Page 31 of Pack Plus One (Sweetwater City Reverse Harem Omegaverse #1)

MASON

T he first hint of dawn wakes me, and my eyes flutter open. The room smells of sex, sweat, and satisfaction—all our scents tangled with Leah’s vanilla and cinnamon in a heady aroma that makes my head swim even hours after her heat has broken.

I blink sleep from my eyes, careful not to disturb the tangle of limbs surrounding me. Despite having designed the nest room with a custom-sized bed, we’re all piled together in the center, drawn to each other’s warmth like magnets.

I take silent inventory:

Jude is face-down in a pile of his ridiculous throw pillows, one arm draped over the edge of the nest, fingers still curled around a bottle of water we’d pressed on him sometime around 3 AM.

His usual manic energy is subdued in sleep, his face peaceful except for the small puddle of drool collecting on the taco-shaped pillow beneath his cheek.

Caleb is curled around Leah’s back, his hair mussed, his expression soft.

His arm is locked around her waist, fingers splayed possessively across her stomach as if even in sleep, he’s afraid she might disappear.

The marks along his shoulders where she’d dug her nails in are still visible, red crescents against his tanned skin.

Liam has somehow migrated to the foot of the bed, one hand resting lightly on Leah’s ankle.

And Leah...

Leah is awake.

I see the exact moment consciousness fully claims her.

Her breathing changes first—the deep, even rhythm of sleep giving way to something quicker, more shallow.

Her eyes flutter open, unfocused for a heartbeat before sharpening with sudden clarity.

Her fingers twitch against the sheets, and her scent spikes with an emotion I can’t quite place. Confusion? Panic?… Regret?

Whatever it is, I recognize the intention that follows. Her muscles tense subtly, her gaze darting toward the door, calculating. She’s planning her escape.

I could pretend to still be asleep. Let her slip away without confrontation, without the awkwardness that will inevitably follow all we did in the last three days. It would be easier for everyone.

But I don’t.

Instead, I shift deliberately, the sheets rustling as I prop myself up on one elbow. Her head snaps toward me, eyes wide in the dim light, caught in the act before it’s even begun.

For a long moment, we just look at each other.

“Hi,” I whisper, careful not to wake the others.

She swallows, her throat working. “Hi.” Her voice is raw, scratchy from three days of demanding, pleading, crying out.

Another moment of silence stretches between us, less awkward than I expected but weighted with all the things neither of us seems to know how to say.

Finally, I nod toward the door. “Tea?”

Relief flickers across her features, so brief I almost miss it. She nods, then glances down at Caleb’s arm still locked around her waist, a small furrow appearing between her brows.

“Here,” I murmur, reaching over to gently lift his arm.

It’s a testament to his exhaustion that he doesn’t immediately wake—typically, the slightest movement has him alert and ready for action.

Instead, he merely grumbles something unintelligible and rolls onto his back, one arm flung dramatically across his face.

Leah slides out from under the covers with the careful movements of someone trying not to wake a sleeping bear. She pauses at the edge of the nest, obviously very aware of her nakedness, her scent flickering with embarrassment.

I avert my eyes, giving her privacy despite the fact I had her spread and panting beneath me just hours ago. “There’s a robe on the hook behind the door,” I say quietly. “And clean clothes in the dresser. Second drawer.”

She doesn’t thank me, but I hear the soft rustle of fabric as she retrieves the robe.

When I look up again, she’s wrapped in dark blue silk, the material swallowing her small frame.

It’s mine, I realize—purchased on a whim because it reminded me of the night sky.

The same night sky I’ve stared at countless times while thinking of her. The irony isn’t lost on me.

I slip out of the nest, pulling on a pair of sweatpants before padding toward the door. Even though I’m dying to, I don’t look back to see if she follows. Instead, I listen and hear her soft footsteps behind me as we make our way down the hall.

The kitchen is quiet when we enter, the only sounds the soft hum of the refrigerator and the distant chirping of early morning birds outside.

Sunlight slants through the windows, painting golden rectangles on the hardwood floor.

It’s peaceful in a way that feels almost surreal after the intensity of the past seventy-two hours.

I move on autopilot—filling the kettle, measuring out tea leaves, setting two mugs on the counter. Earl Grey for her, green tea for me. The familiar ritual soothes my nerves, gives my hands something to do besides reach for her.

She leans heavily against the doorframe, her movements slow and slightly unsteady. Again, I have to squeeze my hands into fists to stop myself from reaching for her. Space. I need to give her space. Especially right now, after what just occurred in our nest. Let her come to us.

I focus on making the tea, but it doesn’t stop me from taking notes.

The aftermath of a heat this intense is written across her body—the slight tremble in her hands, the way she winces when she shifts her weight, the unfocused quality to her gaze as if she’s still partly trapped in the fog of hormones.

Fuck, she shouldn’t even be standing.

“You always wake so early?” she asks finally, voice still rough with sleep and overuse, the words slightly slurred at the edges.

I glance over my shoulder. She’s still standing in the kitchen doorway, arms crossed over her chest, swamped in my robe.

Her hair is a wild tangle around her face, and there’s a pattern of beard burn along her throat where Caleb had spent particular attention.

She looks thoroughly claimed, unfairly beautiful, and completely drained.

“Force of habit,” I reply, turning back to the tea. “I’ve always been an early riser.”

“Even after...” she trails off, and I can practically feel her blush warming the air.

“Even after,” I confirm, my lips quirking into a small smile she can’t see.

She huffs a soft laugh that turns into a wince, her hand moving instinctively to her lower back. Post-heat muscle soreness, I realize with a flash of concern.

The kettle whistles, the sharp sound slicing through the quiet.

She flinches at the noise, oversensitive in her post-heat state.

I pour the water, watching the leaves unfurl and the liquid darken.

When I turn to hand her the mug, she’s moved to perch on one of the bar stools at the counter, her legs tucked under her, looking like she belongs there despite the glassy quality to her eyes.

The thought catches me off guard, making my fingers tighten around the ceramic.

“Thanks,” she murmurs, her fingers trembling slightly as she takes the mug.

“Green for me,” I say, lifting my mug. “Earl Grey for you. I wasn’t sure how you take it, so I left it plain.”

She reaches for the sugar bowl, adding a spoonful and a splash of milk from the small pitcher I’ve set out.

Her movements are clumsy, uncoordinated, and she nearly knocks over the sugar bowl before managing to stir her tea.

My hand instinctively darts out to steady the bowl, my fingers brushing against hers briefly before I pull back, not wanting to overwhelm her.

Her skin is still unnaturally warm, a lingering effect of the heat, no doubt.

“I didn’t realize you were so domestic,” she murmurs.

I hide a smile behind my mug. “There’s a lot we don’t know about each other yet.”

She stirs her tea thoughtfully, her eyes drifting closed for a moment before snapping open again, as if she’s fighting to stay present.

When she sways slightly on the stool, I step closer, hand hovering near her elbow, ready to catch her if needed.

She steadies herself with visible effort, and I let my hand drop, though I don’t step back.

“I suppose that’s true. We kind of... skipped a few steps,” she says.

“Several, actually,” I agree, the understatement making her lips quirk upward.

She takes a sip of her tea, her hands still shaking slightly. I resist the urge to steady them with my own, though every protective instinct in me screams to do so. “Do you always make breakfast for your... guests?” she asks, stumbling over the last word.

I consider this. “To be honest, we haven’t had many overnight guests. Not like this.”

Her eyebrows rise, the movement slow, as if her facial muscles are still catching up with her thoughts. When she shivers again, I instinctively move closer, my body heat providing a buffer against the morning chill. She doesn’t pull away.

“Really? Four attractive males, and I’m supposed to believe you don’t have omegas lining up around the block?”

“I didn’t say that,” I clarify, watching her carefully for signs of post-heat crash. The pallor beneath her flushed cheeks concerns me. “Just not here. Not in our den.”

Understanding dawns in her eyes, though it takes her longer than it might have if she weren’t fighting the post-heat daze. “This is your territory.”

“Yes.”

“And I’m in it.” She blinks slowly, processing this fact as if through layers of cotton.

When she reaches to brush her hair from her face, her hand trembles so badly that she misses entirely.

Without thinking, I reach up and tuck the strand behind her ear, my fingers lingering perhaps a second too long against her temple.

“Yes.” My voice comes out deeper than intended. Seeing her like this is conflicting. I want to cradle her in my arms…and I want to fuck her again. The instincts are fighting each other.