’re not my type anyway” kept replaying. My own traitorous body had responded with a pulse of heat I blamed on the wine. 

Ten years of hating him, and plotting a perfect revenge, and now I was moving into his pack house?

•THE NEXT MORNING•

I woke up flushed, annoyed, and late for the life implosion I’d agreed to.

Morning brought more headlines, more messages from former colleagues who thought I’d sold out for a ring and a rich alpha. 

I ignored them, packed the duffel with everything that made me feel armored—hoodies that had Coldplay’s face on it, notebooks, the ridiculous baseball bat I’d bought as a joke after his last bar fight—and climbed into my car before I could talk myself out of it.

The drive to his place (pack house) took forty minutes of me muttering sarcastic pep talks. 

“Remember the rules, Hart. No touching. And definitely no falling for the single guardian act with the adorable niece. End of story.”

The forest road wound deeper than I expected. Wards brushed over the car like static electricity, recognizing the fake engagement even if I didn’t. 

The house appeared through the trees—solid timber, wide porch, the kind of place that screamed pack and home. Chase stood on the steps like he’d been waiting, arms crossed, wearing that cocky smirk like it was his uniform.

He looked unfairly good in the daylight. Dark hair tousled by the breeze, golden eyes catching the sun, that alpha presence that made my wolf sit up and pay attention. I hated how my stomach tightened.

“You’re late by thirty seconds,” he called as I parked. “I was starting to think you’d backed out for a life of honest journalism.”

I climbed out, hauling the duffel with more force than necessary. 

“And miss six months of watching you trip over your own ego in this ridiculous pack house? Perish the thought, Bennett. Besides, your lawyer’s email said something about ‘proximity.’ If I have to share air with you, at least the forest smells better than my old apartment.”

His scent hit me again—stronger here, covered in wolfsbane and Hollow tea. It made my neck tingle where the temporary claiming mark would go. I ignored it, ignored the way his fingers brushed mine when he took the bag despite my glare. Electricity. Traitor skin.

“Ground rules refresh,” I said, following him inside like I wasn’t walking into the wolf’s den. Literally. “No touching. No personal questions. No sleeping together.”

He dropped the bag and turned with a lethal smile that probably melted panties across states. 

“I wouldn't dream of breaking them, Hart. I don’t see us working out.”

I opened my mouth for a witty comeback—but tiny footsteps thundered down the stairs.

“Luna!”

A seven-year-old missile with dark tangled hair and eyes already flickering gold launched at me. Sophie. She smelled like warm milk and pure dominant spark. My arms caught her automatically, and something in my chest cracked open. Her wolf brushed against mine—latent or not, it recognized pack hood—and for the first time in years, my suppressed beast didn’t feel buried. She felt seen.

I knelt, hugging her back before I could stop myself. “Hey, kiddo. Heard you like pancakes.”

Sophie pulled back, grinning with tiny fangs. “Uncle Chase says you’re staying. That we’re a family now. Even if it’s pretend. But wolves don’t pretend good.”

Over her head, Chase watched us. His smug face had softened into something raw. I watched him with so much disbelief, meanwhile he looked utterly proud about blabbing nonsense to a seven year old. 

Is this guy really an Alpha?