Page 111 of Pack Plus One

“No,” all three say in unison.

“Fine,” I grumble. “But for the record, I could totally do it.”

We make our way back to the SUV, the weight of the day’s failures settling heavily on our shoulders. The sky has darkened to deep twilight, streetlights flicking on one by one as we walk in silence.

“It’s like she fucking vanished,” I mutter, kicking at a pebble on the sidewalk.

Liam checks his phone again—a gesture he’s repeated at least a hundred times today, always with the same result. No messages, no missed calls. “She doesn’t want to be found.”

Mason grips the strap of his messenger bag, the first-aid kit still nestled inside like a talisman against disaster. “We pushed too hard.”

Caleb says nothing. Just stares ahead, jaw clenched, the set of his shoulders radiating a tension that would be alarming if I didn’t know him so well. He’s not angry—not really. He’s afraid. We all are.

For the first time in our years together as a pack, we have no next move.

No trail to follow. No omega to chase.

Just the sinking, gut-punch truth:

She’s gone.

And we have no idea when—or if—she’s coming back.

22

LEAH

The 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 acurious 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.”

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