Page 91 of Pack Plus One

She sets her mug down, fingers drumming lightly against the countertop in a rhythm that seems more unintentional than deliberate. When she shifts her weight, a wince flashes across her features, and I can smell the sudden spike of discomfort in her scent. My jaw tightens with the need to ease her pain.

“So... if this place is so sacred, why did you hire an omega to attend the wedding with you?” she asks, her voice wavering slightly. “I mean, if she had shown up instead of me, would she be sitting here now?”

The question comes out slightly disjointed, as if she’s piecing her thoughts together through fog. But the sharp curiosity in her eyes tells me her mind is working its way back to clarity, however slowly.

“That was... different.” I shift closer when she sways again, my arm reaching to brace her before I force myself to pull back. She doesn’t need to be crowded right now.

“How so?” She rubs at her temple and my fingers itch to replace hers, to massage away the tension I can see building there.

I sigh, setting my mug down. I can hardly focus on anything else except the fact I need to take her back to the nest. “The omega we hired was strictly professional. A plus-one service—not an escort,” I clarify quickly. “Just someone to attend as a buffer while we mingled.”

“And if she’d shown up instead of me?” Her words slur together slightly, her energy visibly flagging. She leans to oneside, and this time I do reach out, my palm pressing gently against her back to keep her upright.

“She would have been paid, thanked, and sent home in a car service,” I say firmly, not removing my hand even after she’s steady. The warmth of her seeps through the thin silk of the robe. “This place, our den... we don’t bring casual acquaintances here.”

“But you brought me,” she points out, swaying slightly despite my steadying hand. Her head drops forward briefly before she jerks it back up, fighting against exhaustion.

“You aren’t casual,” I say before I can stop myself, my thumb unconsciously tracing a small circle against her spine. “Even that first night, at the pre-wedding party, there was something... different. About you.”

Her cheeks flush slightly, the color standing out against the paleness that comes with heat exhaustion. But she holds my gaze, though her eyes keep drifting slightly out of focus. “So I’m special because you all want to sleep with me?”

Fuck.

“No,” I correct gently, my hand still at her back, unwilling to break the contact now that I’ve allowed myself to touch her. “You’re special, and we all want to sleep with you. The order of those facts matters.”

The look Leah’s giving me tells me she clearly does not believe a word I’m saying but won’t argue with me about it. She blinks slowly, her eyelids looking heavy. Her head begins to droop again.

I notice the mug tilting dangerously in her grasp and reach out with my free hand to steady it before it can spill. “Maybe we should get you back to the nest. You’re still recovering.” My voice comes out a bit too rough, concern threading through each word.

“I’m fine,” she insists, but her body betrays her as she shivers violently, teeth chattering for a moment. I feel the tremors through my palm still pressed against her back.

Post-heat chills. I’ve seen them before, but never this intense. The need to warm her, to wrap her in my arms and chase away the cold with my body heat, is almost overwhelming.

I don’t comment, just reluctantly drop my hand from her back and set down my tea before walking to the hall closet. I pull out my soft gray cashmere sweater that I wear when I’m going over the books late into the night. It’s worn at the elbows, frayed from years of use, but it’s warm and it smells like me—a fact I’m acutely aware of as I hold it out to her.

She stares at it like I’ve offered her a live snake. “What?”

“Put it on,” I say, forcing my voice to gentle.

She hesitates, her fingers twitching. “I’m fine.”

“You’re shivering.” I step closer, still holding out the sweater, close enough to feel the chill emanating from her despite the lingering heat-fever.

“It’s not that cold.” But her body betrays her again with another violent shiver that nearly topples her from the stool. I move instantly, one hand catching her waist to steady her. Our faces are suddenly inches apart, and for a moment, I forget to breathe.

I don’t move, just stand there with the sweater dangling from my fingers, my other hand still at her waist, until she finally snatches the garment with an exaggerated eye-roll that doesn’t quite mask her discomfort.

“Fine. But only because this robe is basically fancy tissue paper.”

The moment she pulls it over her head, I know I’ve made a mistake.

It swallows her whole, the sleeves falling past her fingertips, the hem reaching mid-thigh. She looks so small in it. Soft.Vulnerable in a way that has nothing to do with heat hormones or biological imperative. She pushes the sleeves up to her elbows, revealing the delicate bones of her wrists, and something protective stirs in my chest.

Mine.

The thought is so visceral, so unexpected that I nearly drop my mug. I’ve never been the possessive one—that’s Caleb’s domain, with his growls and territorial marking. I’m the rational one, the planner, the one who keeps the peace and maintains balance.

But seeing her in my sweater, surrounded by my scent, looking like she belongs in our kitchen...