Page 81 of Pack Plus One

Eric recovers quickly, his smirk returning. “Ah, the hired help. Still playing pretend, Leah?” He says, reaching for me.

“Touch her,” Caleb says, still in that terrifyingly controlled voice, “and I’ll redecorate this place with your teeth.”

Eric freezes. The café goes silent. Even the espresso machine seems to pause in terror.

Eric pales but stands his ground. “She’s not even yours,” he says, though his voice lacks conviction.

Caleb moves with the fluid grace of a predator, positioning himself beside me close enough that I’m suddenly leaning into him. The heat of him radiates through my layers, making my knees weaken.

“Try that line again,” he murmurs, eyes never leaving Eric’s. “Idareyou.”

My omega instincts—the treacherous, hormone-addled part of me I usually keep locked in a box labeled “IGNORE”—practically purrs with satisfaction. My rational brain takes one look at the situation and files for immediate retirement.

“Aw, did we miss the party?”

Jude’s voice cuts through the tension, cheerful as ever. I turn to find theentire packfiling through the door:

Jude, grinning, but the look in his eyes isdeadly.

Mason’s cold focus on Eric.

Liam clutching his fists so hard I worry he might break skin.

Eric’s pack takes a collective step back.

“We were just leaving,” Eric says stiffly, his bravado wilting under Caleb’s unwavering stare.

“Were you?” Caleb says softly. “Because it looked like you were harassing an omega in pre-heat. That’s... frowned upon in polite society.”

“And punishable by law in Sweetwater City,” Mason adds helpfully, his tone conversational but his eyes hard.

Eric’s jaw works. For a moment, I think he might actually push it—his alpha pride battling his self-preservation instinct.

Self-preservation wins.

“Let’s go,” he mutters to his pack, shouldering past Jude, who steps aside with an exaggerated bow.

“Lovely seeing you again,” Jude calls after them. “Do send our regards to the missus!”

The door slams behind them.

And just like that, I’m alone with four males who look like they’ve spent the night hunting me, each radiating a unique blend of concern, anger, and something far more dangerous.

I could:

1. Run (again)

2. Let them escort me home (and deal with the inevitable fallout)

3. Scream (tempting, but I’ve already made enough of a scene)

Instead, I clutch my muffin bag to my chest like a shield and ask the only question that matters right now:

“How did you find me?”

Caleb’s expression is unreadable. “You really think scent blockers work on us? Onme?”

“I used half a bottle!”

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