Page 2 of Pack Plus One (Sweetwater City Reverse Harem Omegaverse #1)

LEAH

I wake up to my phone buzzing so insistently that it vibrates itself right off my nightstand.

“What the—” I fumble for it on the floor, squinting at the screen.

Forty-two unread notifications. All from PackPlus.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I mutter, sitting up and running a hand through my bedhead. I tap on the first notification with a growing sense of dread.

Alpha (38) - I’ll be your pack. Just me. And my roommates (they don’t know yet).

I blink. Hard. Then scroll to the next one.

Beta Pair (31) - We’re twins! People will think we’re TWICE as pack-like!

There’s an attached photo of two men in matching wolf-print pajamas. The image is so blurry it could be used as evidence in a Bigfoot documentary.

Another message pops up as I’m scrolling.

Omega (26) - I’ll pretend to be your pack’s OTHER omega. We can fake-bond over hating your ex!

By the time I’ve skimmed through twenty messages (each more concerning than the last), my phone rings. Zoe’s face fills the screen, and I accept the video call with a groan.

“Morning, sunshine,” she chirps, sipping from a massive coffee mug. “Sleep well?”

“I think I accidentally posted on a fetish site,” I say by way of greeting. “I’ve got alphas offering to ‘put me in my place’ and show my ex who I ‘really belong to.’”

Zoe nearly spits out her coffee. “Oh my god, let me see!”

I screen share to show her my screen full of messages. Her laughter fills my bedroom.

“This is why premium packs cost four thousand dollars,” she says between giggles. “You’re getting the Craigslist special.”

“I’d still take the cactus,” I mutter, flopping back onto my pillows. “I never should have posted that stupid ad.”

“Oh, come on, there has to be someone normal in there.”

“Define normal. There’s a ‘pack’ of three college freshmen offering to be my ‘alpha studs’ for the price of an open bar.”

Zoe’s eyes widen. “Are they cute?”

“They’re CHILDREN.”

“Right, right. Bad idea.” She takes another sip of coffee. “But seriously, just keep looking. The wedding’s still two weeks away.”

I shake my head. “No way. This was a terrible idea. I’m deleting the ad and going with plan ‘show up alone, smile through the pain, and leave early.’”

“Boring,” Zoe singsongs. “But I respect it.”

“I gotta go,” I say, glancing at the time. “The bakery supplier’s coming at nine, and I still need to finalize the menu.”

“Still planning to name it ‘Sweet Omega’?” Zoe asks with a smirk.

“You know it.” I grin despite my morning disaster. “What better way to annoy Eric than to become a successful business owner with that name?”

“I love your petty heart.”

“Thanks. It’s one of my best qualities.”

Three hours later, I’m standing in my soon-to-be bakery, facing off with a supplier who looks like he stepped out of a 1950s alpha handbook.

“Omegas don’t like espresso-infused desserts,” he insists, crossing his arms over his chest. “Too bitter. You need more vanilla, more caramel. Sweet things for sweet omegas.”

I take a deep breath, reminding myself that I need his wholesale pricing more than I need to educate him on omega stereotypes.

“This one does,” I say, tapping the order form. “And since I’m the omega opening a bakery specifically marketed to other omegas, I think I might have some insight.”

He looks unconvinced. “Without pack backing, you’ll need to play it safe. Traditional sells.”

The comment stings more than it should after my morning of rejection.

“Just fill the order as written,” I say, my voice tight. “The espresso grounds, the cardamom, and the baking chocolate. If my business fails because omegas can’t handle complex flavors, I’ll take full responsibility.”

He shrugs and takes the form, but not before mumbling something that sounds suspiciously like “your funeral.”

As he leaves, a delivery truck pulls up outside. The driver unloads a large tube and brings it inside.

“Banners for Sweet Omega Bakery,” he announces, handing me a clipboard to sign. As I’m signing, I catch him eyeing my neck—specifically, the lack of a bonding mark there.

“It’s brave to open a business without pack backing,” he says, trying to sound supportive but landing somewhere closer to condescending.

I hand back the clipboard with a tight smile. “Thanks.”

Uh. I want to scream.

But I’m dignified.

Dignified. And I can do this.

I can do this.

I can fucking do this!

Once he’s gone, I unroll the banner across the counter. The logo, a stylized cupcake with omega symbols as sprinkles, stares back at me. I’d designed it myself, a bold statement that omegas can create their own success, even in Sweetwater City.

“Newsflash,” I mutter to the empty bakery, “omegas can run businesses and have a pack. Or neither. Or both. Why is this a controversial take?”

My phone buzzes again. Another PackPlus notification.

Fuck!

Shit. Fuck. Shit. Fuck. Shitfuckshitfuckshitfuck!

Just what I need—another alpha promising the moon while looking down his nose at me. Or worse, pitying the poor, packless omega trying to make it on her own.

“I’m not doing this anymore,” I tell Zoe almost two weeks later as we sit in a coffee shop far across town from the latest PackPlus disaster. “That was my third and final attempt.”

“The vest guy couldn’t have been that bad,” Zoe says, though her expression suggests she knows better.

“He showed up in a leather vest with no shirt, Zo. No shirt ! In a coffee shop! And then he grabbed my wrist and tried to ‘test our compatibility’ by scenting me right there between the cream and sugar station.”

Zoe winces. “Okay, that’s bad.”

“And yesterday’s beta kept calling me ‘darling omega’ and tried to feed me a strawberry. ‘For the aesthetic,’ he said.” I make air quotes, rolling my eyes. “And don’t even get me started on today’s pack.”

“The growlers?”

“They literally growled at the waiter for ‘looking at their omega wrong.’ I had to excuse myself to ‘check on my cactus’ just to escape.”

Zoe laughs so hard she snorts coffee through her nose. “You don’t have a cactus!”

“They don’t know that!”

When her laughter subsides, Zoe reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. “You’re gonna die alone.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“I’m kidding.” She sobers slightly. “Look, just go alone. Hold your head high, steal some fancy appetizers, and leave. Who cares what Eric thinks?”

“ I do,” I admit. And I hate the truth of it. “Not because I want him back or anything, but because I hate that he was right. Two years later, and I’m still packless. Still the omega who doesn’t ‘inspire’ protective instincts.”

“That’s not because of you,” Zoe says fiercely. “That’s because most alphas are entitled jerks who think omegas should be grateful for their attention. You’re just selective.”

“Tell that to the forty-seven weirdos who responded to my ad,” I mutter.

“Did you check all forty-seven?”

“I checked enough.” I sigh, staring into my coffee. “The wedding’s in two days. I think it’s time to admit defeat.”

“So what’s the game plan?”

“Show up in my killer black dress?—”

“The one that gives you legs for days?”

“That’s the one. Smile when Eric inevitably gloats. Drop a casual ‘Sorry, can’t stay for the wedding—bakery emergency’ and get the hell out of there before the actual ceremony.”

Zoe nods approvingly. “Minimal damage, maximum dignity. I like it.”

“It’s the best I can do,” I say, trying to convince myself as much as her. “At least I won’t have to endure the bouquet toss. No way I’m catching that curse.”

Two days later, I’m standing outside the venue, gripping my clutch like a weapon. The pre-wedding cocktail party is already in full swing, the sounds of laughter and clinking glasses drifting through the open French doors.

I smooth down my black dress—simple, elegant, short enough to be interesting but not desperate—and adjust my pearl necklace. My hair, recently cut into a sleek bob, feels strange against my neck, but the stylist assured me it was “fierce,” which is exactly the energy I need tonight.

“One hour. Smile. Escape,” I whisper to myself as I climb the steps to the entrance.

The venue is obscenely lavish, dripping with crystal chandeliers and white roses.

Eric’s fiancée comes from money—old money, judging by the guest list. Everyone is paired up, packs mingling with an ease I’ve never experienced.

Immediately, I feel like someone’s pinned a “Single Omega” sign to my back.

I grab a champagne flute from a passing waiter and take a fortifying sip, scanning the room for familiar faces. There are a few. Distant friends from college, mostly. But no one I’m close enough with to use as a buffer.

And then I see him. Eric. Looking infuriatingly handsome in a tailored suit, his blond hair perfectly styled. He’s surrounded by his pack members—old friends I used to know—and they’re all laughing at something he’s said.

He spots me before I can look away, and the smirk that spreads across his face makes my stomach drop. He excuses himself from his group and makes his way toward me.

Shit shit shit. But there’s nothing to duck behind. Plus, he’s already seen me.

“Leah,” he says, his voice exactly as I remember it. His gaze scans the big space of no one behind me. “You came alone? Some things never change.”

I open my mouth to deliver a cutting response—I’ve rehearsed several—but before I can speak, a deep voice cuts through the air from behind me.

“There you are, doll. We’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

I freeze, champagne halfway to my lips. Who the hell?—?

I turn slowly, my confusion morphing into shock as I find myself face to face with four devastatingly attractive strangers—all staring at me.

The one who spoke—tall with chestnut brown hair and eyes so intensely green they can’t possibly be real—steps forward, a possessive hand settling at the small of my back.

Beside him, a strawberry blond with a lazy, dangerous smile winks at me. “Found her, Cale. Told you she’d be fashionably late.”

The third alpha—golden-haired and broad-shouldered with a gentler expression—offers me a slight nod. “You look beautiful.”

And slightly behind them, a fourth man—shorter, with jet-black hair and watchful eyes—studies me with undisguised curiosity.

“I—” I stammer, but the green-eyed one—Cale?—cuts me off with a subtle squeeze to my waist.

“Sorry we didn’t wait for you at the entrance,” he says, his eyes conveying a message I can’t decode. “You know how these venues can be. Easy to get lost.”

There’s an awkward pause as I try to process what’s happening. Are they... here for me? I’ve never seen these men before in my life .

Eric clears his throat, looking between me and the four strangers with narrowed eyes. “I didn’t realize you were... bringing guests, Leah.”

The strawberry blond steps forward, holding out his hand to Eric with a grin that’s all teeth. “Jude Le Roux. And you must be the groom.” His eyes flick to me, then back to Eric. “Pleasure to meet you.”

Le Roux. The name rings a distant bell, but I can’t place it.

Eric shakes his hand, visibly thrown off-balance. “I thought you were packless, Leah. This is...unexpected.”

The green-eyed one, Cale, steps closer to me, a low rumble emanating from his chest that’s just subtle enough not to draw attention but clear enough for Eric to hear. “She’s with us.”

I choke on my champagne.

The golden-haired one steps forward, placing a steadying hand on my shoulder. “Easy there,” he murmurs, and I get a whiff of his scent. Something like old books and rain.

Eric’s expression has gone from smug to confused to wary in the span of seconds. “Well,” he says stiffly, “I should get back to my guests. Nice to meet you all.” He gives me one last look—one I can’t quite interpret—before retreating.

As soon as he’s out of earshot, I spin to face the four strangers, my heart pounding.

“Who are you people?” I hiss.

Cale leans in, his voice barely above a whisper. “You’re late, sweetheart.”

“Late for what?” I whisper back fiercely. “I don’t even know you.”

The black-haired one narrows his eyes slightly, studying my face with growing suspicion.

“Le Roux Pack,” Jude says with a lazy smile, apparently oblivious to my confusion. He gestures to himself, then to his pack. “Jude, Liam, Mason, Caleb. We’ve been waiting by the champagne fountain like we said we would.”

And suddenly I understand what’s happening—they think I’m someone else. Someone they were expecting to meet here. Their hired date, perhaps? But why would four gorgeous men need to hire anyone?

I could correct them. I should correct them. But then I catch sight of Eric watching us from across the room, and for the first time since I arrived, he doesn’t look smug. He looks... threatened.

One hour. Smile. Escape. That was the plan. But maybe...

“I’m sorry about that,” I say, straightening my shoulders. “The traffic was terrible.”

The black-haired one raises an eyebrow almost imperceptibly, but the others seem to accept my explanation without question.

“No problem at all,” Cale says, his hand still warm against my back. “We’re just glad we found you.”