Page 77 of Pack Plus One

Just checking in. Can you let me know you’re okay? Just a simple ‘yes’ will do.

I wait, watching the screen for those three little dots that would indicate she’s typing.

Nothing.

After five minutes of silence, I make a decision. I call the building manager’s emergency line, explaining the situation as calmly as I can. He arrives, sleepy-eyed and irritated, but listens to my concerns with growing seriousness.

“You sure about this, son? Omegas get prickly about privacy during?—”

“I know,” I cut him off, my voice strained. “But something’s wrong. I’m sure of it.”

He sighs, jingling his keys. “One quick look. And you stay in the hall.”

The door swings open.

The scent slams into me first—thick and sweet, drenched in vanilla and something darker, needier. My knees nearly buckle. The manager gags, staggering back.

“Christ,” he wheezes. “That’s not just pre-heat.”

The apartment is eerily intact.

Her nest still dominates the bed—blankets torn apart like she fought with them, pillows dented with the memory of her body. The whiskey bottle Mason brought sits half-empty on the counter. The spoon I carved for her rests neatly beside it.

But the fire escape window gapes open, curtains fluttering like surrender flags.

And Leah?—

Leah is gone.

“Well,” the manager says after a stunned moment, “looks like your omega friend flew the coop.”

I’m already texting the others, my fingers flying over the keyboard:

She’s gone. Fire escape. Get the car ready.

But even as we spring into action, a cold certainty settles in my gut: we’re already too late.

Leah has made her choice. And it wasn’t us.

17

LEAH

My apartment smells like poor life choices and desperation.

I stare at the half-built nest on my bed—a sad pile of blankets and one lone pillow that looks about as stable as my emotional state. The supplies they left outside my door mock me from the kitchen counter, each item painfully thoughtful.

I trail my fingers over each item, my throat tightening:

Caleb’s dark chocolate bars—the stupidly expensive kind. The wrapper crinkles under my touch, releasing a whiff of rich cocoa that makes my mouth water.

Jude’s heating pad, shaped like a grinning avocado with “Hot Stuff” embroidered on it in what looks like actual gold thread. Of course he’d find something ridiculous and perfect. I press the button, and it instantly warms to the perfect temperature, like it’s been programmed just for me.

Liam’s weighted blanket, folded up tight. The outer fabric is that exact shade of emerald green I love, and when I brush my fingers over it, the texture sends a shiver down my spine.How did he even know?

Mason’s first-aid kit, because of course he’d think of that. It’s stocked with electrolyte packets labeled by day, pain relievers, and—I blink—a tiny vial of lavender oil. The exact kind my grandmother used to rub on my temples when I was stressed.

My stomach growls, loud and insistent, dragging me back to reality at the same time that a cramp goes through me.

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