Page 94 of Pack Plus One

“I can get my own tea,” she insists, though the protest lacks conviction as his thumbs work magic on her stiff muscles.

“Stubborn,” he says, but there’s a note of affection in it. His hand slides from her shoulder to the nape of her neck, thumb brushing over the spot where his teeth had grazed last night. Not breaking skin, not claiming, but close enough that the memory makes her breath hitch.

“There’s water by the bed,” he says quietly. “For next time.”

The implication—that there will be a next time, that this wasn’t just a one-time heat-induced aberration—hangs in the air. Leah’s scent flickers with something complicated—not rejection, but not quite acceptance either.

“Noted,” she says, but her usual sass is undermined by the way she leans into his touch.

Jude watches the exchange with undisguised interest, his eyes bright with mischief. “So, since we’re all remembering where our mouths were last night, can I just say that the noise you made when I?—”

“Is that bacon I smell burning?” Leah interrupts desperately.

“Nice try, but I haven’t even started the bacon yet,” I say, turning back to the pancake batter. “But it’s a timely reminder that we should all focus on breakfast instead of embarrassing our guest.”

“Guest?” Jude snorts. “After what happened in that nest, I think we’re well past ‘guest’ territory. More like?—”

“If you say ‘mate’ or any variation, I will personally ensure you never speak again,” Leah warns, though the effect is somewhat diminished by the fact that she’s still leaning into Caleb’s touch, her body contradicting her words.

Liam appears in the doorway then, his hair still damp from a shower, bringing with him a sense of calm that settles over the kitchen. He takes in the tableau with a quick, assessing glance—Leah on the stool, Caleb’s possessive stance behind her, Jude’s gleeful expression, my exasperated one.

“You shouldn’t be up,” he says to Leah, but there’s no judgment in it, just gentle concern. “Post-heat recovery is critical for omega health. Particularly after such an... intensive experience.”

A fresh wave of color floods Leah’s cheeks. “I’m fine.”

“She keeps saying that,” Jude stage-whispers. “But you should have seen how she winced when she?—”

“I didn’t wince,” Leah protests, then immediately winces as she shifts position.

“See?” Jude gestures triumphantly.

Liam moves to the coffee maker, preparing mugs for himself and Caleb with practiced efficiency. “At minimum, you should be horizontal, hydrated, and consuming approximately double your normal caloric intake,” he says, his clinical tone somehow making it worse. “Your body has been through significant strain.”

“Oh my God,” Leah mutters, burying her face in her hands again. “Can we please stop discussing my body like it’s a natural disaster zone?”

“I’d call it more of a pleasure zone,” Jude quips, earning himself a sharp look from Caleb.

“Pancakes almost ready?” Liam asks, nudging me aside with his hip to peer at the batter.

“About to start cooking,” I confirm, grateful for his intervention. “Blueberry.”

“Perfect,” he says, then turns to the fridge, pulling out eggs, bacon, and fruit with the precision of someone who’s cooked breakfast in this kitchen a thousand times. “She’ll need protein. And iron. And complex carbohydrates.”

“I’m right here,” Leah reminds us, but there’s a note of resignation in her voice, as if she’s realizing resistance is futile.

It’s our usual morning choreography—Liam and I preparing food while Jude provides questionable entertainment and Caleb broods over his coffee until the caffeine kicks in. But today, with Leah perched at the counter in my sweater, Caleb’s hands gentle on her shoulders, the air thick with our combined scents and the lingering pheromones of satisfied heat, everything feels both familiar and entirely new.

I pour the first ladle of batter onto the hot griddle, the satisfying sizzle drowning out Jude’s continued teasing. Liam works beside me, his movements synchronized with mine in the easy rhythm of packmates who’ve shared space for years. Caleb remains a solid presence behind Leah, seemingly content tomaintain physical contact with her, while she sips her tea and watches us with curious eyes.

“Your kitchen is... very organized,” she observes.

“Liam’s doing,” I say, cracking eggs one-handed into a bowl. “He implemented a system when we first moved in. Threatened bodily harm if we deviated.”

“I did no such thing.” Liam glares my way. “I merely suggested that organized is better than chaos.”

“He color-coded the spice rack,” Jude whispers to Leah. “And labeled the shelves. With a label maker.”

“That is not a character flaw,” Liam mutters, arranging bacon in a neat row on a baking sheet.

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