Page 38 of Pack Plus One (Sweetwater City Reverse Harem Omegaverse #1)

Liam steps forward, deploying what I privately call his “Politely Concerned Boyfriend” face. It’s a devastating combination of earnest worry and urbane charm that has gotten us out of more tight spots than I can count.

“We just need to check if she’s home,” Liam says, his voice pitched to the perfect note of concern without desperation. “We’re worried about her.”

The manager’s expression softens slightly. “Fine. But if she’s not there, you’re out. And I’m not letting you in again without her explicit permission.”

He completes the short distance to Leah’s door, fumbling with his massive ring of keys. Each jingle feels like it takes an eternity, and Caleb’s barely suppressed growl isn’t helping matters.

“Do you mind?” The manager glares at Caleb. “Your alpha posturing isn’t making these keys any easier to sort through.”

“Sorry,” Mason offers smoothly, stepping between them. “We’re just concerned.”

“Concerned,” the manager mutters, finally selecting a brass key.

“That’s what they all say. First it’s concern, then it’s territorial marking, and next thing you know I’m repainting the hallways because some alpha decided to punch through a wall.

” He shoots a pointed look at Caleb’s bruised knuckles.

I bite back a laugh despite the tension. The guy’s not wrong.

“You know,” the manager continues as he jiggles the key in the lock, “I could lose my job for this. Tenant privacy is a thing. A legal thing. With lawsuits and fines.”

“We appreciate the risk you’re taking,” Liam says with that perfect sincerity that makes people want to trust him. “If she’s unwell, your actions could be saving her life.”

“And if she’s just avoiding you lot?” The manager raises an eyebrow.

“Then we’ll leave immediately,” Mason promises, though Caleb’s growl suggests he might have different ideas.

The lock finally clicks, and the manager pushes the door open, holding it with obvious reluctance. “Five minutes. Then I’m calling the cops.”

“Generous,” I mutter, but Mason elbows me in the ribs before I can say anything that might get us thrown out.

We file into Leah’s apartment, and the moment the door swings fully open, I know something’s wrong. The air is stale, undisturbed, with none of the vibrant vanilla-cinnamon scent that follows Leah everywhere. In fact, her scent is so faint it might as well be a memory.

The living room is dim, curtains still drawn from whenever she last left. A thin layer of dust has settled on the coffee table, catching the morning light that filters through a gap in the drapes. There’s a mug on the side table, a dried ring at the bottom suggesting it’s been there for days.

“Leah?” Caleb calls, moving toward the bed with purpose, his voice tight with something close to panic. “Are you here?”

The bedroom area is just as still and undisturbed as the living room.

The bed is half-made, with the beginnings of the nest that she never got to finish—a few scarves and pillows arranged in a loose circle, abandoned when her heat hit too fast for her to complete it.

The sight makes my chest ache, remembering how desperate she’d been, how stubbornly she’d insisted she could handle it alone.

In the bathroom, the towels are dry and slightly stiff, the shower showing no signs of recent use. Even her toothbrush looks untouched, standing in its holder like a silent accusation.

“The kitchen,” Mason says, moving to check the small galley off the main living space.

The refrigerator holds a sad assortment of condiments, a half-empty carton of milk that’s definitely past its prime, and a withered apple. The sink is dry, dishes stacked neatly in the rack as if they haven’t been touched in days.

I turn to Liam, whose face has gone carefully blank in the way it does when he’s processing something unpleasant. “What do you think? Could she have gone somewhere else after leaving our place?”

Liam examines the apartment with methodical attention, his gaze lingering on the dust, the plants that are clearly desperate for water, the untouched mail piled near the door.

“It looks exactly as it did when she sneaked out to the café during her pre-heat,” he says finally, his voice carefully controlled.

“The same dishes in the rack. The same half-finished nest on the bed.” His gaze shifts between us, the implication clear.

“Which means she hasn’t returned here at all. ”

Caleb’s scent spikes sharply with something between rage and heartbreak, the dark chocolate and espresso notes turning bitter.

“She’s not coming back here,” he says, his voice flat.

“Ever?” I ask, because surely this is an overreaction. She has to come home eventually. This is where she lives.

“Not while she thinks we rejected her,” Mason says quietly, running a finger through the dust on her kitchen counter. “She’s gone somewhere she feels safe.”

“But where?” Liam asks, already pulling out his phone. “Her bakery?”

“We should check,” Mason agrees. “But I doubt she’d go there if she’s trying to avoid us. It’s too obvious.”

The building manager, who’s been hovering awkwardly in the doorway, clears his throat. “If you’re looking for Miss Carter, you might try Mrs. Finley in 3C. They’re... friendly.”

All four of us turn to look at him with such sudden intensity that he takes a step back.

“Mrs. Finley?” I repeat. “The elderly lady?”

The manager nods, clearly regretting offering this information. “They have tea sometimes. Mrs. Finley checks on her often.”

“Thank you,” Liam says with such genuine gratitude that the manager actually blushes. “That’s incredibly helpful.”

“Just... don’t make me regret it,” he mutters, already retreating. “And someone fix her sink before you leave. It’s been dripping for weeks.”

Mason immediately makes a note in his phone. I roll my eyes. Of course fixing Leah’s sink is a priority while we’re in the middle of a missing omega crisis.

“Isn’t that literally your job?” I call after the retreating manager. “You know, managing the building? Including maintenance?”

He pauses, turning back with an expression that suggests I’ve just asked why the sky isn’t purple. “Have you seen the maintenance backlog for this place? One hundred and seven units, one part-time handyman who’s about a hundred and twelve years old. That sink’s been on my list for a month.”

“We’ll take care of it,” Mason says, shooting me a warning look. “Consider it handled.”

“Of course we will,” I mutter under my breath. “Because we don’t have anything more important to do, like finding our runaway omega.”

The manager shrugs, already halfway to the stairwell. “Your girlfriend, your problem. Anyway, good luck finding her. That one’s got a stubborn streak wider than the interstate.”

I can’t argue with that assessment. Leah’s stubborn streak is legendary—and one of the things we all find irresistible about her, though I’m not about to admit that to Mr. Dripping Sink.

I pull out my phone and send Leah another text:

We need to talk. You misunderstood everything. Please call us.

It joins the many others I’ve sent since dawn, all unread, all unanswered.

We head down the corridor to Mrs. Finley’s, where a brass knocker shaped like a cat adorns the door. Liam is about to use it when I stop him.

“Let me handle this,” I say. “Elderly ladies love me.”

Caleb snorts and crosses his arms over his chest in a pose that screams “agitated alpha about to commit property damage.” Not exactly the vibe we want to present to an ally.

I knock, plastering on my most charming smile.

Mrs. Finley answers the door in a floral robe, a mug of tea in one hand and a suspicious glare that suggests she’s been waiting for this confrontation.

“Oh dear,” she says, not sounding the least bit surprised. “She’s run off again, hasn’t she?”

I blink, momentarily thrown by her response. “Uh…yeah…”

She takes a deliberate sip of her tea. Her gaze travels over the four of us with undisguised judgment. “Four alphas. Good heavens. No wonder she’s spooked.”

“I’m a beta, actually,” Mason corrects automatically, because apparently, taxonomy is the priority here.

“Three alphas and a beta, then,” she amends with a dismissive wave. “Still too many cooks in the kitchen, if you ask me.”

I deploy my most winning smile, the one that’s gotten me free drinks at every bar in the city. “You wouldn’t happen to know where our lovely omega disappeared to? We’re worried about her.”

She sniffs. “Even if I did, I wouldn’t tell you lot. I tried to help you before and you scared her off!”

Mason steps forward, looking genuinely desperate in a way I’ve rarely seen from our usually composed beta. “Please. We just want to make sure she’s okay.”

“There’s been a terrible misunderstanding,” Liam adds, his voice tight with urgency. “She overheard part of a conversation and completely misinterpreted it.”

“She thinks we want her to be some traditional, submissive omega,” I explain, the words tumbling out in a rush. “When we were actually saying the exact opposite—that we love her independence and don’t want her to change.”

Something flickers in Mrs. Finley’s expression—interest, perhaps, or skepticism.

“She thinks we’re rejecting her,” Caleb says, speaking for the first time since she opened the door. His voice is rough with emotion. “But we’re not. We want her exactly as she is.”

Mrs. Finley studies him for a long moment, then shifts her gaze to each of us in turn. Whatever she sees in our faces must satisfy her, because her expression softens. Slightly.

“That girl has had enough people telling her she’s not omega enough,” she says finally. “Her ex did quite a number on her self-esteem.”

“We know,” Mason says quietly. “And we would never want her to be anything other than exactly who she is.”

Mrs. Finley takes another sip of her tea, clearly weighing her options. Then she sighs. “Haven’t seen her for a few days.” A pause. “Thought she was with you.”

I resist the urge to groan in frustration. “She was. She left.”