Page 79 of Pack Plus One

It cocks its head as if to say,Sure you have, crazy lady.

I flip it off because yes, I’m now the kind of person who argues with urban wildlife. Pre-heat is a hell of a drug.

The alley is mercifully empty. I stick to the shadows, scanning for any sign of the pack. Just because I can’t see them doesn’t mean they’re not there. Alphas are sneaky like that.

So far, so good.

I make it all the way around the building before realizing I’ve forgotten my wallet.

“Seriously?” I hiss to no one in particular. A businessman walking his dog gives me a wide berth.

I pat my pockets, hoping for a miracle, and discover two crumpled twenties stuffed in my hoodie. Divine intervention, or evidence that I desperately need to do laundry? Either way, I’ll take it.

The corner store’s fluorescent lights make my eyes throb even behind the sunglasses. I grab a basket and fill it with the bare essentials:

Electrolyte drinks (the neon kind that tastes like sweetened jet fuel)

Instant noodles (because cooking during heat is a fantasy)

A family-sized bag of chocolate (the cheap kind that tastes better than the expensive stuff when hormones are involved)

Another bottle of scent neutralizer (the industrial strength version labeled “MAXIMUM COVERAGE” in alarming red letters)

The cashier—a bored beta with a nose ring and the dead-eyed stare of someone who’s seen it all—blinks slowly at my haul.

“You good, miss?”

“Peachy,” I rasp, which comes out sounding like I’ve been gargling gravel.

He nods slowly, scanning the chocolate twice. “That’ll be eighteen fifty.”

I slap down my twenty, grab the bag, and mumble something that might be “keep the change” but probably sounds more like “mmrph.”

Outside, the world is too bright, too loud, tooeverything. A car horn makes me jump. The brush of fabric against my skin feels like sandpaper. A waft of alpha scent from a passing jogger sends a treacherous pulse of heat through my core.

Focus, Leah. Get the muffins. Get home. Die of embarrassment in private.

The café is just opening when I arrive, the barista flipping the sign from “Closed” to “Open” as I approach. She’s a perky beta with pink hair and a smile that’s far too cheerful for this hour.

“Good morning!” she chirps. “What can I get for—” Her nostrils flare. Her smile falters. “Oh.Oh.”

Shit.

The scent blocker is already failing. Stupid omega biology.

“Six blueberry muffins,” I blurt, slapping my remaining cash on the counter. “To go.Please.”

She glances at the door, then back at me, her expression shifting to something like concern. “They’re just coming out of the oven. Are you... Do you need to sit down? You look a little...”

“I’m fine,” I insist, though my hands are trembling and I can feel sweat beading at my hairline despite the air conditioning. “Just the muffins.”

She hesitates, then nods, moving toward the kitchen. “Five minutes.”

Five minutes. I can do this. I lean against the counter, trying to look casual and not like I’m about to spontaneously combust.

The bell above the door chimes. I don’t look up, focusing on counting tiles on the floor to distract myself from the growing ache in my lower abdomen.

“Leah?”