Page 115 of Pack Plus One

Which means I’ll need to face reality eventually.

“Work crisis?” Zoe asks, pausing the movie.

“No, just a reminder that I have responsibilities.” I sigh, setting the phone down. “I can’t hide forever. I have a bakery to launch.”

“Debatable. I once hid from a date for three months by taking different routes to work.”

“That’s because he was a creep who called you ‘breedable,’” I point out. “These guys are...” I trail off, not sure how to finish that sentence.

“Hot? Successful? Clearly into you?” Zoe supplies helpfully. “Attentive enough that you stole their belongings to comfort yourself?”

I don’t respond, but my eyes drift to Mason’s mug sitting on the coffee table. I’ve been stealing glances at it all morning, drawn to its familiar shape and the lingering traces of their scent.

I sigh.

Phase Three: Secretly sniff the stolen mug when Zoe goes to the bathroom. Inhale the lingering scent of pack and comfort. Feel my stupid omega self preen at the memory of being surrounded by their scents, their care, their attention.

They chased me last time.

The thought slips in unwelcome. After I’d stayed at their house, had mind-blowing sex, and left quickly after realizing how fast I was falling.

This time they will again.

The certainty of it spreads through me like wildfire. What happened between us during my heat, the days after—it wasn’t just biological convenience or a casual fling. There were moments of connection, of understanding, of seeing and being seen.

They will look for me.

The knowledge should terrify me, but instead, it sends a traitorous thrill down my spine, my inner omega self preens.

Knock it off, I tell myself firmly.This isn’t some romance novel where being chased is sexy. This is your life, your independence at stake.

My phone buzzes on the coffee table. Then buzzes again. And again.

Zoe returns with two glasses of wine—because it’s never too early for poor decisions when you’re hiding from a pack of gorgeous men—and nods at my phone. “Aren’t you going to check that?”

“No.”

“Liar.” She grabs it before I can stop her, swiping to unlock it (because of course I told her my passcode during some drunken girls’ night). “Ooooh, we’ve got a full-court press here.”

I lunge for the phone. Zoe dodges with surprising agility for someone who describes her exercise routine as “aggressively avoiding exercise.”

“From Jude,” she reads aloud, adopting a dramatic announcer voice. “Doll, I will hand-feed you grapes like a Roman emperor. Please come back. Attached is a... is he wearing the grape stem like a mustache?”

I groan, picturing Jude’s ridiculousness perfectly. He would absolutely send a selfie with a grape stem mustache during an emotional crisis.

“Liam says:I carved you a mixing bowl.” She squints at the screen. “With a photo of it on his lap. That’s... weirdly hot? Is this some kind of alpha code I don’t understand?”

“Give me that!” I snatch the phone back just as another text comes in.

Mason

The house smells wrong without you.

My breath catches. That one hits different. Mason doesn’t do flowery words or grand gestures. He doesn’t waste time with dramatic declarations. If he says something smells wrong, he means it—and for a beta without a sensitive nose, that’spractically a declaration of... something. Something I’m not ready to name.

Then Caleb’s message pops up:

Talk to me.

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