Page 22 of Pack Plus One (Sweetwater City Reverse Harem Omegaverse #1)

He complies, his movements efficient and precise. “We can leave if this is too much,” he offers quietly. “We understand this is... unconventional.”

I snort. “Unconventional is using a bagel as your phone holder. This is—” I wave vaguely at the four of them, “—beyond unconventional.”

“Unprecedented?” he suggests, a hint of amusement in his voice.

Despite myself, I smile. “Something like that.”

Mason pours the wine with the expertise of someone who’s spent time in fine dining establishments. But then again, this is what they do for a living. “For what it’s worth,” he says, his voice low enough that only I can hear, “we didn’t plan for any of this.”

“You mean you didn’t set out to accidentally hire a fake escort, sleep with her, then steal her underwear?”

His lips twitch. “Not specifically, no.”

“Well, at least we’re all improvising,” I mutter, arranging salad onto plates with fingers that annoyingly tremble.

Dinner starts with the salad—and the tension breaks when Jude reaches across the table for the salt, knocking over Liam’s water glass in the process.

“Really?” Liam sighs, quickly lifting his napkin as water drips toward his lap.

“My bad.” Jude grimaces.

Mason moves to help, but his elbow catches the edge of the wine bottle, sending a splash of cabernet across the tablecloth like an abstract painting.

“Shit,” Mason mutters, grabbing for napkins as the red spreads dangerously close to Liam’s light-colored shirt.

Liam shifts back so quickly he nearly topples his chair. “Is this a coordinated attack?” he asks dryly.

Caleb exhales through his nose, his grip tightening on his fork until the metal actually bends .

It’s clear everyone’s tense. I’m not making it any better waiting before delving into why I called them here tonight. Taking a deep breath, I stab a piece of lamb. “So. You sent me a photo of my underwear .”

Jude beams, completely unrepentant. “To be fair, it was a tasteful photo. Excellent lighting. Composition. A real artistic statement about?—”

“Jude,” Mason warns.

“—the fragility of intimate garments in modern society?”

I narrow my eyes. “You were holding them. To your face .”

“That’s where noses are generally located, yes.”

Caleb sets down his fork with deliberate calm. “We’re idiots.”

Finally, something we can all agree on .

“Speak for yourself,” Jude protests. “I’m a genius. This dinner wouldn’t even be happening if I hadn’t accidentally sent that photo.”

“Accidentally,” Liam repeats skeptically.

“Completely accidental,” Jude insists. “A true technological mishap.”

“Like the ‘accidentally’ arranged vegetables?” I ask dryly.

Jude grins. “Those were intentional. And you loved them.”

“I did not?—”

“You kept them,” he points out, gesturing to the wilting arrangement. “That’s omega for ‘I’m secretly charmed.’”

“It is not!”

“Is too. Ask any alpha.” He looks around the table for support. “Back me up here, guys.”

Liam clears his throat. “Actually, data suggests that most omegas prefer more traditional courting gifts, like?—”

“No one asked for a peer-reviewed study, professor,” Jude interrupts.

“I’m just saying?—”

“You’re both missing the point,” Mason interjects calmly. “Which is that we’ve been behaving inappropriately, and Leah deserves an apology.”

“Thank you!” I throw my hands up. “Finally, someone with sense.”

Caleb, who has been unnervingly quiet throughout the meal, finally speaks. “You’re right.” His deep voice sends an involuntary shiver down my spine. “We’ve been acting like teenagers. It’s unbecoming.”

“Speak for yourself,” Jude mutters. “I’ve been acting like a horny twenty-something, at least.”

Before I can respond, the sound of glass shattering fills the room. All of us turn to find Caleb frozen, the stem of his wine glass broken between his fingers, deep red liquid spreading across my white tablecloth like blood.

“Shit,” he mutters, reaching for a napkin.

“Don’t,” I say quickly, grabbing his hand without thinking. “You’re bleeding.”

Sure enough, a thin line of crimson crosses his palm where the glass cut him.

“It’s nothing,” he insists, but I hold firm.

“Kitchen. Now.” I tug him up from the table, ignoring Jude’s whispered “Kinky” behind us.

In the kitchen—which is really just a slightly separated corner of my studio—I rummage for my first aid kit, hyperaware of Caleb’s massive presence behind me. His dark chocolate thickens with the injury, turning richer, more intense. My instincts flare, urging me to soothe, to care for him.

“Sit,” I command, pointing to a stool.

To my surprise, he complies without argument, extending his hand toward me palm up. The cut isn’t deep, but it runs across his lifeline, blood beading along its length.

“What happened?” I press, applying antibiotic ointment with more gentleness than the situation requires.

His jaw works. “This isn’t going how I planned.”

“What, dinner? Or the part where you all stole my underwear?”

The corner of his mouth twitches. “Both. Neither.” His eyes flick up to mine, so green and intense. “I don’t usually lose control like this.”

“Could have fooled me,” I murmur, carefully pressing a bandage over the cut.

“Would it matter?” he asks suddenly. “If I said I was sorry for all of it—the panties, the ambush at your door, this disaster of a dinner?”

Something about the vulnerability in his question makes my heart twist. “Yes,” I admit softly. “It would.”

From the dining area, I hear the others’ voices rising. I look up to see Liam and Jude in what appears to be a heated debate, with Mason attempting to mediate.

“We need a proper approach,” Liam insists, his fingers tracing a gentle pattern on the napkin. “Traditional courtship has meaningful stages for a reason. There’s beauty in doing things properly.”

“Traditional?” Jude scoffs. “That’s your solution to everything. We don’t need old-fashioned rituals, we need grand gestures!”

Mason pinches the bridge of his nose. “Neither of you is helping.”

I return to the table with Caleb following a step behind, his bandaged hand lingering at the small of my back in that way that sends warmth spreading through me.

“What’s going on?” I ask, though I’m afraid I already know.

“We’re discussing strategy,” Jude announces.

“For?” I raise an eyebrow.

“Winning you over, obviously.” He grins. “I vote for more vegetable sculptures. Liam wants to implement formal courtship with flowers, handwritten letters, and proper chaperoned dates.”

Liam’s ears go red. “It’s about showing respect?—”

“You literally just drew out the stages of traditional courtship,” Jude points at the napkin.

“Because there’s meaning in those traditions!” Liam defends, his voice passionate but gentle.

Mason sighs. “I suggested we simply ask Leah what she wants, but apparently that’s too revolutionary.”

“I don’t need asking,” Caleb growls from behind me. “She needs space. We’re crowding her.”

“Says the alpha who kissed her goodbye after promising to back off,” Jude counters.

“That was different,” Caleb snaps.

“How?” Liam demands.

“Because she wanted it,” Caleb insists, his scent spiking with something that smells like conviction.

“Did she, though?” Mason questions softly.

“Of course she did,” Jude jumps in. “She’s wanted all of us from day one. We just need to?—”

“I’m right here!” I interrupt, my voice rising with frustration. “Stop talking about me like I’m not in the room!”

Four sets of eyes turn to me.

“We should be giving her space,” Caleb insists, addressing his packmates but hovering protectively near me. “We’re a lot to handle.”

“Space doesn’t solve anything,” Jude argues. “Right, Leah? We need to be present, to show you?—”

“There’s value in taking things slowly,” Liam interjects, his voice soft but firm. “Courtship is about honor and intention. It’s how we show we’re serious.”

“What we need,” Mason cuts in, “is to respect her autonomy while still making our intentions clear.”

Their voices overlap, their scents intensifying with emotion—dark chocolate, citrus, rain-soaked pages, and sandalwood all swirling around me in a dizzying cacophony. The room seems to shrink, their bodies suddenly too close, too overwhelming.

Jude reaches for my hand. “Leah, tell them I’m right?—”

Liam stands, gesturing to his napkin sketch. “If you’ll allow us to court you properly?—”

“Everyone needs to calm down,” Mason orders, his usually low voice raised.

Caleb’s growl vibrates through the air. “Back off, all of you!”

My pulse pounds in my ears. Their scents are everywhere, their voices too loud, their attention too intense. It’s all too much—four different men, four different approaches, all focused on me with an intensity that makes it hard to breathe.

I slam my hands on the table, jostling glasses and plates. “That’s it! This is exactly why I didn’t want a pack! ”

The words hang in the air, sharp as the broken glass still on the floor.

Caleb goes rigid, his entire body freezing mid-motion. Liam drops the napkin he’s holding, the paper floating slowly to the ground. Mason exhales sharply through his nose, the only evidence of his distress. Jude—for once—has nothing to say, his usual grin sliding off his face like melted wax.

Silence.

My voice, smaller now: “I just—I can’t do this. The chaos. The intensity. The... everything.”

No one moves. No one speaks. The only sound is the faint hiss of the ruined dessert cooling on the counter.

Caleb opens his mouth, then closes it, his expression shifting from shock to something harder, more controlled. His throat works as he swallows whatever he was about to say.

“I understand,” he finally manages, his voice a rough whisper. “We’ll go.”

Liam bends to retrieve his fallen spoon, setting it carefully on the table. “I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “For all of it.”

Jude’s usual grin is nowhere to be found. “The dinner was great,” he offers, gesturing weakly at the half-eaten meal. “Really. Best disaster I’ve been part of in ages.”

Mason straightens his blazer. “We’ll see ourselves out,” he says, his calm voice betrayed by the tightness around his eyes. “Thank you for having us.”

They file out one by one. Caleb first, his expression locked down tight, not meeting my eyes. Liam next, pausing at the door to look back once, his shoulders hunched. Mason follows, his hand lingering on the doorframe. Jude is last, his usual energy dimmed to nothing.

“For what it’s worth,” he says, uncharacteristically serious, “none of us meant to overwhelm you.”

The door clicks shut behind him.

I sink onto the floor, surrounded by the wreckage—burnt dessert, wine-stained tablecloth, broken couch, forgotten gifts, and the lingering scent of four males who’ve made my heart beat faster than it ever has in years.

Fuck.

My phone buzzes.

Zoe

So... how’s it going?

I reach for the whiskey bottle Mason brought.

Screw the glass .

I take a long pull directly from the bottle, the cinnamon burn matching the ache in my chest.

Another text arrives.

Zoe

That bad, huh?

I stare at the message, unsure how to explain that the dinner wasn’t a disaster because of them, but because of me. Because they tried, in their own chaotic, ridiculous ways, and I shut them down completely.

The spoon Liam carved still lies on the table, its polished surface gleaming in the dim light.

I pick it up, running my fingers over the smooth wood, the careful detailing on the handle.

How long did it take him to make this? How many hours did he spend thinking of me, creating something with his hands that he thought I’d like?

The lamb Caleb brought sits half-eaten, perfectly cooked, exactly the way I mentioned liking it once, off-handedly, during that ridiculous pre-wedding cocktail party.

Mason’s whiskey burns pleasantly in my throat, warming me from the inside out.

And even Jude’s ridiculous balloons, still floating by my ceiling, show a strange kind of thoughtfulness in their inappropriate humor.

Four different men. Four different approaches to showing they care.

And I just threw it all back in their faces.

A cramp twists low in my abdomen, sudden and sharp. I wince, pressing a hand to my stomach. Stress, probably. Or the whiskey.

My phone buzzes again.

Zoe

Want me to ditch this dude and come over?

I stare at the message, then at the wreckage around me—the shattered evening, the gifts left behind, the scents still clinging to the air.

With a sigh, I send:

No. I think I made a mistake.

Zoe

What kind of mistake?

Another cramp, deeper this time. Heat licks up my spine, familiar and insistent. I shift on the floor, suddenly restless.

No. No, no, no ?—

But my body doesn’t lie. The flush isn’t just from alcohol. The ache isn’t just guilt. My scent shifts subtly, sweetening—vanilla and cinnamon giving way to something richer, needier.

Pre-heat .

And early.

I swallow hard. Of course, it would happen now. When I’ve just screamed at the only pack who’ve ever?—

The kind I need to fix myself.

But how? How do you apologize for pushing away the people who bring whiskey you like, who carve spoons for your bakery, who bring you lamb because you mentioned loving Mediterranean food once?

How do you explain that you’re terrified of how much you want them? That your ex’s voice still whispers you’re not pack material in your head, even as your body begs to prove him wrong?

Another pang, hotter this time. My thighs press together instinctively.

Fuck .

I’ve spent so long building walls to keep from being hurt that I didn’t realize I’d locked myself inside them.

And now, with pre-heat simmering under my skin and the pack’s scents still tangled in my apartment, I know one thing for certain:

If I don’t fix this—if I don’t try—I’ll regret it forever.

Even if it’s already too late.