Page 71 of Pack Plus One

More silence.

“We behaved horribly,” I admit, resting my palm against the door frame. “All of us. Caleb trying to dictate what was best for you, Jude being... well, Jude. Mason and me arguing about the right approach.” I swallow hard. “None of us thought about what you wanted. We just... projected our own desires onto you. That wasn’t fair.”

A soft sound from inside—a sigh, maybe?

“We should have respected your boundaries from the beginning,” I continue. “Instead, we acted like... well, like exactly the kind of alphas you were trying to avoid.”

The lock clicks. The door opens just enough to reveal Leah’s face—or part of it, at least. One whiskey-brown eye peers out at me, a sliver of flushed cheek visible in the gap.

“You don’t have to apologize,” she says, her voice huskier than usual. “I overreacted.”

Relief floods my chest. “No, you didn’t. We were out of line.”

“It’s fine,” she insists, shifting restlessly behind the door. “Really.”

Something’s off. Her scent drifts through the crack in the door—vanilla and cinnamon, yes, but sweeter now, richer, likesugar caramelizing over an open flame. My mouth waters instinctively before my brain catches up with my biology.

Oh.

That’s not just her normal scent. That’s...

“Are you feeling alright?” I ask carefully, studying what little I can see of her. Her skin is flushed, a fine sheen of perspiration visible on her forehead. Her hair looks damp at the temples, like she’s been running a fever.

“I’m fine,” she says quickly—too quickly. “Just... I’ve been baking all morning. It’s hot in here.”

The lie hangs between us, transparent as glass. But it’s not my place to call her on it. Not after everything.

“Let us make it up to you,” I offer instead. “A do-over dinner, perhaps? We promise to behave like adults this time.”

“That would be... nice,” she admits, her grip tightening on the door. “But not right away. I’m going to be busy for a while.”

“How long is ‘a while’?” I ask, trying to keep my tone light.

“Two weeks,” she says firmly. “Maybe a bit more.”

Two weeks. The average length of an omega heat cycle plus recovery time.

I work to keep my expression neutral. “The bakery launch is coming up, isn’t it? If you need any help?—”

“I don’t,” she interrupts, shifting again. Is she... swaying slightly? “I have it under control.”

“Leah,” I say gently, “you don’t look well.”

She gives me a forced smile. “I’m fine. Truly.”

“Are you sure? Because if you need anything?—”

“I’m going to the omega center,” she blurts out, then immediately looks like she regrets it. “For... for a check-up. Routine stuff. Nothing to worry about.”

My stomach sinks. Omega centers are sterile, clinical places where unmated omegas can safely ride out their heats. Theyprovide suppressants, toys, and medical supervision—but no personal connection, no comfort, no care.

“I see,” I manage, though the thought of her suffering through her heat in one of those cold, impersonal rooms makes my chest ache. “When?”

“Tomorrow,” she says, avoiding my gaze. “Early.”

Another lie? Her scent is potent. Will she even make it until tomorrow?

But it’s not my place to say that. Never was.

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