Page 89 of Pack Plus One

This time, I have a pack.

19

MASON

The first hint of dawn wakes me, and my eyes flutter open. The room smells of sex, sweat, and satisfaction—all our scents tangled with Leah’s vanilla and cinnamon in a heady aroma that makes my head swim even hours after her heat has broken.

I’m always the first to wake. It’s a habit I’ve never been able to break—my body’s internal clock chiming at precisely 5:37 AM regardless of how late we’ve stayed up or how exhausting the night has been. And the last three nights were... something unprecedented.

I blink sleep from my eyes, careful not to disturb the tangle of limbs surrounding me. Despite having designed the nest room with a custom-sized bed, we’re all piled together in the center, drawn to each other’s warmth like magnets.

I take silent inventory:

Jude is face-down in a pile of his ridiculous throw pillows, one arm draped over the edge of the nest, fingers still curled around a bottle of water we’d pressed on him sometime around 3 AM. His usual manic energy is subdued in sleep, his facepeaceful except for the small puddle of drool collecting on the taco-shaped pillow beneath his cheek.

Caleb is curled around Leah’s back, his hair mussed, his expression soft. His arm is locked around her waist, fingers splayed possessively across her stomach as if even in sleep, he’s afraid she might disappear. The marks along his shoulders where she’d dug her nails in are still visible, red crescents against his tanned skin.

Liam has somehow migrated to the foot of the bed, one hand resting lightly on Leah’s ankle.

And Leah...

Leah is awake.

I see the exact moment consciousness fully claims her. Her breathing changes first—the deep, even rhythm of sleep giving way to something quicker, more shallow. Her eyes flutter open, unfocused for a heartbeat before sharpening with sudden clarity. Her fingers twitch against the sheets, and her scent spikes with an emotion I can’t quite place. Confusion? Panic?… Regret?

Whatever it is, I recognize the intention that follows. Her muscles tense subtly, her gaze darting toward the door, calculating. She’s planning her escape.

I could pretend to still be asleep. Let her slip away without confrontation, without the awkwardness that will inevitably follow all we did in the last three days. It would be easier for everyone.

But I don’t.

Instead, I shift deliberately, the sheets rustling as I prop myself up on one elbow. Her head snaps toward me, eyes wide in the dim light, caught in the act before it’s even begun.

For a long moment, we just look at each other.

“Hi,” I whisper, careful not to wake the others.

She swallows, her throat working. “Hi.” Her voice is raw, scratchy from three days of demanding, pleading, crying out.

Another moment of silence stretches between us, less awkward than I expected but weighted with all the things neither of us seems to know how to say.

Finally, I nod toward the door. “Tea?”

Relief flickers across her features, so brief I almost miss it. She nods, then glances down at Caleb’s arm still locked around her waist, a small furrow appearing between her brows.

“Here,” I murmur, reaching over to gently lift his arm. It’s a testament to his exhaustion that he doesn’t immediately wake—typically, the slightest movement has him alert and ready for action. Instead, he merely grumbles something unintelligible and rolls onto his back, one arm flung dramatically across his face.

Leah slides out from under the covers with the careful movements of someone trying not to wake a sleeping bear. She pauses at the edge of the nest, obviously very aware of her nakedness, her scent flickering with embarrassment.

I avert my eyes, giving her privacy despite the fact I had her spread and panting beneath me just hours ago. “There’s a robe on the hook behind the door,” I say quietly. “And clean clothes in the dresser. Second drawer.”

She doesn’t thank me, but I hear the soft rustle of fabric as she retrieves the robe. When I look up again, she’s wrapped in dark blue silk, the material swallowing her small frame. It’s mine, I realize—purchased on a whim because it reminded me of the night sky. The same night sky I’ve stared at countless times while thinking of her. The irony isn’t lost on me.

I slip out of the nest, pulling on a pair of sweatpants before padding toward the door. Even though I’m dying to, I don’t look back to see if she follows. Instead, I listen and hear her soft footsteps behind me as we make our way down the hall.

The kitchen is quiet when we enter, the only sounds the soft hum of the refrigerator and the distant chirping of early morningbirds outside. Sunlight slants through the windows, painting golden rectangles on the hardwood floor. It’s peaceful in a way that feels almost surreal after the intensity of the past seventy-two hours.

I move on autopilot—filling the kettle, measuring out tea leaves, setting two mugs on the counter. Earl Grey for her, green tea for me. The familiar ritual soothes my nerves, gives my hands something to do besides reach for her.