Page 101 of Pack Plus One

The words had gutted me and I still hear them when someone looks at me too closely, cares too much, tries too hard. Like now. With them. The Le Roux pack with their handsome perfection and caring touches.

“I can find my way,” I say, voice surprisingly steady. “It’s only been two days, but I’ve got the floor plan pretty well memorized.”

Caleb looks like he might argue, but Liam places a hand on his arm. “Let her go, Cale. She needs space.”

Thank God for Liam’s perceptiveness. Of all of them, he seems to understand a little. But the full extent of it…I don’t think he has a clue. That what terrifies me isn’t their lack of interest, but the possibility that their interest is temporary—that once they really see me, really understand how I struggle with the traditional omega role, they’ll pull away like everyone else has.

“Good night,” I say to all of them, offering a smile that feels vulnerable rather than brittle. “Thank you for dinner.”

I retreat upstairs, the weight of their gazes following me, making my shoulders tense with the unspoken expectations I can’t quite decipher.

Caleb’s bedroom, my temporary sanctuary, is neat and orderly, everything in its place. I consider changing into the pajamas I’ve been using (his t-shirt, because apparently I’m a masochist), but the thought of being wrapped in his scent right now makes something twist uncertainly in my chest.

Instead, I pull on the borrowed sweater Liam gave me yesterday when I complained about being cold—a soft, purple cashmere that probably cost more than my monthly rent—and curl up on the window seat, staring out at the street below.

What am I doing here? What do they want from me? What do I want from them?

The questions circle in my mind, each one tangled in my complicated history with relationships, with my independence, with my deep-seated fear of being seen as weak or needy.

I must doze off there, because I wake with a start sometime in the darkest part of the night, my neck stiff from the awkward position, my throat dry. The digital clock on the nightstand reads 3:17 AM.

Water, I decide. And maybe a chance to clear my head without four intensely attentive males watching my every move.

I slip out of the bedroom quietly, not wanting to wake anyone. The hallway is dark, but a faint glow comes from downstairs—someone has left a light on in the kitchen or living room. I move carefully down the stairs, avoiding the spots I know will creak.

As I reach the bottom, I hear voices. Low, masculine murmurs. I should ignore them, should get my water and return to bed. It’s none of my business what the pack discusses in the middle of the night.

But then I hear my name, and all noble intentions evaporate.

I creep closer to the partially open door, my heart pounding in my ears.

“We need to talk about Leah,” Mason says, his voice carrying a serious tone.

“What about her?” Caleb asks.

“Her heat’s over. She’s recovering well. Soon she’ll want to go back to her life,” Mason points out. “Her bakery. Her apartment.”

My chest tightens at the simple truth of it. I do have a life waiting for me. Responsibilities. Dreams that have nothing to do with these four males or their pack.

“She can run her bakery and still be with us,” Caleb argues. “Those things aren’t mutually exclusive.”

“Aren’t they?” Liam sounds thoughtful. “Traditional pack dynamics typically involve the omega centered in the home. Especially with multiple alphas. The protective instincts alone...”

“We can’t keep pretending this is just about her heat,” Jude interjects. “We all know what happened in that nest was more than just biological convenience.”

My heart gives a massive thump. What is he saying?

“We protect what’s ours,” Caleb says with that alpha certainty that simultaneously irritates and thrills me. “Whether she’s at the bakery or here.”

“But is she ours?” Mason challenges softly. “Really?”

The question hangs in the air, and I find myself holding my breath.

“She’s independent,” Liam says finally. “Self-sufficient. Used to handling everything on her own.”

The words aren’t a criticism, just a statement of fact. But they hit me like a punch in the gut nonetheless.

“You think she wants us hovering because we feel obligated after her heat?” Jude asks. “She’d hate that. She’s made it clear she doesn’t want to be anyone’s responsibility.”