Page 33 of Pack Plus One (Sweetwater City Reverse Harem Omegaverse #1)

“Finish that sentence and I’ll pour this boiling water somewhere unpleasant,” Leah warns, though the threat lacks real heat. Her cheeks are flushed, and not entirely from embarrassment—I notice the careful way she’s holding herself, the slight wince when she shifts her weight.

Jude’s expression softens, something surprisingly gentle replacing his usual mischief. “Are you okay? Really? Should you even be standing right now?”

“I’m fine,” she insists, but as if her body wants to prove her wrong, she sways slightly when she reaches for her mug.

I’m beside her in an instant, one hand steadying her elbow, the other hovering at the small of her back. “Why don’t you sit?”

“I’m not made of glass,” she grumbles, but allows me to guide her to a stool.

“No,” Jude agrees cheerfully, “more like jelly after what Caleb did to your?—”

“I will end you,” I say pleasantly.

Jude grins, unrepentant. “It’s a compliment! We were magnificent, and she was magnificentl-ier. Look at her, up and moving after all that. Our little omega’s made of sterner stuff than most.”

Despite her obvious desire to remain dignified, Leah’s lips twitch. “That’s me. Stern stuff.”

“Well, well,” Jude continues, his gaze zeroing in on her attire. “Looking awfully cozy in the beta’s clothes, aren’t we? Never thought I’d see the day Mason willingly shared the Sweater of Supreme Significance.”

“It’s just a sweater,” I mutter, though we all know it’s not. It’s my favorite, worn soft with years of use, and I’ve threatened bodily harm to anyone who’s tried to borrow it.

“Uh-huh,” Jude drawls. “And I’m sure that’s the only reason you’re wearing Mason’s prized cashmere. The one he nearly disemboweled me for spilling wine on last Christmas.”

“It was a ‘92 Bordeaux,” I point out, measuring coffee grounds with perhaps more force than necessary. “On cashmere.”

“Details, details,” Jude waves dismissively. “The point is, our little omega here got the premium treatment. Special sweater privileges are not handed out lightly in this household.”

Leah rolls her eyes, but I don’t miss the way her fingers curl more tightly into the sleeves, or how she subtly burrows deeper into the soft fabric. “It’s just a sweater, Jude.”

“Sure,” he agrees, his smile turning knowing. “And that’s just a hickey the size of Texas on your neck, but who’s counting? And the ones on your thighs are just friendly little?—”

“You’re insufferable,” Leah cuts him off, her cheeks flaming as her hand flies to her throat.

“Part of my charm,” Jude agrees cheerfully. “Speaking of charm, where’s my good morning kiss? I seem to recall you being much more enthusiastic about my mouth last night. Specifically when it was?—”

“Oh my God,” Leah groans, hiding her face in her hands.

I turn back to the pancake batter, a smile tugging at my lips despite myself.

This is Jude’s gift—diffusing tension, making the awkward moments bearable through sheer force of personality.

For all his outrageous flirting and boundary-pushing, he’s more perceptive than most people give him credit for.

The coffee maker gurgles its completion just as Caleb appears in the doorway, his expression thunderous as he takes in the scene. His gaze travels from Jude’s smirking face to Leah’s embarrassed flush to my hands busy at the stove, and his scent spikes with something possessive.

“What the hell is she doing up?” he demands, his voice a low growl that makes every hair on my neck stand at attention. “She should be resting.”

“That’s what I said!” Jude exclaims. “But apparently our omega is?—”

“I’m right here,” Leah interjects, straightening on her stool. “And perfectly capable of deciding when to get out of bed.”

Caleb stalks into the kitchen, his movements those of a predator—fluid and purposeful.

He stops directly behind Leah, close enough that his chest brushes her back, and inhales deeply at her neck.

His hands come to rest on her shoulders, thumbs pressing gently into muscles that must be sore from the night’s activities.

Despite her clear attempt to maintain her composure, Leah’s eyes flutter closed, her head tilting instinctively to give him better access. A soft sound escapes her throat—not quite a moan, but something dangerously close.

“You left,” he says, the words not quite an accusation but heavy with meaning.

“I was thirsty,” she manages, her voice slightly breathless from his ministrations. “And Mason was making tea.”

Something unspoken passes between them, then Caleb’s fingers find a particularly tight spot at the base of her neck, and she actually whimpers, the sound sending a shiver down my spine.

“You’re tender,” he murmurs, his voice gentler now. “Should have woken me. I would have brought you whatever you needed.”

“I can get my own tea,” she insists, though the protest lacks conviction as his thumbs work magic on her stiff muscles.

“Stubborn,” he says, but there’s a note of affection in it. His hand slides from her shoulder to the nape of her neck, thumb brushing over the spot where his teeth had grazed last night. Not breaking skin, not claiming, but close enough that the memory makes her breath hitch.

“There’s water by the bed,” he says quietly. “For next time.”

The implication—that there will be a next time, that this wasn’t just a one-time heat-induced aberration—hangs in the air. Leah’s scent flickers with something complicated—not rejection, but not quite acceptance either.

“Noted,” she says, but her usual sass is undermined by the way she leans into his touch.

Jude watches the exchange with undisguised interest, his eyes bright with mischief. “So, since we’re all remembering where our mouths were last night, can I just say that the noise you made when I?—”

“Is that bacon I smell burning?” Leah interrupts desperately.

“Nice try, but I haven’t even started the bacon yet,” I say, turning back to the pancake batter. “But it’s a timely reminder that we should all focus on breakfast instead of embarrassing our guest.”

“Guest?” Jude snorts. “After what happened in that nest, I think we’re well past ‘guest’ territory. More like?—”

“If you say ‘mate’ or any variation, I will personally ensure you never speak again,” Leah warns, though the effect is somewhat diminished by the fact that she’s still leaning into Caleb’s touch, her body contradicting her words.

Liam appears in the doorway then, his hair still damp from a shower, bringing with him a sense of calm that settles over the kitchen. He takes in the tableau with a quick, assessing glance—Leah on the stool, Caleb’s possessive stance behind her, Jude’s gleeful expression, my exasperated one.

“You shouldn’t be up,” he says to Leah, but there’s no judgment in it, just gentle concern. “Post-heat recovery is critical for omega health. Particularly after such an... intensive experience.”

A fresh wave of color floods Leah’s cheeks. “I’m fine.”

“She keeps saying that,” Jude stage-whispers. “But you should have seen how she winced when she?—”

“I didn’t wince,” Leah protests, then immediately winces as she shifts position.

“See?” Jude gestures triumphantly.

Liam moves to the coffee maker, preparing mugs for himself and Caleb with practiced efficiency.

“At minimum, you should be horizontal, hydrated, and consuming approximately double your normal caloric intake,” he says, his clinical tone somehow making it worse.

“Your body has been through significant strain.”

“Oh my God,” Leah mutters, burying her face in her hands again. “Can we please stop discussing my body like it’s a natural disaster zone?”

“I’d call it more of a pleasure zone,” Jude quips, earning himself a sharp look from Caleb.

“Pancakes almost ready?” Liam asks, nudging me aside with his hip to peer at the batter.

“About to start cooking,” I confirm, grateful for his intervention. “Blueberry.”

“Perfect,” he says, then turns to the fridge, pulling out eggs, bacon, and fruit with the precision of someone who’s cooked breakfast in this kitchen a thousand times. “She’ll need protein. And iron. And complex carbohydrates.”

“I’m right here,” Leah reminds us, but there’s a note of resignation in her voice, as if she’s realizing resistance is futile.

It’s our usual morning choreography—Liam and I preparing food while Jude provides questionable entertainment and Caleb broods over his coffee until the caffeine kicks in.

But today, with Leah perched at the counter in my sweater, Caleb’s hands gentle on her shoulders, the air thick with our combined scents and the lingering pheromones of satisfied heat, everything feels both familiar and entirely new.

I pour the first ladle of batter onto the hot griddle, the satisfying sizzle drowning out Jude’s continued teasing.

Liam works beside me, his movements synchronized with mine in the easy rhythm of packmates who’ve shared space for years.

Caleb remains a solid presence behind Leah, seemingly content to maintain physical contact with her, while she sips her tea and watches us with curious eyes.

“Your kitchen is... very organized,” she observes.

“Liam’s doing,” I say, cracking eggs one-handed into a bowl. “He implemented a system when we first moved in. Threatened bodily harm if we deviated.”

“I did no such thing.” Liam glares my way. “I merely suggested that organized is better than chaos.”

“He color-coded the spice rack,” Jude whispers to Leah. “And labeled the shelves. With a label maker.”

“That is not a character flaw,” Liam mutters, arranging bacon in a neat row on a baking sheet.

To my surprise, Leah laughs—a genuine sound that makes everyone in the kitchen pause momentarily. “I did the same thing at my bakery,” she admits. “Different colored bins for different flours. Labels everywhere.”

“See?” Liam says triumphantly. “A professional agrees with me.”

“God save us,” Jude groans. “Now there’s two of them.”