Page 78 of Pack Plus One

Right.Survival.

I press a hand to my abdomen, willing the cramp to ease. It doesn’t. If anything, it sharpens the hunger, narrowing my focus to one singular, all-consuming thought:

Blueberry muffins.

Not just any muffins. The ones from the café down the street with the crumbly streusel topping that melts on your tongue. The ones that, right now, feel as essential to my survival as oxygen.

I eye the fire escape through my window. The Le Roux pack is out there somewhere, hovering like overly attractive guardian angels. The thought of seeing them while I’m in this state sends a shiver down my spine that I can’t decide is due to fear…or something else entirely.

Five minutes. I just need five minutes to grab supplies without four alphas—three alphas and a beta, I mentally correct—tracking my every move like I’m some documentary on the Discovery Channel.

It’s not like I’mafraidof them. I just can’t face them right now, not with my hormones staging a full-scale rebellion and my skin feeling two sizes too small. Not after I threw their concern back in their faces at dinner. Not with the memory of Caleb’s hand in mine, Mason’s steady gaze, Jude’s uncharacteristic silence, and Liam’s quiet worry.

Just thinking about them makes my temperature spike another two degrees.

No. I’ve survived heats alone before. I’ll survive this one too.

I grab my emergency pre-heat checklist from the drawer:

1. Water (?)

2. Protein bars (?)

3. Clean sheets (?)

4. Toys (?)

5. Dignity (?)

The last one is a lost cause.

But the muffins—those aren’t on any list. Those are pure, hormone-driven need, the kind that makes rational thought impossible. And I’m going to get them if it kills me.

Which, given my current state, feels distinctly possible.

I check the time. 8:42 AM. The café opens at nine. If I leave now, I can be first in line, grab my muffins, and be back before anyone realizes I’m gone.

Perfect plan. Foolproof, even.

I spray myself with so much scent neutralizer that my eyes water. For good measure, I spritz extra on my pulse points, where the heat scent radiates strongest. The chemical tang burns my nostrils, but it’s better than broadcasting “desperate omega” to every alpha within a three-block radius.

Next, layers. Lots of them.

I pull on sweatpants (two sizes too big), leggings underneath (just in case), an oversized hoodie, and—because I apparently hate myself—Mason’s shirt that I wore home afterthatnight. I bury it under two more shirts because I’mnotthat pathetic.

(I am absolutely that pathetic.)

Sunglasses, even though the sun isn’t blazing yet. A scarf, even though it’s May. A baseball cap pulled low.

I glance in the mirror.

Perfect. I look like a college student who’s given up on life. Or a bank robber with poor fashion sense.

The fire escape groans as I ease the window open. I freeze, listening for any sign that my would-be protectors have heard. Nothing but the distant sound of early morning traffic.

I slip outside, wincing as the metal creaks beneath my weight. A fat pigeon on the railing gives me a judgmental side-eye.

“Don’t start with me,” I mutter. “I’ve taken down tougher birds than you for less.”

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