CHAPTER SEVENTY
Heat shimmers off the pavement as I weave through the bustling pack members, all hands on deck for the upcoming summer feast. The savory scent of roasting meat teases my senses, a stark contrast to the sour tang of anxiety churning in my stomach. I keep my head down, avoiding the piercing gaze of anyone who might read the turmoil in my eyes.
"Hey, Bella! Grab that crate of corn, will ya?" calls out Marcy, her tone laced with the authority of someone who has taken it upon herself to orchestrate this culinary symphony.
"Sure," I reply, voice barely above a whisper, muscles tensing as I hoist the wooden crate. It's not the weight that worries me; it's the delicate balance I'm trying to maintain. Every avoidance is a calculated move – a dance I perform around Dean and Alec,
