Pack Rivals Part One

PACK RIVALS PART ONE AN OMEGAVERSE ROMANCE HANNAH HAZE Copyright © 2023 by Hannah Haze All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. Front covered designed by EVE Graphic Design LLC Edited by Buckley's Books Created with Vellum FOREWORD Sometimes the idea for a story drops out of nowhere. Two packs? Fighting over the same girl? I had to write this! After all, double the number of men means quadruple the fun. Enjoy! If you do spot any typos in this book, please drop me a line so I can make it right: [email protected] (Or just drop me an email anyway. I love to chat!). You can find a guide to my omegaverse at the end of this book. If you’re new to omegaverse, you may want to take a look. This book is a sweeter 'why choose' (reverse harem) omegaverse with one female omega character and two packs of alpha males. The characters will not find their happy ending until Part Two. There is a long standing rivalry between the two packs in this book which causes tensions and poor decisions. The female main character has been in an emotionally abusive relationship in the past. For more detailed content warnings, please visit my website. 1 Bea My eyes flick from the empty road and back down to the tank meter. The needle hovers dangerously close to the red zone. How long until I run out of gas completely and this getaway grinds to a pathetic halt? I must be riding on actual fumes at this point, but there hasn't been a gas station on this lonely road for miles. Lie. There was one sixty miles back, but I recognized old Mr. Whiterman's car lined up outside the pumps and I didn't want anyone spotting me as I made my escape. I switch off the radio, hoping that will somehow make the gas last longer. The only radio station I could pick up was pumping out back-to-back love songs anyway, each one making me feel progressively sicker. If I listen to one more man wail about how much he loves the woman in his life, how devoted he is to her, how he'd give his life for her, I'll probably drive my car straight off the road and into the nearest ditch. I've already cut the air con, resorting to opening all the windows down low and letting the warm breeze waft through the car. It's not working. I'm hot. I drum my fingernails on the steering wheel and try to concentrate on the road ahead. I'm not going to think about love and heartbreak and everything I'm escaping. But even my nails are freaking distracting. Still displaying the beautiful pearly manicure I'd chosen for the wedding. I should have ripped these stupid nails off my fingers and dumped them in the nearest rubbish dumpster along with the dress, veil and ring. Ahh, shit. I really loved that dress. I really loved that stupid man too. But I'm not – I AM NOT – thinking about that right now. Nor all the money that damn dress cost me. Plus the wedding too. Scrimping and saving for the last two years. Yeah, that should have been my first clue. It was me doing all the scrimping; my ex, he didn't even do any saving. No. I'm not thinking about it. Eyes on the road. Keep driving. I'm leaving all that behind. New city. New start. New life. Fingers crossed, new me too. My gaze flicks back to the gas dial. The needle is well and truly submerged in the red zone now. I should have just risked old Mr. Whiterman. I should have packed a spare can of gas in the trunk. Should have. Should have. There's been too many of those lately. What am I going to do if I don't find a gas station and my car breaks down? Who would I call? I don't even have AAA anymore. Just frigging brilliant. Bea Carsen, they'll say back home, even her getaway stalled. 'Did you hear she tried to run away?' they'll whisper. 'But she fucked up and had to come home. Didn't even make it 12 hours.' That's the problem with small towns like mine. Everybody knows everybody, and everybody knows everybody else's business. Which is fine and dandy until your life falls spectacularly apart, and you are the number one source of entertainment for the couple of hundred people that live in your town. Yep, I'd rather starve to death at the side of the road than head back. Luckily – so luckily, I lean forward and kiss Missy's steering wheel – we glide around the next bend in the road and I spy the glint of a gas station in the distance. "Come on Missy, old girl," I tell her, stroking her dashboard. "You can do this. Just that little bit further. Don't let me down." She doesn't. Practically the only one in my life who hasn't. It's why I love her. Why I'd never trade her in. Even if she guzzles more gas than she should and only tunes in that one stupid radio station. No other cars sit parked up by the pumps as I pull into the station. Good, no Mr. Whitermans here. I cut the engine, climb out of the car and slide my sunglasses down onto my nose. It's midday. I've been driving since breakfast time and now the sun shines high in the sky, its rays dazzling. Unscrewing the cap from Missy's behind, I unhook the pump from its stand and line her up. The station looks as if it were built before motor cars were actually invented. One of those rickety old places where you're still required to go inside and pay for your