Page 93 of Pack Plus One

“Finish that sentence and I’ll pour this boiling water somewhere unpleasant,” Leah warns, though the threat lacks real heat. Her cheeks are flushed, and not entirely from embarrassment—I notice the careful way she’s holding herself, the slight wince when she shifts her weight.

Jude’s expression softens, something surprisingly gentle replacing his usual mischief. “Are you okay? Really? Should you even be standing right now?”

“I’m fine,” she insists, but as if her body wants to prove her wrong, she sways slightly when she reaches for her mug.

I’m beside her in an instant, one hand steadying her elbow, the other hovering at the small of her back. “Why don’t you sit?”

“I’m not made of glass,” she grumbles, but allows me to guide her to a stool.

“No,” Jude agrees cheerfully, “more like jelly after what Caleb did to your?—”

“I will end you,” I say pleasantly.

Jude grins, unrepentant. “It’s a compliment! We were magnificent, and she was magnificentl-ier. Look at her, up and moving after all that. Our little omega’s made of sterner stuff than most.”

Despite her obvious desire to remain dignified, Leah’s lips twitch. “That’s me. Stern stuff.”

“Well, well,” Jude continues, his gaze zeroing in on her attire. “Looking awfully cozy in the beta’s clothes, aren’t we? Never thought I’d see the day Mason willingly shared the Sweater of Supreme Significance.”

“It’s just a sweater,” I mutter, though we all know it’s not. It’s my favorite, worn soft with years of use, and I’ve threatened bodily harm to anyone who’s tried to borrow it.

“Uh-huh,” Jude drawls. “And I’m sure that’s the only reason you’re wearing Mason’s prized cashmere. The one he nearly disemboweled me for spilling wine on last Christmas.”

“It was a ‘92 Bordeaux,” I point out, measuring coffee grounds with perhaps more force than necessary. “On cashmere.”

“Details, details,” Jude waves dismissively. “The point is, our little omega here got the premium treatment. Special sweater privileges are not handed out lightly in this household.”

Leah rolls her eyes, but I don’t miss the way her fingers curl more tightly into the sleeves, or how she subtly burrows deeper into the soft fabric. “It’s just a sweater, Jude.”

“Sure,” he agrees, his smile turning knowing. “And that’s just a hickey the size of Texas on your neck, but who’s counting? And the ones on your thighs are just friendly little?—”

“You’re insufferable,” Leah cuts him off, her cheeks flaming as her hand flies to her throat.

“Part of my charm,” Jude agrees cheerfully. “Speaking of charm, where’s my good morning kiss? I seem to recall you being much more enthusiastic about my mouth last night. Specifically when it was?—”

“Oh my God,” Leah groans, hiding her face in her hands.

I turn back to the pancake batter, a smile tugging at my lips despite myself. This is Jude’s gift—diffusing tension, making the awkward moments bearable through sheer force of personality. For all his outrageous flirting and boundary-pushing, he’s more perceptive than most people give him credit for.

The coffee maker gurgles its completion just as Caleb appears in the doorway, his expression thunderous as he takes in the scene. His gaze travels from Jude’s smirking face to Leah’s embarrassed flush to my hands busy at the stove, and his scent spikes with something possessive.

“What the hell is she doing up?” he demands, his voice a low growl that makes every hair on my neck stand at attention. “She should be resting.”

“That’s what I said!” Jude exclaims. “But apparently our omega is?—”

“I’m right here,” Leah interjects, straightening on her stool. “And perfectly capable of deciding when to get out of bed.”

Caleb stalks into the kitchen, his movements those of a predator—fluid and purposeful. He stops directly behind Leah, close enough that his chest brushes her back, and inhales deeply at her neck. His hands come to rest on her shoulders, thumbs pressing gently into muscles that must be sore from the night’s activities.

Despite her clear attempt to maintain her composure, Leah’s eyes flutter closed, her head tilting instinctively to give him better access. A soft sound escapes her throat—not quite a moan, but something dangerously close.

“You left,” he says, the words not quite an accusation but heavy with meaning.

“I was thirsty,” she manages, her voice slightly breathless from his ministrations. “And Mason was making tea.”

Something unspoken passes between them, then Caleb’s fingers find a particularly tight spot at the base of her neck, and she actually whimpers, the sound sending a shiver down my spine.

“You’re tender,” he murmurs, his voice gentler now. “Should have woken me. I would have brought you whatever you needed.”

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