Page 142 of Pack Plus One

Mason leans down, his fingers brushing a strand of damp hair from my face. “Ours,” he corrects softly, his gaze steady and unshaken.

Liam kisses my temple again, his free hand tracing lazy circles on my hip. “You’re perfect, Leah,” he murmurs, his voice full of quiet reverence.

Jude collapses beside me on the mat, his grin lazy and satisfied as he props himself up on one elbow. “So,” he says, his tone teasing, “still think mini-golf was better?”

I laugh weakly, the sound breathless and wrecked, my body boneless and sated.

Caleb growls low in his throat, but his hand slides possessively down my stomach, his thumb brushing over the sensitive skin just above where his knot holds us together.

I’m in so much trouble. The good kind.

28

LEAH

Some days later

I’m one rogue strip of wallpaper away from snapping.

The floral print I’d insisted on—because it was “charming” and “whimsical”—is fighting me like a feral cat. I press it against the wall with both hands, holding my breath as the glue starts to set. For a glorious half-second, it stays put.

Then it peels away again, flopping to the floor like it’s staging a protest.

“Right,” I mutter, picking it up for what feels like the hundredth time. “You want war? Fine. Let’s go.”

The bell above the bakery door jingles, and Zoe strides in, her beta energy sharp and brisk as usual. She’s carrying two coffees and a croissant, which she waves at me like a peace treaty.

“You’re late,” I say, glaring at her from the top of my wobbly ladder.

“I brought caffeine,” she replies, unapologetic. “Time runs on coffee, not clocks.”

I climb down, wiping glue-covered hands on my leggings before grabbing the cup she offers me. “If you’re not here to suffer with me, you’re legally required to leave.”

“Oh, I’m here to suffer,” she says, taking a bite of her croissant as she surveys the chaos around her. “But mostly I came to make sure you haven’t accidentally glued yourself to the wall.”

“Not yet,” I mutter, sipping my coffee. “But give it time. The launch is in two weeks, and this stupid wallpaper is trying to kill me.”

Zoe sets her coffee down, tilting her head to examine my wallpapering handiwork. “It’s... definitely a statement.”

“The statement is ‘I have no idea what I’m doing,’” I groan. “Why did I think DIY was a good idea? I should have hired professionals like a normal person.”

“Because you’re pathologically incapable of delegating,” Zoe says cheerfully. She pulls her hair back and rolls up her sleeves. “Also, you’re broke.”

I can’t argue with her assessment. Opening a bakery has drained my savings to the point where every penny counts. Hence the DIY wallpapering disaster unfolding in my would-be charming seating area.

Zoe picks up the fallen strip of wallpaper with two fingers, like she’s handling something potentially radioactive. “So what’s the plan here? Just keep gluing it until it submits to our authority?”

“Exactly,” I nod, snatching it back. “Wallpaper responds to dominance. I read that on the internet.”

“Right alongside ‘essential oils cure taxes’ and ‘the moon is made of alpha tears’?”

I laugh despite myself. Having Zoe here makes the monumental task of finishing the bakery feel slightly less overwhelming. Two weeks till the official grand opening.

“Have you seen the guys this morning?” Zoe asks casually—too casually. She’s been unnervingly interested in my pack situation since the day they showed up at her apartment to bring me home.

“Mason stopped by at dawn and helped me with the seating arrangements,” I say, trying not to smile at the memory of the beta’s muscles flexing. “Jude sent sixteen texts about the sign installation, each one with more exclamation points than the last. And Liam called to confirm the health inspector’s visit scheduled for Thursday.”

“And the big bad alpha?”

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