Page 54 of Pack Plus One

Simple. Direct. No demands, no questions, just... presence.

I stare at the text for a long moment, my thumb hovering over the reply button. Before I can decide what to do, the bell above the door chimes.

My head snaps up, “Sorry, we’re not open for business ye—”, only to have my lungs forget how to work.

Mason stands in the doorway, backlit by morning sun like some kind of damn romance novel cover. His black t-shirt stretches across shoulders that somehow got broader in the time since I last saw him. The scent of sandalwood and crisp autumn air hits me, making my thighs press together behind the counter.

“Morning.” His voice is rougher than I remember, sleep-rough and delicious.

I choke on air. “What are you?—”

He sets a small paper bag on the counter with those precise, elegant fingers that had mapped every inch of me Sunday night. My mouth floods with saliva— and not just from the buttery, almond-scented steam rising from the bag.

“Marzipan croissants,” he says, watching my reaction with those dark, knowing eyes. “They say they’re good, though I’m sure the ones you make definitely put these to shame.”

My pulse thunders in my ears.

“I...” My voice comes out embarrassingly breathy. “You didn’t have to?—”

“I know.” He leans in just enough that his scent wraps around me, that clean-laundry-and-danger aroma making my needy omega self whimper.

The possessive edge in his voice sends a shockwave straight to my core. My fingers tremble as I reach for the bag, brushing against his. The contact lasts less than a second but burns like a brand.

When I look up, his gaze drops to my mouth. Lingers.

The air between us crackles.

What is he doing here?!

“I...” Words fail me. “Thank you.”

He nods once, then, to my surprise, he turns to leave.

Immediate disappointment, from somewhere deep inside me, springs up like a fountain.

“Wait!” The word escapes me before I can think better of it.

Mason pauses, looking back over his shoulder.

“How did you know I’d be here?”

A hint of a smile touches his lips. “We may have looked up your bakery’s website. You mentioned the grand opening is soon. It made sense you’d be here, preparing.”

“Oh.” I’m not sure if I should be flattered or alarmed by their thoroughness.

“For what it’s worth,” Mason adds, his hand on the door, “we understand your need for space. We’re not trying to pressure you. We just... care.”

With that, he’s gone, leaving me staring after him with the coffee growing cold in my hands.

They care.

The simple statement echoes in my mind as I sip the perfectly made latte. It’s not the grand declarations of love or possessiveness I might have expected from a pack. It’s quieter, more thoughtful.

And more dangerous.

That evening, when I get home, the building manager intercepts me in the lobby, his expression a mix of confusion and amusement. His stocky frame blocks my path to the elevator, his perpetually wrinkled uniform shirt suggesting he’s had a long day managing the building’s endless maintenance requests.

“Ms. Carter, there’s been a... delivery for you. I put it in your apartment. Didn’t think you’d want it sitting in the hallway.”