Page 26 of Pack Plus One (Sweetwater City Reverse Harem Omegaverse #1)

LEAH

M y apartment smells like poor life choices and desperation.

I stare at the half-built nest on my bed—a sad pile of blankets and one lone pillow that looks about as stable as my emotional state. The supplies they left outside my door mock me from the kitchen counter, each item painfully thoughtful.

I trail my fingers over each item, my throat tightening:

Caleb’s dark chocolate bars—the stupidly expensive kind. The wrapper crinkles under my touch, releasing a whiff of rich cocoa that makes my mouth water.

Jude’s heating pad, shaped like a grinning avocado with “Hot Stuff” embroidered on it in what looks like actual gold thread. Of course he’d find something ridiculous and perfect. I press the button, and it instantly warms to the perfect temperature, like it’s been programmed just for me.

Liam’s weighted blanket, folded up tight. The outer fabric is that exact shade of emerald green I love, and when I brush my fingers over it, the texture sends a shiver down my spine. How did he even know ?

Mason’s first-aid kit, because of course he’d think of that. It’s stocked with electrolyte packets labeled by day, pain relievers, and—I blink—a tiny vial of lavender oil. The exact kind my grandmother used to rub on my temples when I was stressed.

My stomach growls, loud and insistent, dragging me back to reality at the same time that a cramp goes through me.

Right . Survival .

I press a hand to my abdomen, willing the cramp to ease. It doesn’t. If anything, it sharpens the hunger, narrowing my focus to one singular, all-consuming thought:

Blueberry muffins .

Not just any muffins. The ones from the café down the street with the crumbly streusel topping that melts on your tongue. The ones that, right now, feel as essential to my survival as oxygen.

I eye the fire escape through my window. The Le Roux pack is out there somewhere, hovering like overly attractive guardian angels. The thought of seeing them while I’m in this state sends a shiver down my spine that I can’t decide is due to fear…or something else entirely.

Five minutes. I just need five minutes to grab supplies without four alphas—three alphas and a beta, I mentally correct—tracking my every move like I’m some documentary on the Discovery Channel.

It’s not like I’m afraid of them. I just can’t face them right now, not with my hormones staging a full-scale rebellion and my skin feeling two sizes too small.

Not after I threw their concern back in their faces at dinner.

Not with the memory of Caleb’s hand in mine, Mason’s steady gaze, Jude’s uncharacteristic silence, and Liam’s quiet worry.

Just thinking about them makes my temperature spike another two degrees.

No. I’ve survived heats alone before. I’ll survive this one too.

I grab my emergency pre-heat checklist from the drawer:

1. Water (?)

2. Protein bars (?)

3. Clean sheets (?)

4. Toys (?)

5. Dignity (?)

The last one is a lost cause.

But the muffins—those aren’t on any list. Those are pure, hormone-driven need, the kind that makes rational thought impossible. And I’m going to get them if it kills me.

Which, given my current state, feels distinctly possible.

I check the time. 8:42 AM. The café opens at nine. If I leave now, I can be first in line, grab my muffins, and be back before anyone realizes I’m gone.

Perfect plan. Foolproof, even.

I spray myself with so much scent neutralizer that my eyes water. For good measure, I spritz extra on my pulse points, where the heat scent radiates strongest. The chemical tang burns my nostrils, but it’s better than broadcasting “desperate omega” to every alpha within a three-block radius.

Next, layers. Lots of them.

I pull on sweatpants (two sizes too big), leggings underneath (just in case), an oversized hoodie, and—because I apparently hate myself—Mason’s shirt that I wore home after that night. I bury it under two more shirts because I’m not that pathetic.

(I am absolutely that pathetic.)

Sunglasses, even though the sun isn’t blazing yet. A scarf, even though it’s May. A baseball cap pulled low.

I glance in the mirror.

Perfect. I look like a college student who’s given up on life. Or a bank robber with poor fashion sense .

The fire escape groans as I ease the window open. I freeze, listening for any sign that my would-be protectors have heard. Nothing but the distant sound of early morning traffic.

I slip outside, wincing as the metal creaks beneath my weight. A fat pigeon on the railing gives me a judgmental side-eye.

“Don’t start with me,” I mutter. “I’ve taken down tougher birds than you for less.”

It cocks its head as if to say, Sure you have, crazy lady .

I flip it off because yes, I’m now the kind of person who argues with urban wildlife. Pre-heat is a hell of a drug.

The alley is mercifully empty. I stick to the shadows, scanning for any sign of the pack. Just because I can’t see them doesn’t mean they’re not there. Alphas are sneaky like that.

So far, so good .

I make it all the way around the building before realizing I’ve forgotten my wallet.

“Seriously?” I hiss to no one in particular. A businessman walking his dog gives me a wide berth.

I pat my pockets, hoping for a miracle, and discover two crumpled twenties stuffed in my hoodie. Divine intervention, or evidence that I desperately need to do laundry? Either way, I’ll take it.

The corner store’s fluorescent lights make my eyes throb even behind the sunglasses. I grab a basket and fill it with the bare essentials:

Electrolyte drinks (the neon kind that tastes like sweetened jet fuel)

Instant noodles (because cooking during heat is a fantasy)

A family-sized bag of chocolate (the cheap kind that tastes better than the expensive stuff when hormones are involved)

Another bottle of scent neutralizer (the industrial strength version labeled “MAXIMUM COVERAGE” in alarming red letters)

The cashier—a bored beta with a nose ring and the dead-eyed stare of someone who’s seen it all—blinks slowly at my haul.

“You good, miss?”

“Peachy,” I rasp, which comes out sounding like I’ve been gargling gravel.

He nods slowly, scanning the chocolate twice. “That’ll be eighteen fifty.”

I slap down my twenty, grab the bag, and mumble something that might be “keep the change” but probably sounds more like “mmrph.”

Outside, the world is too bright, too loud, too everything . A car horn makes me jump. The brush of fabric against my skin feels like sandpaper. A waft of alpha scent from a passing jogger sends a treacherous pulse of heat through my core.

Focus, Leah. Get the muffins. Get home. Die of embarrassment in private .

The café is just opening when I arrive, the barista flipping the sign from “Closed” to “Open” as I approach. She’s a perky beta with pink hair and a smile that’s far too cheerful for this hour.

“Good morning!” she chirps. “What can I get for—” Her nostrils flare. Her smile falters. “Oh. Oh .”

Shit .

The scent blocker is already failing. Stupid omega biology.

“Six blueberry muffins,” I blurt, slapping my remaining cash on the counter. “To go. Please .”

She glances at the door, then back at me, her expression shifting to something like concern. “They’re just coming out of the oven. Are you... Do you need to sit down? You look a little...”

“I’m fine,” I insist, though my hands are trembling and I can feel sweat beading at my hairline despite the air conditioning. “Just the muffins.”

She hesitates, then nods, moving toward the kitchen. “Five minutes.”

Five minutes. I can do this. I lean against the counter, trying to look casual and not like I’m about to spontaneously combust.

The bell above the door chimes. I don’t look up, focusing on counting tiles on the floor to distract myself from the growing ache in my lower abdomen.

“Leah?”

My spine stiffens. That voice—smooth, condescending, and achingly familiar.

No. No, no, no ?—

I turn slowly.

Eric stands there, his trademark smirk firmly in place, flanked by two alphas I recognize from the wedding. His new pack, hovering behind him like designer-clad hyenas.

“I thought that was you,” he says, his gaze sliding over my disheveled appearance with undisguised amusement. “Though it was hard to tell under all those layers.”

My mouth goes dry. Of all the cafés in all the city, he had to walk into this one. At nine in the morning. During my pre-heat.

The universe has a sick sense of humor.

“Eric,” I manage, aiming for cool detachment and landing somewhere around “strangled frog.” “What a surprise.”

His nostrils flare. His smirk widens. “You’re... not well?”

He knows. Of course, he knows. He may be a jerk, but he’s not stupid.

“I’m fine,” I repeat, gripping the counter for support. “Just getting breakfast.”

“Alone?” he asks, with exaggerated concern. “Where’s your... pack?”

The way he says it, with that slight pause, makes it clear exactly what he thinks of my relationship status.

One of his alpha lackeys—Brad or Chad or something equally punchable—snickers.

“So you’re packless again,” Eric continues, loud enough for the few early customers to hear. “Shocking.”

The barista returns with a bag of muffins, her expression darkening as she takes in the situation. “Here you go,” she says pointedly. “Anything else?”

I shake my head, unable to form words past the lump in my throat. I grab the bag, prepared to make a dignified exit—or at least an exit that doesn’t involve crying or committing homicide.

Eric steps closer, blocking my path. “You know,” he says, nostrils flaring even as his voice drops to a dark whisper, “if you’re struggling, I could recommend a good omega center. They’re very... clinical about these things.”

My cheeks burn with humiliation. The bag crumples in my grip.

A chair screeches behind me.

The café‘s atmosphere cracks —shatters—under the weight of a scent so aggressively alpha that several people gasp.

Dark chocolate. Espresso. Fury .