Page 106 of Pack Plus One

“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 sevenunits, one part-time handyman who’s about a hundred and twelve years old. That sink’s been on my list for a month.”

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