Page 65 of Pack Plus One

Caleb exhales through his nose, his grip tightening on his fork until the metal actuallybends.

It’s clear everyone’s tense. I’m not making it any better waiting before delving into why I called them here tonight. Taking a deep breath, I stab a piece of lamb. “So. You sent me aphotoof myunderwear.”

Jude beams, completely unrepentant. “To be fair, it was atastefulphoto. Excellent lighting. Composition. A real artistic statement about?—”

“Jude,” Mason warns.

“—the fragility of intimate garments in modern society?”

I narrow my eyes. “You were holding them. To yourface.”

“That’s where noses are generally located, yes.”

Caleb sets down his fork with deliberate calm. “We’re idiots.”

Finally, something we can all agree on.

“Speak for yourself,” Jude protests. “I’m a genius. This dinner wouldn’t even be happening if I hadn’t accidentally sent that photo.”

“Accidentally,” Liam repeats skeptically.

“Completely accidental,” Jude insists. “A true technological mishap.”

“Like the ‘accidentally’ arranged vegetables?” I ask dryly.

Jude grins. “Those were intentional. And you loved them.”

“I did not?—”

“You kept them,” he points out, gesturing to the wilting arrangement. “That’s omega for ‘I’m secretly charmed.’”

“It is not!”

“Is too. Ask any alpha.” He looks around the table for support. “Back me up here, guys.”

Liam clears his throat. “Actually, data suggests that most omegas prefer more traditional courting gifts, like?—”

“No one asked for a peer-reviewed study, professor,” Jude interrupts.

“I’m just saying?—”

“You’re both missing the point,” Mason interjects calmly. “Which is that we’ve been behaving inappropriately, and Leah deserves an apology.”

“Thank you!” I throw my hands up. “Finally, someone with sense.”

Caleb, who has been unnervingly quiet throughout the meal, finally speaks. “You’re right.” His deep voice sends an involuntary shiver down my spine. “We’ve been acting like teenagers. It’s unbecoming.”

“Speak for yourself,” Jude mutters. “I’ve been acting like a horny twenty-something, at least.”

Before I can respond, the sound of glass shattering fills the room. All of us turn to find Caleb frozen, the stem of his wine glass broken between his fingers, deep red liquid spreading across my white tablecloth like blood.

“Shit,” he mutters, reaching for a napkin.

“Don’t,” I say quickly, grabbing his hand without thinking. “You’re bleeding.”

Sure enough, a thin line of crimson crosses his palm where the glass cut him.

“It’s nothing,” he insists, but I hold firm.

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