Page 40 of Pack Plus One (Sweetwater City Reverse Harem Omegaverse #1)

LEAH

T he morning air bites at my cheeks as I power-walk down the empty street, arms full of contraband and heart pounding like I’ve just robbed a bank instead of... well, technically robbing a house. A pack house. Full of alphas who could probably track me by scent alone if they wanted to.

Which they won’t.

Probably.

Mason’s mug is clutched to my chest like a stolen relic. The half-eaten chocolate bar from Jude’s “secret” stash is melting against my palm, leaving sticky trails between my fingers.

My dignity? Yeah, that got left behind somewhere between Caleb’s growl of “mine” and me crawling out of his bed while he slept on the couch, between Mason’s gentle “stay another day” and me stuffing my feet into shoes without socks.

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid .

My inner monologue has all the eloquence of a concussed pigeon right now.

Why did I think this time would be different?

The streets are nearly empty, the city still rubbing sleep from its eyes. A delivery truck rumbles past, the driver giving me a curious look—probably wondering why a disheveled omega is speed-walking through the pre-dawn gloom with a stolen mug and melting chocolate.

I pause at a crosswalk, waiting for the light to change even though there’s no traffic. Old habits. Following rules even when I’m breaking all the important ones.

A particularly judgmental stray cat watches me from atop a dumpster, its tail flicking in disapproval. I glare back. “What? Never seen an omega make terrible life choices before?”

The cat yawns, exposing tiny fangs that seem to say, “Amateur.”

This is what my life has come to—arguing with alley cats while fleeing from the first pack that’s made me feel something real in years.

“It’s not running away,” I tell the cat, who clearly doesn’t care. “It’s self-preservation. They want a traditional omega. I’m not that. Never will be.”

The cat starts grooming itself, utterly indifferent to my existential crisis.

“They’ll bend over backwards trying to accommodate me,” I continue, shifting the mug to my other hand. “And then they’ll resent me for it. Tale as old as time.”

But…their hands felt like home , the traitorous omega within me whispers.

I nearly trip over a crack in the sidewalk. “Shut up.”

A woman walking her dog gives me a wide berth, clearly concerned about the omega talking to herself while clutching stolen goods. I don’t blame her. I’m concerned about me too.

The scent of fresh croissants wafts from a bakery truck making its morning deliveries, the sweet buttery aroma curling around me like a temptation. My stomach growls loud enough to startle a pigeon. Traitorous body.

My phone buzzes again in my pocket. For the sixth time in twenty minutes. I don’t look. If I look, I’ll cave. If I cave, I’ll?—

Nope . Not thinking about that.

Not thinking about how Jude’s eyes crinkle when he laughs, the way his whole face transforms when he’s genuinely amused. Definitely not remembering how he’ll dramatically clutch his chest when I insult him, like I’ve fatally wounded him.

Not thinking about how Liam’s presence alone calms the storm in my chest. How his voice somehow untangles the knots in my stomach before I even realize they’re there.

Absolutely not recalling how Mason notices everything. How he quietly adjusts things to my preferences without comment.

And definitely not thinking about Caleb’s mouth on my neck, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin.

Almost . He’d almost bitten me.

And I’d almost let him.

The stolen mug burns against my skin and my thighs ache in a way that has nothing to do with walking and everything to do with Caleb’s possessive grip, the bruises from his fingers a secret map on my skin. The barely-there sting between my legs that pulses in time with my heartbeat.

I pick up my pace, as if I can outrun the memories of the past few days.

As if I can pretend I didn’t hear them last night, discussing how I don’t fit the traditional omega mold they need.

As if I didn’t lie awake in Caleb’s bed for hours afterward, their words echoing in my head like a cruel reminder of every failed relationship I’ve ever had.

“ A normal omega would be nesting by now .”

“ She’s independent. Self-sufficient. ”

“ She needed us. But now she doesn’t .”

Well, they’re right about one thing. I don’t need them.

I don’t need anyone. I’ve been taking care of myself since I presented at fifteen, since my parents’ awkward “we love you but we don’t know what to do with an omega” phase that never quite ended.

I built my bakery from nothing, survived Eric’s crushing rejection, lived through challenges that would have broken most people.

I don’t need a pack of alphas to complete me, no matter how right it felt to fall asleep surrounded by their scents, no matter how safe I felt with Liam’s steady presence or how seen I felt under Mason’s attentive gaze.

The city is waking up around me now. A street cleaner hums past, the driver nodding at me in solidarity—another early riser navigating the world before most have opened their eyes.

A young couple, clearly heading home from a night out, stumble past me giggling.

The woman—another omega, by her scent—has a claiming bite visible above her collar, still fresh and red.

My hand flies to my own neck, fingers tracing the unmarked skin there.

What would it have been like, if I’d stayed? If I’d pretended to be what they wanted—a “normal” omega who would nest happily, who wouldn’t bristle at protective gestures, who wouldn’t insist on running her own business and making her own decisions? Could I have made them happy, made myself fit?

No. I’ve tried that before, with Eric. Tried to be smaller, less ambitious, more “omega.” It had hollowed me out, left me a shadow of myself—and he still left in the end, claiming I “wasn’t pack material” even after all my compromises.

Better to leave on my own terms. Better to walk away before I start to believe I could be what they need if only I tried hard enough.

The bus stop comes into view. I wait there for a bit.

The bus comes…and I end up not getting on.

I head down the street instead. I need the physical exertion, need to feel the burn in my muscles to counteract the ache in my chest. Besides, I’m not going to my apartment.

I can’t. They’ll look for me there first.

Zoe’s apartment building looms ahead like a sanctuary.

Six stories of weathered brick with window boxes that will burst with flowers come spring.

I take the stairs two at a time, my breath coming in short puffs by the time I reach the fourth floor.

At her door—4C, with the peeling Rosie the Riveter sticker in the corner—I knock our old code: three sharp raps, pause, then two more.

Long seconds pass. I check my watch: 6:37 AM. She’s going to kill me.

The lock clicks, the door swings open, and there she is in all her sleep-deprived glory—ratty “I’m Not a Morning Person” t-shirt, bedhead that could stab someone, and a spatula in one hand like she’s prepared to either cook breakfast or commit murder. Maybe both.

Her eyes rake over me—disheveled hair, stolen goods, general aura of regret—and one eyebrow arches.

“Ah.” She steps aside. “You ran away.”

I squeeze past her into the apartment, making a beeline for the couch where I face-plant directly onto a cushion. “I’m an idiot.”

“No argument here,” Zoe says, but there’s no judgment in it. She tosses a blanket over me like she’s covering a particularly pathetic piece of furniture. “So. Did they fuck you or fight you?”

“Both,” I mumble into a throw pillow that smells suspiciously like popcorn and cheap wine.

“At the same time? Kinky.”

I turn my head just enough to glare at her. “Not what I meant.”

“You sure? Because you reek of satisfied omega and—” she sniffs the air dramatically, “—multiple alphas. Wait.” She leans closer, nostrils flaring. “Did you go into heat?”

I groan, burying my face back in the pillow.

“Oh my god!” She pokes me with the spatula. “You went into heat with them? All of them? The brewery guys?”

“It was a surprise,” I mumble defensively. “A short one. I didn’t expect it.”

“And they helped you through it.” It’s not a question. “All four of them?”

I nod weakly into the pillow.

“Holy shit, Leah.” Zoe sounds equal parts impressed and concerned. “That explains why you smell like you’ve been marinated in alpha pheromones.”

“And one beta,” I correct, finally turning over to face her. “Mason’s a beta.”

“Three alphas and a beta.” She waggles her eyebrows. “And here I thought getting you to use a dating app was ambitious.”

She pries the mug from my death grip, examining it with interest. “You stole a mug? Bold move, even for you.”

“It was an accident.”

“An accident,” she repeats, deadpan. “You accidentally packed up a specific mug belonging to one of your heat partners and carried it miles across town at dawn.”

“He’s not my—” I start, then stop, because what exactly is Mason to me? What are any of them? “And yes. Accident.”

Zoe snorts, then sniffs the half-melted chocolate in my other hand. “And this? Another ‘accident’?”

“It was... comfort chocolate.”

“Uh-huh.” She takes the candy and examines the wrapper. “Imported Belgian? Fancy. Which one does this belong to?”

“Jude,” I admit reluctantly. “He thinks no one knows about his stash, but it’s in the back of the pantry behind the protein powder.”

“Of course it is,” Zoe says, dropping into the armchair across from me. “You realize you’re basically a walking cliché, right? Omega steals alpha’s belongings post-heat? Textbook nesting behavior.”

I flip her off without lifting my face from the pillow.