Page 32 of Pack Plus One (Sweetwater City Reverse Harem Omegaverse #1)

She takes another sip of her tea, watching me over the rim of her mug. The tremor in her hands has lessened slightly where my fingertips had touched her skin. “That’s significant…”

I meet her gaze steadily. “Very.”

She sets her mug down, fingers drumming lightly against the countertop in a rhythm that seems more unintentional than deliberate.

When she shifts her weight, a wince flashes across her features, and I can smell the sudden spike of discomfort in her scent.

My jaw tightens with the need to ease her pain.

“So... if this place is so sacred, why did you hire an omega to attend the wedding with you?” she asks, her voice wavering slightly. “I mean, if she had shown up instead of me, would she be sitting here now?”

The question comes out slightly disjointed, as if she’s piecing her thoughts together through fog. But the sharp curiosity in her eyes tells me her mind is working its way back to clarity, however slowly.

“That was... different.” I shift closer when she sways again, my arm reaching to brace her before I force myself to pull back. She doesn’t need to be crowded right now.

“How so?” She rubs at her temple and my fingers itch to replace hers, to massage away the tension I can see building there.

I sigh, setting my mug down. I can hardly focus on anything else except the fact I need to take her back to the nest. “The omega we hired was strictly professional. A plus-one service—not an escort,” I clarify quickly. “Just someone to attend as a buffer while we mingled.”

“And if she’d shown up instead of me?” Her words slur together slightly, her energy visibly flagging. She leans to one side, and this time I do reach out, my palm pressing gently against her back to keep her upright.

“She would have been paid, thanked, and sent home in a car service,” I say firmly, not removing my hand even after she’s steady. The warmth of her seeps through the thin silk of the robe. “This place, our den... we don’t bring casual acquaintances here.”

“But you brought me,” she points out, swaying slightly despite my steadying hand. Her head drops forward briefly before she jerks it back up, fighting against exhaustion.

“You aren’t casual,” I say before I can stop myself, my thumb unconsciously tracing a small circle against her spine. “Even that first night, at the pre-wedding party, there was something... different. About you.”

Her cheeks flush slightly, the color standing out against the paleness that comes with heat exhaustion. But she holds my gaze, though her eyes keep drifting slightly out of focus. “So I’m special because you all want to sleep with me?”

Fuck.

“No,” I correct gently, my hand still at her back, unwilling to break the contact now that I’ve allowed myself to touch her. “You’re special, and we all want to sleep with you. The order of those facts matters.”

The look Leah’s giving me tells me she clearly does not believe a word I’m saying but won’t argue with me about it. She blinks slowly, her eyelids looking heavy. Her head begins to droop again.

I notice the mug tilting dangerously in her grasp and reach out with my free hand to steady it before it can spill. “Maybe we should get you back to the nest. You’re still recovering.” My voice comes out a bit too rough, concern threading through each word.

“I’m fine,” she insists, but her body betrays her as she shivers violently, teeth chattering for a moment. I feel the tremors through my palm still pressed against her back.

Post-heat chills. I’ve seen them before, but never this intense. The need to warm her, to wrap her in my arms and chase away the cold with my body heat, is almost overwhelming.

I don’t comment, just reluctantly drop my hand from her back and set down my tea before walking to the hall closet.

I pull out my soft gray cashmere sweater that I wear when I’m going over the books late into the night.

It’s worn at the elbows, frayed from years of use, but it’s warm and it smells like me—a fact I’m acutely aware of as I hold it out to her.

She stares at it like I’ve offered her a live snake. “What?”

“Put it on,” I say, forcing my voice to gentle.

She hesitates, her fingers twitching. “I’m fine.”

“You’re shivering.” I step closer, still holding out the sweater, close enough to feel the chill emanating from her despite the lingering heat-fever.

“It’s not that cold.” But her body betrays her again with another violent shiver that nearly topples her from the stool. I move instantly, one hand catching her waist to steady her. Our faces are suddenly inches apart, and for a moment, I forget to breathe.

I don’t move, just stand there with the sweater dangling from my fingers, my other hand still at her waist, until she finally snatches the garment with an exaggerated eye-roll that doesn’t quite mask her discomfort.

“Fine. But only because this robe is basically fancy tissue paper.”

The moment she pulls it over her head, I know I’ve made a mistake.

It swallows her whole, the sleeves falling past her fingertips, the hem reaching mid-thigh.

She looks so small in it. Soft. Vulnerable in a way that has nothing to do with heat hormones or biological imperative.

She pushes the sleeves up to her elbows, revealing the delicate bones of her wrists, and something protective stirs in my chest.

Mine .

The thought is so visceral, so unexpected that I nearly drop my mug. I’ve never been the possessive one—that’s Caleb’s domain, with his growls and territorial marking. I’m the rational one, the planner, the one who keeps the peace and maintains balance.

But seeing her in my sweater, surrounded by my scent, looking like she belongs in our kitchen...

She catches my expression and stiffens. “What?”

“Nothing,” I lie, turning back to the counter to hide whatever my face might be revealing. “It suits you.”

She makes a noise that might be a laugh or a scoff. “It smells like you.”

I don’t answer, not trusting my voice. Instead, I move to the stove, pulling out a pan and the ingredients for pancakes. Blueberry, because I remember that’s what she went to buy at that cafe when she was weak from pre-heat.

The silence stretches as I measure flour, baking powder, sugar.

I can feel her watching me, her gaze a physical weight between my shoulder blades as I crack eggs and pour milk.

I’ve made this recipe hundreds of times, could do it blindfolded, yet somehow her presence makes me acutely aware of every movement.

“You’re overmixing it,” she says suddenly.

I pause, whisk suspended over the bowl. “What?”

“The batter.” She slides off the stool and approaches, peering into the bowl. “You’re overworking the gluten. It’ll make them tough.”

I blink, momentarily thrown by the professional critique. Of course—she’s a baker. This is her domain, not mine.

“Old habits,” I admit. “I tend to be... methodical.”

“I’ve noticed,” she says dryly, and there’s a hint of color in her cheeks that suggests she’s remembering exactly how methodical I can be.

She clears her throat, then gestures to the bowl. “Here. Let me show you.”

Before I can react, her hand covers mine on the whisk, guiding it in a gentler motion. Her fingers are warm against my skin, her body close enough that I can feel the heat radiating through the sweater. My sweater. On her.

“Like this,” she murmurs, demonstrating the proper technique. “Just until the dry ingredients are incorporated. A few lumps are fine—they’ll cook out.”

I swallow hard, hyperaware of the point where our skin touches. “Noted.”

She doesn’t pull away immediately. Just stands there, our hands still tangled together, her gaze fixed on the batter as if it holds the secrets of the universe. I can hear her heartbeat, slightly elevated, smell the subtle shift in her scent from sleepy contentment to something warmer, spicier.

“You fit here,” I say, the words escaping before I can stop them.

She freezes.

“In this kitchen,” I continue, my voice low. “With us.”

For a long moment, she doesn’t move. Then, carefully, she extracts her hand, taking a small step back. Not fleeing, but creating distance.

“That’s what scares me,” she whispers.

The admission hangs between us, raw and honest in a way that makes my chest ache.

I want to reassure her, to tell her that what happened wasn’t just heat-induced madness, that what’s growing between us is real and rare and worth exploring.

I want to promise her that we’d never cage her, never try to change the fierce independence that drew us to her in the first place.

But before I can find the right words, the moment shatters with the unmistakable sound of Jude stumbling into the kitchen, his bare feet slapping against the tile.

“Where is she? Is she—” He skids to a halt when he sees Leah at the counter, his hair standing in twelve different directions, wearing nothing but hastily pulled-on sweatpants. “You’re up? And... vertical?”

I suppress a sigh. “As you can see.”

Jude’s eyes scan Leah from head to toe, concern giving way to confusion, then approval as he takes in her sweater-clad form.

“Aren’t you supposed to be, I don’t know, incapacitated?

Most omegas can’t even walk after—” He catches my warning glare and clears his throat.

“I mean, post-heat recovery usually requires at least twenty-four hours of horizontal time.”

Leah’s eyebrows rise. “I bake for a living, Jude. I’m used to being on my feet.”

“Not after taking three kn?—”

“Coffee?” I interrupt loudly, turning to the machine. “It’ll be ready in approximately three minutes, assuming you can survive that long without saying something that gets you murdered.”

“Doubtful,” Jude sighs dramatically, flopping into a chair at the kitchen table.

“I’m operating on about twelve brain cells at the moment, and all of them are dedicated to replaying last night’s greatest hits.

” He waggles his eyebrows at Leah. “Speaking of which, doll, that thing you did with your?—”