Page 53 of Pack Plus One (Sweetwater City Reverse Harem Omegaverse #1)

My heart swells. For the next few minutes, we gather treasures—vanilla beans still glistening with moisture, saffron threads like captured sunlight, a jar of honey so dark it’s nearly black. Each selection reveals how closely he’s been paying attention to my work, my passions.

Dinner is at an intimate chef’s counter where the courses seem tailored specifically to my tastes. When I raise an eyebrow at the perfect wine pairing, Mason simply says, “You said you liked Le Roux.”

That’s Mason’s magic. The way he observes without intruding, cares without crowding. His quiet attention feels like a warm cloak I don’t want to get rid of.

On the brewery roof later, he spreads a blanket before producing a thermos. The rich chocolate scent makes me smile before I even taste it.

“You added cinnamon,” I note.

“Of course.” As if there was never another option. He arranges himself behind me, his chest against my back, arms bracketing me securely. “The shower should start in twelve minutes. Look northeast.”

The meteors come right on schedule, streaking across the sky as Mason names constellations in that low, steady voice. When I shiver, his arms tighten instinctively. “Cold?”

“Just perfect,” I murmur, leaning back into his warmth. His responding hum vibrates through me.

Later, at my door, he hesitates. That’s when I understand. For all his quiet confidence, this matters to him. My fingers find his collar, pulling him down into a kiss that starts soft but deepens when his control slips just enough to let me feel the hunger beneath.

“Goodnight, Mason,” I whisper against his lips.

His thumb brushes my cheekbone, his breathing not quite even. “Sleep well, Leah.”

As he turns to leave, I can’t resist adding, “Tell Caleb I’m looking forward to his turn.”

Mason’s lips quirk in that almost-smile he does. “I believe he’s already aware. Quite aware.”

The anticipation that statement sends coursing through me carries me all the way to sleep, dreams filled with stars and careful hands and the promise of what tomorrow might bring.

When Caleb texts “Meet me at the brewery’s private gym.

7 pm,” I stare at my phone like it might explain this abrupt invitation.

No greeting, no context. Just time and place in his typical no-nonsense style.

After Jude’s playful karaoke night and Mason’s thoughtful market tour, I’d expected something. .. different from our head alpha.

The brewery parking lot is nearly empty when I arrive, just a few security lights glowing against the brick exterior.

I’m buzzing the intercom when the side door swings open, revealing Caleb in his usual uniform of dark jeans and a black t-shirt stretched across his shoulders.

His hair is slightly damp, the scent of soap and his signature dark chocolate espresso scent wrapping around me as he steps aside to let me in.

“You came,” he says, approval evident in his tone.

I raise an eyebrow, trying to ignore the flutter in my stomach at his presence. “You didn’t give me much choice. Your text was very... commanding.”

A hint of a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “And yet, you’re here.”

“Curiosity,” I explain, gesturing around the empty gym. “Though I have to say, this isn’t what I expected for a date.”

“What did you expect?”

I shrug, trying for nonchalance. “I don’t know. Dinner? A movie? Some traditional alpha display of wealth and status?”

He snorts, moving farther inside with a predatory grace that makes my omega instincts sit up and take notice. “Not my style.”

“So what is your style?” I ask, following him cautiously.

He turns to face me, his expression serious. “Protection.”

The single word hangs between us, loaded with meaning. I blink, trying to process the implications. “I don’t need a bodyguard, Caleb.”

“Not a bodyguard,” he corrects. Caleb leads me down a hallway I’ve never noticed before, stopping at an unmarked door. “Our training space,” he says simply, pushing it open.

The gym is nothing like the commercial fitness centers I’ve seen. No mirrored walls or pink dumbbells - just polished concrete floors, serious-looking equipment, and an open mat area that takes up half the room. The air smells faintly of lemon cleaner and the musk of hard work.

I turn in a slow circle, taking it in. Understanding dawns. “You want to teach me self-defense.”

He nods, watching my reaction carefully. “Is that acceptable? You know, before you decide.”

“Decide what?”

His green eyes lock onto mine. “If we’re worth keeping.”

I blink at him. Here is an alpha who could easily overpower me, who society would say has every right to protect me as he sees fit, asking for my consent to teach me to protect myself.

“Yes,” I say, stepping onto the mats. “Show me.”

What follows is two hours of the most intensive physical training I’ve ever experienced.

Caleb is a demanding instructor, but his criticism is constructive, his demonstrations careful despite the strength I know he’s holding in check.

He shows me how to break various holds, how to use an attacker’s weight against them, how to identify and target vulnerable areas on a larger opponent.

“Again,” he says after I fail to execute a particular escape move for the third time. “You’re overthinking it. Trust your instincts.”

I grit my teeth, frustration building as he easily captures my wrists in his much larger hands. “Easy for you to say. Your instincts come with alpha strength.”

“And yours come with omega adaptability,” he counters, not loosening his grip. “Use it. I’m bigger, but you’re faster. I’m stronger, but you can be smarter.”

The challenge in his voice sparks something in me—determination, maybe, or just plain stubbornness. It works. I break free, backing away with a triumphant grin.

“Good,” he approves, a hint of pride in his expression. “Now, attack me.” He stands in the center of the mat, feet planted, arms at his sides.

I hesitate. “Just... attack you?”

He nods. “However you want.”

I study him, looking for any vulnerability. His stance is solid, his balance perfect. But there’s something in his eyes—a challenge, yes, but also something warmer, more approving. He’s watching me think, and he likes what he sees.

That realization gives me an idea. I move in again, but this time instead of aiming for a proper takedown, I drive my knee toward his thigh—not hard enough to truly hurt, but with enough force to make my point.

His eyes widen fractionally, and for a split second, his focus shifts to the unexpected target.

It’s all the opening I need. I use his momentary distraction to hook my foot behind his ankle and push, not with enough strength to topple him on my own, but with enough technique to throw him off balance.

He growls—a low, rumbling sound that vibrates through the air—and suddenly I’m the one falling, my back hitting the mat with enough force to knock the breath from my lungs. Caleb follows me down, his body covering mine, hands pinning my wrists above my head.

“Do it again,” he says, voice dropped to a register that sends shivers down my spine. “I dare you.”

The challenge in his eyes, the weight of him pressed against me, the scent of alpha arousal suddenly thick in the air—it’s intoxicating. I should be intimidated, maybe even afraid, but all I feel is a heady rush of excitement and my own answering arousal.

“What happens if I do?” I ask, my voice dropping to a husky tone I didn’t intend.

His eyes darken, pupils expanding as he takes in my flushed cheeks, my quickened breathing. “Try and find out.”

The tension between us is electric, a live wire of attraction that has been building since that first meeting at that pre-wedding cocktail party. With the others, there’s sweetness, exploration, gentle discovery. With Caleb, there’s this raw, primal, undeniable electricity.

I buck against his hold and his grip tightens, not painfully but with unmistakable dominance. When I try to knee him again, he shifts, slotting himself between my thighs in a way that makes us both freeze at the sudden, intimate contact.

“Leah,” he says, my name almost a growl in his throat.

“Caleb,” I return, deliberately flexing my hips upward.

The growl deepens, his control visibly fraying at the edges. I can see the moment he makes his decision, the slight nod to himself before he lowers his head to brush his lips against mine—a question, an offering.

I answer by surging upward, turning the tentative contact into something hungry and demanding. He responds immediately, his mouth claiming mine with such intensity it leaves no doubt who’s in charge.

One of his hands releases my wrist to cup my face, thumb stroking my cheekbone with surprising gentleness given the heat of our kiss.

I use my newly freed hand to explore the solid muscle of his shoulder, the taut line of his back.

Every touch seems to stoke the fire between us, his scent growing richer and more potent with each passing second.

When we finally break apart for air, his eyes have gone almost black with desire, just a thin ring of green visible around the dilated pupils. He’s breathing hard, his control hanging by a thread that I suddenly, desperately want to snap.

“Is this still part of the self-defense lesson?” I ask, my voice breathy and uneven.

The corner of his mouth quirks upward. “No. This is part of the ‘driving me crazy’ lesson.”

I can’t help the smile that spreads across my face. “Am I a good student?”

“Exceptional,” he rumbles, lowering his head to brush his lips against the sensitive spot just below my ear. “Though your technique could use some refinement.”

“Perhaps I need more hands-on instruction.”

His answering growl vibrates against my skin, sending shivers of anticipation down my spine. “Happy to provide it.”