Page 163 of Pack Plus One

“Is that a threat?” Caleb materializes at my side, his voice deathly quiet.

Eric falters, finally noticing the four males who have formed a protective semicircle around me. His gaze darts between them, calculation and fear warring in his expression.

“It’s a promise,” he says finally, but the words lack conviction. “Enjoy your victory while it lasts.”

He turns to leave, only to find himself face-to-face with Mrs. Finley, who has positioned herself directly in his path.

“Young man,” she says, looking up at him through her bifocals, “in my day, alphas knew how to lose with dignity.”

“Get out of my way, old woman,” Eric mutters.

Mrs. Finley’s eyes narrow dangerously. “I beg your pardon?”

“I said?—”

Whatever Eric meant to say is lost as Mrs. Finley, with the speed and precision of someone who’s been waiting decades for this moment, brings her heavily bedazzled purse swinging upward in a perfect arc. It connects with Eric’s chin with a satisfying thwack.

The café goes silent. Then erupts.

“That’s assault,” Eric sputters, holding his jaw.

“That’s karma,” Mrs. Finley corrects sweetly. “And if you’d like to explain to the police how an eighty-three-year-old omega managed to assault a prime-age alpha, I’ll wait right here.”

Eric looks around the café, taking in the sea of unsympathetic faces, the pack’s protective stance, and Mrs. Finley’s triumphant smile.

Without another word, he turns and flees.

The mariachi band, with impeccable comedic timing, plays a mournful “wah-wah-wah“ riff as the door closes behind him.

“Did you see his face?“ Jude crows, rewatching the video he somehow managed to capture despite being across the room. “Pure Instagram gold. I’m thinking viral by dinner.”

“You are not posting that,” I say firmly. “Mrs. Finley could get in trouble.”

“Please,” she scoffs. “At my age, what are they going to do? Take away my bingo privileges?”

The café patrons, thoroughly entertained by the drama, have resumed their chatter, many now ordering seconds “to celebrate the show.”

I turn to the pack, arms crossed. “Did you really mess with his suppliers?”

They exchange guilty looks before Liam clears his throat and shrugs.

“And the health inspector?”

“An anonymous tip,” Mason admits. “Nothing fabricated, just... accelerated oversight.”

I should be angry. I should lecture them about fair play and taking the high road. Instead, I find myself fighting a smile.

“You’re all terrible,” I say, but my tone belies the words.

“Terribly effective,” Jude corrects, slinging an arm around my shoulders. “Admit it, you love it when we go all protective alpha on your behalf.”

“I admit nothing,” I say, but I lean into his side all the same.

The afternoon passes in a blur of customers, pastries, and mariachi music. By closing time, the display cases are empty, the coffee urns drained, and my feet aching in the best possible way.

“Final tally,” Mason announces, consulting his tablet as the last customer leaves. “Three hundred twenty-seven transactions. Ninety-eight percent positive feedback. Forty-seven loyalty card sign-ups beyond the pre-sold hundred. And,“ he looks up with quiet pride, “seventeen advance orders for custom cakes.”

“That’s…” I blink, overwhelmed. “That’s amazing.”

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