Page 25 of Pack Plus One (Sweetwater City Reverse Harem Omegaverse #1)

“We can’t just barge in,” I remind him. “That would violate her trust completely.”

“What about her neighbor?” Jude suggests suddenly. “The nosy old lady. She could check on Leah without it being... you know, invasive alpha behavior.”

It’s not a bad idea. Mrs. Finley seems to care about Leah, and as a fellow omega, her presence would be far less threatening during a heat.

“It’s two in the morning,” Mason points out.

“So? Old people don’t sleep,” Jude argues. “They just sit around waiting for opportunities to meddle in younger people’s lives.”

Despite the tension, I find myself smiling. “That’s a terrible generalization.”

“But accurate in this case,” Jude insists. “Trust me.”

After some debate, we decide it’s worth a try. Mason, as the least intimidating of us, volunteers to knock on Mrs. Finley’s door.

The rest of us wait in the car, tense with anticipation.

Twenty minutes later, Mason returns with a smug-looking Mrs. Finley in tow. She’s wearing a floral housecoat and slippers, her silver hair in curlers, but seems utterly delighted by the drama.

“Well, well,” she says, peering into the car window that Jude rolls down. “Quite the pack you boys have going.”

“Did you check on Leah?” Caleb demands, leaning across Jude.

Mrs. Finley’s eyes twinkle with mischief. “Such concern! I remember when my Harold would pace outside my building during my heats. Alpha instincts never change, do they?”

“Mrs. Finley,” I interject before Caleb can growl at her, “we’re just worried. Is Leah alright?”

The elderly omega’s expression softens. “She’s in pre-heat, dear. It’s not comfortable, but she’s managing. Has herself quite the nest set up in there.”

Some of the tension eases from my shoulders. “So she’s okay?”

“Physically, yes,” Mrs. Finley confirms. “Though she did seem agitated about something. Kept looking out her window at the street.”

My gaze snaps to Mason’s, a silent communication passing between us. Leah’s looking out her window—at us, most likely. She knows we’re here.

“Did she say anything?” Jude asks. “About us, maybe?”

Mrs. Finley’s smile turns sly. “Not in so many words. But I know a nesting omega when I see one, and that girl is preparing for something.”

“What does that mean?” Caleb demands.

“It means,” Mrs. Finley says with exaggerated patience, “that she’s gathering her strength. For what, only she knows.” She pats Jude’s cheek through the window. “Now, if you boys will excuse me, I need my beauty sleep. Do try not to growl at any other residents before morning.”

With that, she totters back toward the building, Mason escorting her to the entrance.

“Well, that was cryptic and unhelpful,” Jude mutters once she’s gone.

“Not entirely,” I disagree, my mind racing. “We know she’s physically okay, and we know she’s aware we’re outside.”

“And looking for us,” Caleb adds, his voice tight with something between hope and anxiety.

“Let’s not read too much into it,” Mason cautions, returning to the car. “She could just be checking that we’ve respected her wishes and left.”

We lapse into silence, each lost in our own thoughts. The night stretches on, punctuated only by our regular check-ins at Leah’s door.

Around 9 AM the next day, during my turn, I notice something odd. The scent outside her apartment has... shifted. It’s still unmistakably Leah, still heavy with heat pheromones, but there’s something different about it. Something I can’t quite place.

I press my ear to the door, listening intently, but hear nothing.

“Leah?” I call softly, not wanting to disturb her if she’s finally sleeping. “It’s Liam. Just checking that you’re okay.”

No response.

A tendril of unease winds through me. I knock again, a little louder this time. “Leah? Can you just let me know you’re alright?”

Still nothing.

I hesitate, torn between respecting her privacy and my growing concern. Finally, I pull out my phone and send her a text:

Just checking in. Can you let me know you’re okay? Just a simple ‘yes’ will do.

I wait, watching the screen for those three little dots that would indicate she’s typing.

Nothing.

After five minutes of silence, I make a decision. I call the building manager’s emergency line, explaining the situation as calmly as I can. He arrives, sleepy-eyed and irritated, but listens to my concerns with growing seriousness.

“You sure about this, son? Omegas get prickly about privacy during?—”

“I know,” I cut him off, my voice strained. “But something’s wrong. I’m sure of it.”

He sighs, jingling his keys. “One quick look. And you stay in the hall.”

The door swings open.

The scent slams into me first—thick and sweet, drenched in vanilla and something darker, needier. My knees nearly buckle. The manager gags, staggering back.

“Christ,” he wheezes. “That’s not just pre-heat.”

The apartment is eerily intact.

Her nest still dominates the bed—blankets torn apart like she fought with them, pillows dented with the memory of her body. The whiskey bottle Mason brought sits half-empty on the counter. The spoon I carved for her rests neatly beside it.

But the fire escape window gapes open, curtains fluttering like surrender flags.

And Leah?—

Leah is gone.

“Well,” the manager says after a stunned moment, “looks like your omega friend flew the coop.”

I’m already texting the others, my fingers flying over the keyboard:

She’s gone. Fire escape. Get the car ready.

But even as we spring into action, a cold certainty settles in my gut: we’re already too late.

Leah has made her choice. And it wasn’t us.