Page 80 of Pack Plus One

My spine stiffens. That voice—smooth, condescending, and achingly familiar.

No. No, no, no?—

I turn slowly.

Eric stands there, his trademark smirk firmly in place, flanked by two alphas I recognize from the wedding. His new pack, hovering behind him like designer-clad hyenas.

“I thought that was you,” he says, his gaze sliding over my disheveled appearance with undisguised amusement. “Though it was hard to tell under all those layers.”

My mouth goes dry. Of all the cafés in all the city, he had to walk intothisone. At nine in the morning. During my pre-heat.

The universe has a sick sense of humor.

“Eric,” I manage, aiming for cool detachment and landing somewhere around “strangled frog.” “What a surprise.”

His nostrils flare. His smirk widens. “You’re... not well?”

He knows. Of course, he knows. He may be a jerk, but he’s not stupid.

“I’m fine,” I repeat, gripping the counter for support. “Just getting breakfast.”

“Alone?” he asks, with exaggerated concern. “Where’s your... pack?”

The way he says it, with that slight pause, makes it clear exactly what he thinks of my relationship status.

One of his alpha lackeys—Brad or Chad or something equally punchable—snickers.

“So you’re packless again,” Eric continues, loud enough for the few early customers to hear. “Shocking.”

The barista returns with a bag of muffins, her expression darkening as she takes in the situation. “Here you go,” she says pointedly. “Anything else?”

I shake my head, unable to form words past the lump in my throat. I grab the bag, prepared to make a dignified exit—or at least an exit that doesn’t involve crying or committing homicide.

Eric steps closer, blocking my path. “You know,” he says, nostrils flaring even as his voice drops to a dark whisper, “if you’re struggling, I could recommend a good omega center. They’re very... clinical about these things.”

My cheeks burn with humiliation. The bag crumples in my grip.

A chair screeches behind me.

The café‘s atmospherecracks—shatters—under the weight of a scent so aggressivelyalphathat several people gasp.

Dark chocolate. Espresso. Fury.

Caleb’s growl vibrates through the air before I even see him. It’s a sound that raises the hair on the back of my neck and sends a treacherous pulse of heat through my core—primal, possessive,lethal.

“Step away from her,” he says, voice deceptively calm. “Now.”

Eric’s eyes widen. His packmates shift uneasily.

I turn slowly to find Caleb standing just feet away, his eyes burning with barely contained rage. He’s wearing the same clothes I spotted on him through the window yesterday, his hair disheveled, jaw dark with stubble. He looks like he hasn’t slept in days.

He came looking for me.

Not by accident. Not casually.

He tracked me here.

And he looksfurious—not at me, butforme.