Page 36 of Pack Plus One (Sweetwater City Reverse Harem Omegaverse #1)

Because this, whatever this is, can’t possibly last. Four gorgeous, successful males with a thriving business and a pack bond most people would kill for don’t just... keep random omegas they meet at weddings. Even ones they’ve helped through an unexpected heat.

Especially not independent, prickly omegas with commitment issues and a bakery dream still in the planning stages.

By late evening, I find myself curled on the couch with Jude and Liam while Caleb and Mason handle dinner.

Some action movie plays on the screen, but I’m barely watching, too aware of the weight of Liam’s arm casually draped across the back of the couch behind me, close enough that I can feel his warmth.

Jude’s head rests in my lap while he makes sarcastic commentary about the film’s plot holes.

“So,” Jude says during a lull in the explosions, “are we going to talk about how you’re still sleeping in Caleb’s room but not in the nest?”

I nearly choke on my water. “Excuse me?”

Liam shoots Jude a warning look, but Jude just grins, as usual. “What? It’s a valid question. The nest is literally designed for you, doll. State-of-the-art omega comfort. And you’re choosing Caleb’s boring bedroom instead.”

“Jude,” Liam says, his voice soft but with that alpha edge that makes even Jude pause. “Boundaries.”

“I’m just saying,” Jude continues, though with slightly less bravado, “the nest is like the best room in the house. Specially designed. All the good pillows. Alpha scents.” He waggles his eyebrows. “Fun memories.”

My face burns. “I know what a nest is, Jude.”

“Then why?—”

“Because it’s not mine ,” I snap, the words escaping before I can think better of them. “It’s a heat nest. Built for... for that. Not for...” I gesture vaguely, unable to articulate the complex tangle of emotions the nest room evokes.

Jude’s expression softens suddenly. “Ah.”

“It could be yours,” Liam says quietly, and something in his tone makes me look up at him. His eyes are serious, intent in a way that steals my breath. “If you wanted it to be.”

The implication hangs in the air between us, too weighty to dismiss, too fragile to acknowledge directly.

Before I can respond, Mason calls from the kitchen, “Dinner’s ready,” and the moment shatters.

We eat around the large dining table, the conversation carefully light, punctuated by Jude’s outrageous stories and Caleb’s occasional dry commentary. Normal. Easy. Safe.

But the undercurrent of something unsaid, something significant, runs beneath it all, making my skin prickle with awareness.

What do they want from me? What am I to them? The questions circle in my mind, growing louder with each passing hour, each gentle touch, each careful avoidance of anything too real.

By the time we finish clearing the dishes, I feel like I might crawl out of my skin if I don’t get a moment alone.

“I think I’m going to turn in early,” I announce, feigning a yawn. “Still recovering, you know.”

Four pairs of eyes turn to me with varying degrees of concern.

“Are you feeling alright?” Mason asks, his brow furrowing. “I can make you some tea.”

“I’m fine,” I insist, though with less edge than I might have used before. “Just tired.”

“I’ll walk you up,” Caleb says immediately, already rising from his chair.

Something in his eagerness—the constant attentiveness, the perfect care they’ve all shown—makes my chest tighten with a familiar anxiety.

The memory of Eric’s voice slips into my mind: You’re not pack material, Leah.

Too independent. Too stubborn. No alpha wants an omega who doesn’t know her place .

The words had gutted me and I still hear them when someone looks at me too closely, cares too much, tries too hard. Like now. With them. The Le Roux pack with their handsome perfection and caring touches.

“I can find my way,” I say, voice surprisingly steady. “It’s only been two days, but I’ve got the floor plan pretty well memorized.”

Caleb looks like he might argue, but Liam places a hand on his arm. “Let her go, Cale. She needs space.”

Thank God for Liam’s perceptiveness. Of all of them, he seems to understand a little.

But the full extent of it…I don’t think he has a clue.

That what terrifies me isn’t their lack of interest, but the possibility that their interest is temporary—that once they really see me, really understand how I struggle with the traditional omega role, they’ll pull away like everyone else has.

“Good night,” I say to all of them, offering a smile that feels vulnerable rather than brittle. “Thank you for dinner.”

I retreat upstairs, the weight of their gazes following me, making my shoulders tense with the unspoken expectations I can’t quite decipher.

Caleb’s bedroom, my temporary sanctuary, is neat and orderly, everything in its place. I consider changing into the pajamas I’ve been using (his t-shirt, because apparently I’m a masochist), but the thought of being wrapped in his scent right now makes something twist uncertainly in my chest.

Instead, I pull on the borrowed sweater Liam gave me yesterday when I complained about being cold—a soft, purple cashmere that probably cost more than my monthly rent—and curl up on the window seat, staring out at the street below.

What am I doing here? What do they want from me? What do I want from them?

The questions circle in my mind, each one tangled in my complicated history with relationships, with my independence, with my deep-seated fear of being seen as weak or needy.

I must doze off there, because I wake with a start sometime in the darkest part of the night, my neck stiff from the awkward position, my throat dry. The digital clock on the nightstand reads 3:17 AM.

Water, I decide. And maybe a chance to clear my head without four intensely attentive males watching my every move.

I slip out of the bedroom quietly, not wanting to wake anyone. The hallway is dark, but a faint glow comes from downstairs—someone has left a light on in the kitchen or living room. I move carefully down the stairs, avoiding the spots I know will creak.

As I reach the bottom, I hear voices. Low, masculine murmurs. I should ignore them, should get my water and return to bed. It’s none of my business what the pack discusses in the middle of the night.

But then I hear my name, and all noble intentions evaporate.

I creep closer to the partially open door, my heart pounding in my ears.

“We need to talk about Leah,” Mason says, his voice carrying a serious tone.

“What about her?” Caleb asks.

“Her heat’s over. She’s recovering well. Soon she’ll want to go back to her life,” Mason points out. “Her bakery. Her apartment.”

My chest tightens at the simple truth of it. I do have a life waiting for me. Responsibilities. Dreams that have nothing to do with these four males or their pack.

“She can run her bakery and still be with us,” Caleb argues. “Those things aren’t mutually exclusive.”

“Aren’t they?” Liam sounds thoughtful. “Traditional pack dynamics typically involve the omega centered in the home. Especially with multiple alphas. The protective instincts alone...”

“We can’t keep pretending this is just about her heat,” Jude interjects. “We all know what happened in that nest was more than just biological convenience.”

My heart gives a massive thump. What is he saying?

“We protect what’s ours,” Caleb says with that alpha certainty that simultaneously irritates and thrills me. “Whether she’s at the bakery or here.”

“But is she ours?” Mason challenges softly. “Really?”

The question hangs in the air, and I find myself holding my breath.

“She’s independent,” Liam says finally. “Self-sufficient. Used to handling everything on her own.”

The words aren’t a criticism, just a statement of fact. But they hit me like a punch in the gut nonetheless.

“You think she wants us hovering because we feel obligated after her heat?” Jude asks. “She’d hate that. She’s made it clear she doesn’t want to be anyone’s responsibility.”

My throat tightens. Is that what they think of my independence? That I’m rejecting their care?

“She needed us,” Mason says quietly. “That’s all that matters. But now she doesn’t. And we need to be prepared for that reality.”

“A normal omega would be nesting by now,” Liam observes. “Settling in. She’s still sleeping in Caleb’s room because she won’t even enter the nest we built.”

Normal. They don’t see me as normal. But that shouldn’t surprise me. I’m not normal. I know that. So why do his words hurt so bad?

“Because it’s not who she is,” Mason says with a sigh. “We need to accept that.”

You’re not pack material, Leah. You never will be.

“So what do we do?” Caleb sounds frustrated. “Just let her walk away?”

There’s a heavy silence, and I can almost feel the tension.

“I don’t know,” Jude admits finally. “I just know letting her leave feels wrong.”

“It’s not about what feels right to us,” Liam points out. “It’s about what’s best for Leah. For her goals. Her life.”

“And a pack of overprotective alphas might not be it,” Mason concludes.

The simple truth of it settles on me like a weight. They’re right. All of them. A traditional omega would be thrilled with the attention, the care, the protection these four offer. Would be happily nesting, settling in, finding her place in their established order.

Not running a business. Not guarding her independence. Not bristling at basic protective gestures.

Eric was right. I’m not pack material. Not because there’s anything wrong with me, but because what I want from life doesn’t align with what packs need from their omegas.

These four deserve someone who fits naturally into their world. Someone who doesn’t require them to change everything about how they operate. Someone who can give them what they need without fighting it every step of the way.

And I deserve to pursue my dreams, my independence, my bakery, without feeling like I’m constantly falling short of pack expectations.

My stomach drops, the cold reality washing over me like ice water. This connection between us, intense as it is, can’t last. Not without someone fundamentally changing who they are.

And I won’t ask that of them. Won’t disrupt the beautiful harmony they’ve built together. Won’t make them question their instincts every time I insist on doing something myself instead of letting them care for me.

I back away from the door, my bare feet silent on the hardwood. I need to go before this gets any more complicated. Before hearts get involved more than they already are. Before I start to believe I could be what they need, if only I tried hard enough.

The truth is simple and painful: no matter how much chemistry exists between us, some things just aren’t meant to be.

Dawn finds me dressed in the clothes I arrived in—now laundered and folded in the closet.

I’ve been careful, quiet, listening for any sound of the pack stirring.

But the house remains silent, the four males still asleep after their late-night conversation about the fundamental incompatibility between what they need and who I am.

I make my way downstairs, my heart a leaden weight in my chest.

In the kitchen, I pause, allowing myself one last look at the space that has, against all odds, begun to feel like home.

The coffee maker Mason programs each night.

The color-coded spice rack that made me laugh with Liam.

The ridiculous novelty mugs Jude collects, each one more inappropriate than the last.

My eyes fall on the white ceramic mug Mason always sets out for me, the one with the tiny chip in the handle.

Without overthinking it, I take it, wrapping it carefully in a napkin before tucking it to my chest. A small piece of this place to take with me.

A reminder of what might have been, in some other life where I was different. Where I fit.

I’m about to leave when I pause, struck by the realization that I can’t just vanish without a word. Whatever else has happened between us, they’ve been kind to me. They deserve... something. Some acknowledgment.

But what can I possibly say? “Sorry, I’m not the omega you need”? “Thanks for trying to make it work with someone fundamentally incompatible with your lifestyle”?

In the end, I take Mason’s dark blue button-down—one I’ve been sleeping in—and fold it neatly on the counter. I leave Liam’s borrowed sweater beside it, perfectly folded the way he likes things. The gesture feels both like gratitude and acknowledgment of what can’t be.

I find a notepad by the phone and hesitate, pen hovering over the paper. What can I possibly write that won’t sound bitter or self-pitying?

Thanks for everything. You deserve an omega who fits.

Simple. Honest. A recognition that they’re not the problem. I am.

I place the note on top of the folded clothes and turn away before I can second-guess myself.

Outside, the air is cool and fresh, the first hints of dawn painting the sky in pale gold and pink. I walk briskly, putting distance between myself and the pack house with every step.

Back to reality. Back to being who I truly am.

It’s better this way, I tell myself. Better to acknowledge the truth before anyone gets hurt worse than they already will be. Before they try to change who they are to accommodate me. Before I try to become someone I’m not just to keep them.

I don’t look back. I can’t. If I do, I might give in to the irrational hope that somehow we could make it work. That I could be what they need without losing myself in the process.

But deep in my chest, where my omega instincts live, something howls in protest—a keening, mournful sound that follows me all the way home. Because even as my mind knows this is the right decision, my heart isn’t convinced.

Some part of me, the part I’ve spent years ignoring, wonders if maybe, just maybe, what they need isn’t a traditional omega at all.

Maybe what they need is me—exactly as I am.

But that’s a fantasy. And I’ve never been one to live in fantasy.

So I walk away from the only pack that’s ever made me feel like I might belong, carrying nothing but a chipped mug and the memory of four males who almost made me believe I could be enough.