Page 112 of Pack Plus One

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’tknow 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.”

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