PACK PLUS ONE

A SWEETWATER CITY REVERSE HAREM OMEGAVERSE

ELLA BECK

Copyright © 2025 by Ella Beck

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, businesses, or locales is coincidental and is not intended by the author.

This story is intended for adult readers and it may contain elements not suitable for readers under the age of 18. All sexually active characters portrayed in this book are eighteen years of age or older.

OMEGAVERSE INTRODUCTION

In this world, people come in three flavors: Alphas, Betas, and Omegas.

Alphas are the overachievers of the bunch—all protective instincts and ridiculous biceps. They’ve got knots (don’t ask, it’s NSFW), and if they really like you, they might give you a little love bite that basically screams "Mine!" to the whole neighborhood. Yes, it’s extra. No, they don’t care.

Betas are the chill ones—no dramatic ruts, no needy heats, just vibes. They’re the friends who bring snacks to your emotional breakdown and don’t judge when you cry over rom-coms. Bless them.

And then there are Omegas—the rare, unfairly adorable unicorns of society. They get heats, which is basically nature’s way of saying "Surprise! You’re a walking romance novel now." Sweet? Yes. Inconvenient? Extremely.

Of course, biology tries to dictate the rules—Alphas protect, Omegas nest, Betas mediate the drama—but love? Love laughs in the face of destiny and writes its own cheesy, ridiculous, perfect ending.

There are no paranormal elements, i.e., wolves or wolf shifting in this story.

1

LEAH

The envelope is cream-colored.

That should have been the first red flag.

I stare at the thick, embossed stationery in my hands like it might burst into flames. It probably should. That would be preferable.

Ms. Leah Carter

Formally Invited to the Union of

Pack Eric Donovan & Melissa Walsh

I groan, dropping my forehead onto my kitchen counter with a thunk.

“Oh my god, no.”

My best friend, Zoe, snatches the invitation from my grip before I can set it on fire with sheer willpower. “Wait, wait—Eric Eric? The guy who dumped you because you weren’t ‘pack material’?”

I lift my head just enough to glare. “Do I know another Eric who mansplained my own omega biology to me with a PowerPoint presentation?”

Zoe winces. “Yikes.”

I snatch the invitation back, flipping it open with more force than necessary. The fancy gold lettering seems to mock me as I read it for the fifth time, hoping the words might magically rearrange themselves into something less humiliating.

“Mr. & Mrs. Jonathan Walsh request the pleasure of your company at the marriage of their daughter, Melissa Walsh, to Eric Donovan and pack.”

Eric. My Eric. Well, not my Eric anymore. Not for two years, three months, and sixteen days—not that I’m counting.

My eyes snag on one line near the bottom, and I let out a sharp laugh. I point to the offending text, wide eyes on Zoe: “Pack seating arrangements apply. Please RSVP with your pack or designated plus-one.”

Of course there’s a pack requirement.

“They might as well have written ‘No sad, single omegas allowed,’” I mutter, sliding off the barstool and tossing the invitation onto my coffee table.

Zoe kicks off her shoes as she flops onto my couch, mussing up her pixie cut in the process. My best friend has the uncanny ability to make herself at home wherever she goes. Right now, she’s reaching for the glass of really good Le Roux I poured myself when the invitation arrived.

She snorts, taking a generous sip. “It’s tacky. Also completely on-brand for Eric.”

“I’m not going.” I grab the wine back from her and take a gulp. “I’ll send a nice toaster and pretend I have the flu.”

“You absolutely are going.” Zoe sits up straighter, her expression suddenly serious. “Leah Carter, you’ve spent two years hiding from that man. You’re not going to let him think he broke you.”

“He did break me,” I remind her, hugging a throw pillow to my chest. “Remember the ice cream and sweatpants phase?”

“That was then. Now you’re a big-time businesswoman opening a cute bakery. You’re making those fancy omega-inspired desserts that everyone’s obsessed with⁠—”

“I’m not established yet. The grand opening is over a month away.”

“—and you look hot as hell,” she continues as if I hadn’t spoken. “The only thing you’re missing is a pack.”

I laugh, but it comes out sounding bitter. “Minor detail.”

The truth is, I haven’t dated since Eric. Not seriously. Not even casually, really. Finding a single pack of alphas and/or betas looking for an omega isn’t rare. What’s rare is finding one that doesn’t want to immediately claim and breed said omega. Nearly impossible in this city. Don’t get me wrong. Who doesn’t want to be bred? But by the right pack.

Sweetwater City isn’t exactly known for its progressive attitudes. It has the charm of cobblestone streets and pastel-painted shopfronts, but under the surface, it clings to tradition like an alpha to an unmarked omega. Omegas host tea parties, betas own bookstores, and alphas dominate everything else.

“So get a temporary one,” Zoe suggests with a shrug, like she’s proposing I borrow a handbag.

“A temporary pack?” I raise an eyebrow. “Should I check the rental section at the local mart, or…?”

“I’m serious!” Zoe grabs her phone, her fingers flying across the screen. “There are services for this. I saw an article about it last month. Ah! Here!” She thrusts her phone at me.

I squint at the screen. “PackPlus: Professional Accompaniment for the Modern Alpha and Omega…”

“It’s like an escort service, but for omegas who need a pack for events.” Zoe is practically vibrating with excitement. “They’re not real escorts—they just pretend to be your pack for parties, weddings, work functions... Basically any place where showing up alone would suck.”

“That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard,” I say, handing her phone back.

“More ridiculous than staying home while Eric marries Melissa, thinking you’re too heartbroken to show your face?”

I wince. She’s not wrong. “I’d rather fake-marry a cactus than rent a pack of strange alphas.”

“You don’t have to marry them. Just show up with them, act like you’re part of their pack, and leave Eric wondering what he lost.”

The idea is so absurd I almost laugh. Almost. But a tiny voice in the back of my head wonders if it might actually work. No, that’s the wine talking. I drain my glass and set it on the table with a decisive thunk.

“Even if I wanted to—which I don’t—how would that even work? ‘Hi, I’d like to rent three alphas for the weekend, please make them hot and not serial killers?’”

Zoe giggles. “From what I read, they’re all screened. Some are even actors or models doing it as a side gig.”

“Great, so not only would they be strangers, but they’d be impossibly attractive strangers who’d make me look even more pathetic by comparison.” I head to the kitchen to refill my wine glass. My apartment suddenly feels too small, too empty. Just like my life.

“You’re not pathetic,” Zoe says, her voice softening. “You’re just... stuck.”

“Stuck,” I repeat. That’s exactly how I feel—like I’ve been treading water since Eric left, not drowning but definitely not swimming forward either.

Which is ridiculous because I have zero feelings for him and he was a pretentious prick that deserved to be left in the dust.

“The bakery is your fresh start, right? Maybe this could be part of that.” Zoe follows me to the kitchen, watching as I pour more wine for both of us. “Just think about it. What’s the worst that could happen?”

“They could be axe murderers.”

“They won’t be axe murderers.”

“They could be terrible actors and embarrass me in front of everyone.”

“Better than going alone and definitely being embarrassed.”

I take another sip of wine. “Eric would know they weren’t really my pack.”

“How?” Zoe challenges. “It’s not like he’s kept tabs on you. For all he knows, you found the perfect pack the day after he left.”

I snort. “Yeah, right.”

“Leah.” Zoe puts her hands on my shoulders, forcing me to look at her. “Two years ago, that alpha broke your heart, told you that you weren’t ‘pack material,’ and then hooked up with Melissa—who, may I remind you, was supposedly just his ‘work friend’—within a month.”

I feel the familiar ache in my chest at the memory. Eric had been so cruel at the end. So dismissive of everything we’d shared.

“Don’t you want to walk into that wedding with your head held high?” Zoe continues. “Don’t you want to show him that you’re thriving without him?”

“Of course I do, but⁠—”

“But nothing. This is your chance to rewrite the narrative.” She taps my forehead gently. “Stop thinking of yourself as the omega he rejected and start thinking of yourself as the omega who dodged a bullet.”

I laugh despite myself. “That’s a nice spin.”

“It’s the truth.” She gives me a little shake. “Promise me you’ll at least look at the website.”

I sigh, knowing she won’t let this go. “Fine. I’ll look. But I’m not promising anything else.”

“That’s all I ask.” Zoe grins triumphantly, then grabs her wine and heads back to the living room. “Now, can we please order pizza? I’m starving, and renting you a fake pack has worked up my appetite.”

“I didn’t agree to that yet!” I call after her, but I’m already reaching for my phone to order our favorite Hawaiian.

Later, after Zoe has gone home and I’ve changed into my pajamas, I find myself sitting cross-legged on my bed with my laptop open to the PackPlus website. The homepage is sleek and professional, featuring tasteful photos of attractive alphas and betas escorting smiling omegas at various events.

“This is insane,” I mutter to myself as I click through the testimonials.

“PackPlus saved my work gala! My colleagues never suspected a thing, and my boss finally took me seriously when I had three alphas backing my presentation.” — Sandra T.

“After my pack moved across the country for work, I didn’t want to attend my sister’s wedding alone. PackPlus provided the perfect temporary pack so I could enjoy the day without awkward questions.” — Jamie S.

I hover over the “Services” tab, then click before I can talk myself out of it. The prices make me wince—not just wince, but full-body cringe. My bakery startup has cleaned out most of my savings. There’s no way I can justify this expense, no matter how satisfying the revenge fantasy.

“Four thousand dollars for a weekend?” I whisper-shriek at my screen. “That’s a commercial mixer!”

There are different packages available, from a single alpha escort to a full pack experience, but none of them fit my budget—which is approximately “zero dollars plus whatever’s in my change jar.”

The “Premier Pack Experience” catches my eye anyway: three alphas, fully coordinated, with “natural pack dynamics and protective behaviors.” The description promises they’ll act like a real pack, complete with subtle scent-marking and protective instincts.

I chew my lip as I scroll through the sample packs available. They all look like they’ve stepped out of a magazine—all perfect jawlines and broad shoulders and confident smiles.

“This is ridiculous,” I tell my empty bedroom, but I don’t close the laptop.

Instead, I find myself still staring at the screen when a small text link at the bottom of the page catches my eye: “Budget Options: Community Classifieds.”

I click it, curious.

The page that loads looks decidedly less polished than the main site. A disclaimer immediately pops up:

PackPlus Community Classifieds connects users seeking budget-friendly options. These arrangements are NOT vetted by PackPlus. Users connect at their own risk. Basic background verification only. 75% discount on standard agency fee.

“Uh…” I sigh, scrolling through the listings.

Most are single alphas offering to be plus-ones, but occasionally I spot a pair of friends or even small packs looking to make extra cash. The listings are brief, almost like dating profiles:

Alpha (32) available for corporate events. Professional appearance, respectful behavior. References available.

Beta/Alpha pair (28/30) seeking event opportunities. We clean up nice and know how to work a room. Fee negotiable.

As I scroll, I think about Eric and his stupid smug face. How he’d always made me feel like I was lucky to have him. “An omega like you,” he’d said during our breakup, “just doesn’t inspire protective instincts. It’s biology, Leah.”

I’d later found out he’d been seeing Melissa for months—apparently she did “inspire” those instincts. Whatever. I don’t love Eric anymore—I don’t even like who he is as a person—but sometimes those words still sneak up on me during my lowest moments.

“Screw it,” I mutter, scrolling back to the top of the classifieds and clicking “Post a Listing.” This is ridiculous, but what do I have to lose? No one’s going to respond anyway.

I fill out the form with a sort of reckless abandon:

Omega (28) seeking temporary pack for ex’s wedding. He ended things saying I “wasn’t pack material.” Would like to prove him wrong. Event is black-tie. Open bar, gourmet food. Will cover basic fee, but budget is tight.

I hit submit without even rereading it, like I’m sending a risky text after two glasses of wine. The confirmation page cheerfully informs me that my listing is now live.

“Like anyone’s going to respond to that,” I laugh, closing my laptop. I’ve just wasted thirty minutes that could have been spent perfecting my signature pastry recipe, but at least I can tell Zoe I tried.

My phone pings with a text from her, right on cue:

Did you check out the website?

I type back:

I might have done something crazy.

Her response is immediate:

OMG DID YOU BOOK A PACK???

Not exactly. Posted in their discount classifieds. Can’t afford the real thing.

Three dancing emojis appear, followed by:

I’m so proud of you! Eric won’t know what hit him!

I flop back against my pillows, staring at the ceiling. “What have I done?” I whisper to my empty apartment.

But even as anxiety flutters in my stomach, I feel something else too—a spark of excitement, of possibility. For the first time in two years, I’m taking action instead of hiding. Even if that action is completely bonkers.

I grab my phone and type one more message to Zoe:

If they turn out to be axe murderers, I’m coming back to haunt you.

She sends back a string of laughing emojis and a simple:

Worth it.

Maybe she’s right. Maybe it will be.

2

LEAH

Iwake up to my phone buzzing so insistently that it vibrates itself right off my nightstand.

“What the—” I fumble for it on the floor, squinting at the screen.

Forty-two unread notifications. All from PackPlus.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I mutter, sitting up and running a hand through my bedhead. I tap on the first notification with a growing sense of dread.

Alpha (38) - I’ll be your pack. Just me. And my roommates (they don’t know yet).

I blink. Hard. Then scroll to the next one.

Beta Pair (31) - We’re twins! People will think we’re TWICE as pack-like!

There’s an attached photo of two men in matching wolf-print pajamas. The image is so blurry it could be used as evidence in a Bigfoot documentary.

Another message pops up as I’m scrolling.

Omega (26) - I’ll pretend to be your pack’s OTHER omega. We can fake-bond over hating your ex!

By the time I’ve skimmed through twenty messages (each more concerning than the last), my phone rings. Zoe’s face fills the screen, and I accept the video call with a groan.

“Morning, sunshine,” she chirps, sipping from a massive coffee mug. “Sleep well?”

“I think I accidentally posted on a fetish site,” I say by way of greeting. “I’ve got alphas offering to ‘put me in my place’ and show my ex who I ‘really belong to.’”

Zoe nearly spits out her coffee. “Oh my god, let me see!”

I screen share to show her my screen full of messages. Her laughter fills my bedroom.

“This is why premium packs cost four thousand dollars,” she says between giggles. “You’re getting the Craigslist special.”

“I’d still take the cactus,” I mutter, flopping back onto my pillows. “I never should have posted that stupid ad.”

“Oh, come on, there has to be someone normal in there.”

“Define normal. There’s a ‘pack’ of three college freshmen offering to be my ‘alpha studs’ for the price of an open bar.”

Zoe’s eyes widen. “Are they cute?”

“They’re CHILDREN.”

“Right, right. Bad idea.” She takes another sip of coffee. “But seriously, just keep looking. The wedding’s still two weeks away.”

I shake my head. “No way. This was a terrible idea. I’m deleting the ad and going with plan ‘show up alone, smile through the pain, and leave early.’”

“Boring,” Zoe singsongs. “But I respect it.”

“I gotta go,” I say, glancing at the time. “The bakery supplier’s coming at nine, and I still need to finalize the menu.”

“Still planning to name it ‘Sweet Omega’?” Zoe asks with a smirk.

“You know it.” I grin despite my morning disaster. “What better way to annoy Eric than to become a successful business owner with that name?”

“I love your petty heart.”

“Thanks. It’s one of my best qualities.”

Three hours later, I’m standing in my soon-to-be bakery, facing off with a supplier who looks like he stepped out of a 1950s alpha handbook.

“Omegas don’t like espresso-infused desserts,” he insists, crossing his arms over his chest. “Too bitter. You need more vanilla, more caramel. Sweet things for sweet omegas.”

I take a deep breath, reminding myself that I need his wholesale pricing more than I need to educate him on omega stereotypes.

“This one does,” I say, tapping the order form. “And since I’m the omega opening a bakery specifically marketed to other omegas, I think I might have some insight.”

He looks unconvinced. “Without pack backing, you’ll need to play it safe. Traditional sells.”

The comment stings more than it should after my morning of rejection.

“Just fill the order as written,” I say, my voice tight. “The espresso grounds, the cardamom, and the baking chocolate. If my business fails because omegas can’t handle complex flavors, I’ll take full responsibility.”

He shrugs and takes the form, but not before mumbling something that sounds suspiciously like “your funeral.”

As he leaves, a delivery truck pulls up outside. The driver unloads a large tube and brings it inside.

“Banners for Sweet Omega Bakery,” he announces, handing me a clipboard to sign. As I’m signing, I catch him eyeing my neck—specifically, the lack of a bonding mark there.

“It’s brave to open a business without pack backing,” he says, trying to sound supportive but landing somewhere closer to condescending.

I hand back the clipboard with a tight smile. “Thanks.”

Uh. I want to scream.

But I’m dignified.

Dignified. And I can do this.

I can do this.

I can fucking do this!

Once he’s gone, I unroll the banner across the counter. The logo, a stylized cupcake with omega symbols as sprinkles, stares back at me. I’d designed it myself, a bold statement that omegas can create their own success, even in Sweetwater City.

“Newsflash,” I mutter to the empty bakery, “omegas can run businesses and have a pack. Or neither. Or both. Why is this a controversial take?”

My phone buzzes again. Another PackPlus notification.

Fuck!

Shit. Fuck. Shit. Fuck. Shitfuckshitfuckshitfuck!

Just what I need—another alpha promising the moon while looking down his nose at me. Or worse, pitying the poor, packless omega trying to make it on her own.

“I’m not doing this anymore,” I tell Zoe almost two weeks later as we sit in a coffee shop far across town from the latest PackPlus disaster. “That was my third and final attempt.”

“The vest guy couldn’t have been that bad,” Zoe says, though her expression suggests she knows better.

“He showed up in a leather vest with no shirt, Zo. No shirt! In a coffee shop! And then he grabbed my wrist and tried to ‘test our compatibility’ by scenting me right there between the cream and sugar station.”

Zoe winces. “Okay, that’s bad.”

“And yesterday’s beta kept calling me ‘darling omega’ and tried to feed me a strawberry. ‘For the aesthetic,’ he said.” I make air quotes, rolling my eyes. “And don’t even get me started on today’s pack.”

“The growlers?”

“They literally growled at the waiter for ‘looking at their omega wrong.’ I had to excuse myself to ‘check on my cactus’ just to escape.”

Zoe laughs so hard she snorts coffee through her nose. “You don’t have a cactus!”

“They don’t know that!”

When her laughter subsides, Zoe reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. “You’re gonna die alone.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“I’m kidding.” She sobers slightly. “Look, just go alone. Hold your head high, steal some fancy appetizers, and leave. Who cares what Eric thinks?”

“I do,” I admit. And I hate the truth of it. “Not because I want him back or anything, but because I hate that he was right. Two years later, and I’m still packless. Still the omega who doesn’t ‘inspire’ protective instincts.”

“That’s not because of you,” Zoe says fiercely. “That’s because most alphas are entitled jerks who think omegas should be grateful for their attention. You’re just selective.”

“Tell that to the forty-seven weirdos who responded to my ad,” I mutter.

“Did you check all forty-seven?”

“I checked enough.” I sigh, staring into my coffee. “The wedding’s in two days. I think it’s time to admit defeat.”

“So what’s the game plan?”

“Show up in my killer black dress⁠—”

“The one that gives you legs for days?”

“That’s the one. Smile when Eric inevitably gloats. Drop a casual ‘Sorry, can’t stay for the wedding—bakery emergency’ and get the hell out of there before the actual ceremony.”

Zoe nods approvingly. “Minimal damage, maximum dignity. I like it.”

“It’s the best I can do,” I say, trying to convince myself as much as her. “At least I won’t have to endure the bouquet toss. No way I’m catching that curse.”

Two days later, I’m standing outside the venue, gripping my clutch like a weapon. The pre-wedding cocktail party is already in full swing, the sounds of laughter and clinking glasses drifting through the open French doors.

I smooth down my black dress—simple, elegant, short enough to be interesting but not desperate—and adjust my pearl necklace. My hair, recently cut into a sleek bob, feels strange against my neck, but the stylist assured me it was “fierce,” which is exactly the energy I need tonight.

“One hour. Smile. Escape,” I whisper to myself as I climb the steps to the entrance.

The venue is obscenely lavish, dripping with crystal chandeliers and white roses. Eric’s fiancée comes from money—old money, judging by the guest list. Everyone is paired up, packs mingling with an ease I’ve never experienced. Immediately, I feel like someone’s pinned a “Single Omega” sign to my back.

I grab a champagne flute from a passing waiter and take a fortifying sip, scanning the room for familiar faces. There are a few. Distant friends from college, mostly. But no one I’m close enough with to use as a buffer.

And then I see him. Eric. Looking infuriatingly handsome in a tailored suit, his blond hair perfectly styled. He’s surrounded by his pack members—old friends I used to know—and they’re all laughing at something he’s said.

He spots me before I can look away, and the smirk that spreads across his face makes my stomach drop. He excuses himself from his group and makes his way toward me.

Shit shit shit. But there’s nothing to duck behind. Plus, he’s already seen me.

“Leah,” he says, his voice exactly as I remember it. His gaze scans the big space of no one behind me. “You came alone? Some things never change.”

I open my mouth to deliver a cutting response—I’ve rehearsed several—but before I can speak, a deep voice cuts through the air from behind me.

“There you are, doll. We’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

I freeze, champagne halfway to my lips. Who the hell⁠—?

I turn slowly, my confusion morphing into shock as I find myself face to face with four devastatingly attractive strangers—all staring at me.

The one who spoke—tall with chestnut brown hair and eyes so intensely green they can’t possibly be real—steps forward, a possessive hand settling at the small of my back.

Beside him, a strawberry blond with a lazy, dangerous smile winks at me. “Found her, Cale. Told you she’d be fashionably late.”

The third alpha—golden-haired and broad-shouldered with a gentler expression—offers me a slight nod. “You look beautiful.”

And slightly behind them, a fourth man—shorter, with jet-black hair and watchful eyes—studies me with undisguised curiosity.

“I—” I stammer, but the green-eyed one—Cale?—cuts me off with a subtle squeeze to my waist.

“Sorry we didn’t wait for you at the entrance,” he says, his eyes conveying a message I can’t decode. “You know how these venues can be. Easy to get lost.”

There’s an awkward pause as I try to process what’s happening. Are they... here for me? I’ve never seen these men before in my life.

Eric clears his throat, looking between me and the four strangers with narrowed eyes. “I didn’t realize you were... bringing guests, Leah.”

The strawberry blond steps forward, holding out his hand to Eric with a grin that’s all teeth. “Jude Le Roux. And you must be the groom.” His eyes flick to me, then back to Eric. “Pleasure to meet you.”

Le Roux. The name rings a distant bell, but I can’t place it.

Eric shakes his hand, visibly thrown off-balance. “I thought you were packless, Leah. This is...unexpected.”

The green-eyed one, Cale, steps closer to me, a low rumble emanating from his chest that’s just subtle enough not to draw attention but clear enough for Eric to hear. “She’s with us.”

I choke on my champagne.

The golden-haired one steps forward, placing a steadying hand on my shoulder. “Easy there,” he murmurs, and I get a whiff of his scent. Something like old books and rain.

Eric’s expression has gone from smug to confused to wary in the span of seconds. “Well,” he says stiffly, “I should get back to my guests. Nice to meet you all.” He gives me one last look—one I can’t quite interpret—before retreating.

As soon as he’s out of earshot, I spin to face the four strangers, my heart pounding.

“Who are you people?” I hiss.

Cale leans in, his voice barely above a whisper. “You’re late, sweetheart.”

“Late for what?” I whisper back fiercely. “I don’t even know you.”

The black-haired one narrows his eyes slightly, studying my face with growing suspicion.

“Le Roux Pack,” Jude says with a lazy smile, apparently oblivious to my confusion. He gestures to himself, then to his pack. “Jude, Liam, Mason, Caleb. We’ve been waiting by the champagne fountain like we said we would.”

And suddenly I understand what’s happening—they think I’m someone else. Someone they were expecting to meet here. Their hired date, perhaps? But why would four gorgeous men need to hire anyone?

I could correct them. I should correct them. But then I catch sight of Eric watching us from across the room, and for the first time since I arrived, he doesn’t look smug. He looks... threatened.

One hour. Smile. Escape. That was the plan. But maybe...

“I’m sorry about that,” I say, straightening my shoulders. “The traffic was terrible.”

The black-haired one raises an eyebrow almost imperceptibly, but the others seem to accept my explanation without question.

“No problem at all,” Cale says, his hand still warm against my back. “We’re just glad we found you.”

3

CALEB

Just before

“She’s late,” I mutter, checking my watch for the third time in five minutes.

We’re standing near the champagne fountain, surrounded by other guests attending the pre-wedding cocktail party. The venue is exactly as pretentious as I expected—all crystal chandeliers and white roses arranged in towering displays.

“Maybe she changed her mind,” Liam suggests, always the voice of calm among us.

Jude snorts. “And miss out on us? Impossible.”

Mason, quiet as always, is scanning the crowd with narrowed eyes. “You have her photo, right?”

I nod, pulling up the PackPlus profile on my phone. Our “date” for the weekend, Olivia, has dark hair, blue eyes, and, according to her listing, will be wearing a black cocktail dress.

“This is ridiculous,” I say, tucking my phone away. “We shouldn’t have agreed to this.”

“What choice did we have?” Jude counters, straightening his already-perfect jacket. “The Walshes are one of the most influential packs in the Northeast. We need connections if we’re going to expand our business here.”

He’s right, of course. Le Roux Craft House has been doing well in Sweetwater City, but breaking into the market has been challenging. When one of our clients mentioned his niece’s wedding would be the networking event of the season, we knew we needed to attend. The problem? The invitation specifically mentioned pack seating arrangements, and walking in as four packmates without an omega would raise eyebrows.

Enter PackPlus—a discreet service for exactly this situation.

“Fifteen more minutes,” I decide. “Then we just…mingle without her.”

Jude and Liam nod in agreement, while Mason continues to survey the crowd.

“Send her a text,” Mason jerks his chin at my phone.

I shake my head. “Already did. No reply.” I show the others.

Jude rolls his eyes. “Of course.”

Liam glances between us. “Maybe her phone’s dead. Who knows, she might already be here looking for us.”

He’s got a point.

I nod. “Let’s mingle. We’re drawing attention standing here like lost puppies.”

We make our way into the main ballroom, immediately assaulted by the scents of too many packs in one enclosed space. I wrinkle my nose slightly—these events always feel overcrowded to me, but they’re perfect for establishing presence, especially with a business like ours.

“Bar first,” Jude announces, leading the way. “I need a drink if we’re going to schmooze with these people.”

We’re halfway across the room when it happens. A small figure in a black dress bumps directly into Jude, nearly spilling champagne on his suit.

“Oh!” she begins, looking up with startled brown eyes.

One look at her black dress, and Jude’s irritation melts instantly into his trademark charming smile. “You’re late, sweetheart,” he says, steadying her with a hand on her elbow.

It’s her. Description fits. Poor thing was probably searching for us while we stood by waiting for her to arrive. My irritation melts away immediately.

Damn. She’s gorgeous. The picture on PackPlus does her zero justice.

I step forward, ready to introduce myself to our hired date, when I notice the man standing before her and watching our interaction with undisguised interest. Something about his smug expression sets my teeth on edge.

The omega follows my gaze, and I watch as her shoulders tense. Her aura shifts subtly—a note of distress threading through what was, I now notice, an exceptionally appealing scent. Like vanilla and cinnamon with hints of honey.

The man clears his throat, looking between her and the four of us with narrowed eyes. “I didn’t realize you were... bringing guests, Leah.”

Leah. Not Olivia. I realize in an instant that we’ve approached the wrong omega, but before I can correct the mistake, I catch the look of pure mortification on her face. The man—who must be one of the grooms, given the boutonniere on his lapel, is clearly taking pleasure in her discomfort.

Jude, never one to miss an opportunity for drama, extends his hand to the groom. “Jude Le Roux. And you must be one of the grooms.” He glances at the omega, then back at the groom. “Pleasure to meet you.”

The groom shakes his hand, his expression now showing signs of uncertainty. “Still packless last I heard, Leah. This is... unexpected.”

Something protective surges in my chest without warning. I step closer to her, letting a low rumble build in my throat, clear enough for the groom to hear.

“She’s with us.”

I feel her tense beside me, and without thinking, I place my hand at the small of her back in a gesture that’s unmistakably possessive.

Liam moves to her other side, placing a steadying hand on her shoulder as she chokes on her champagne. “Easy there,” he murmurs in that gentle way of his.

The groom’s eyes dart between us, then he forces a tight smile. “Well,” he says stiffly, “I should get back to my guests. Nice to meet you all.” He gives the omega one last look before retreating across the room.

As soon as he’s out of earshot, she spins to face us, her heart beating so rapidly I can practically hear it.

“Who are you people?” she hisses, eyes wide with confusion and what might be panic.

I lean in close, keeping my voice low. “We thought you were late, sweetheart.”

“Late for what?” she whispers back, clearly bewildered. “I don’t even know you.”

I catch Mason’s subtle head tilt—his way of signaling something’s not right. His eyes are narrowed slightly as he studies her face. Of course, he’d be the one to catch on first that this isn’t our hired date.

But before I can decide how to respond, Jude steps in with his usual confidence. “Le Roux Pack,” he says with a lazy smile. “Jude, Liam, Mason, Caleb. Sorry, we didn’t realize you’d already arrived. We’ve been waiting by the champagne fountain for the past twenty minutes.”

I watch as understanding dawns on her face. She glances across the room at the groom, who’s still watching us, and something shifts in her expression. Her shoulders straighten almost imperceptibly.

“I’m sorry about that,” she says, her voice steadier now. “The traffic was terrible.”

So she’s playing along. Interesting.

Mason raises an eyebrow, and I give him the slightest shake of my head. Whatever game this is, I’m curious to see where it goes.

“No problem at all,” I tell her, keeping my hand at the small of her back. The touch feels more natural than it should with a complete stranger. “We’re just glad we found you.”

Her skin is warm through the thin fabric of her dress, and I catch another wave of that delicious scent as she takes a deep breath. This close, I notice the way her short, dark hair frames her face, how her pulse jumps at the base of her throat.

“Should we get a drink?” Liam suggests smoothly, breaking the tension.

Jude nods with enough enthusiasm for all of us. “Excellent idea. I need to hear all about your…journey here,” he adds with a meaningful look at not-Olivia.

As we guide her toward the bar, I catch Mason’s eye. He gives me a subtle nod, confirming my suspicion: he knows she’s not our date. But he’s willing to play along, too, at least for now.

I scan the room again, wondering if the real Olivia is somewhere in the crowd, looking for us. But for the moment, I’m more interested in learning why this omega—Leah—is willing to pretend to be with a pack of strangers.

And why, despite having just met her, I felt so instantly compelled to defend her from the groom, who is also a stranger to me.

4

MASON

Caleb, Jude, and Liam are already laying it on thick, and we’ve barely made it to the bar.

I hang back, observing our unexpected companion as Jude flags down a server with his usual excessive charm. The omega looks like she’s ready to bolt—shoulders tight, fingers clutching her purse like it might try to escape. But beneath the tension, there’s something else there too. Relief, maybe.

The server arrives, and Jude doesn’t miss a beat. “Surprise me. But make it pink.”

Liam gives him an unimpressed side-eye before ordering a dry martini.

“Old Fashioned,” Caleb says simply, his tone clipped but polite.

I, ever the responsible beta who might have to drive these idiots back home, ask for a sparkling water with lime. Then I glance at the omega, Leah, the groom had called her. She’s been quietly scanning the room like she’s expecting an ambush. “And you?”

She blinks like she’s startled that I’ve addressed her directly. “Oh, um... another champagne would be great.”

Her voice is pleasant—just a touch higher than usual, probably from nerves. And her scent... it hits me like a warm loaf of bread fresh out of the oven. Vanilla, spice, and something underlying that’s sweet. Not at all like the cloying perfume-heavy scent profiles we’ve been reviewing all week, trying to find a PackPlus date.

Caleb shifts behind her, casually positioning himself like a sentry. It’s the kind of move that would usually make me roll my eyes—classic overprotective alpha flex—but in this context, it seems... appropriate. Especially with the groom still watching us from across the room God knows why. But as I shift my gaze back to the omega standing with us, I think I know the answer to that.

“So,” I say quietly as the server delivers our drinks, “how do you know the groom?”

She freezes, fingers tightening around the stem of her glass. For a moment, I think she’s going to dodge the question entirely. But then, impressively, she downs the rest of her champagne in one go and gestures for another.

“Eric and I used to date,” she finally admits, her voice dropping just enough that only our small group can hear. “It didn’t end well.”

“Ah.” I let the syllable hang between us. Her scent shifts slightly, souring enough for even me to pick up. I want to ask more, but I know better than to press.

She sighs, giving the server a tight smile as he hands her another flute. “We were together for two years. Then he decided I wasn’t... ‘pack material.’” Her lips twist into a humorless smile. “Apparently, that’s a thing.”

The moment the words leave her mouth, she squeezes her eyes shut like she didn’t mean to say so much. Her nose scrunches, and my God, if it isn’t the cutest thing I’ve ever seen.

She recovers quickly, taking a sip of her new champagne.

Jude makes a sound that’s half laugh, half scoff. “Not pack material? You? What an idiot. Has he seen you?”

His arm settles around Leah’s shoulders like he’s done it a hundred times before. She stiffens for a heartbeat, but then something curious happens.

Her breathing evens out.

Not relaxed, exactly, but... accepting. Like some part of her recognizes this should feel safe, even if her brain hasn’t caught up yet.

Interesting.

Jude catches my eye over her head, grinning like he’s just won a prize. Idiot. If he leans any closer, he’ll literally be nuzzling her in public.

“Sorry to have invited you into this nightmare, doll,” he tells her, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “But don’t worry, I make excellent backup.”

The way he says it draws a slight huff of humor through her nose and a genuine half-smile from her.

Liam raises his martini in a silent toast. “To new friends,” he says, his tone warm. Measured. Clearly trying to put Leah at ease.

She hesitates for half a second, then lifts her champagne flute with a faint smile. “To survival,” she counters.

Jude clinks his glass against hers with a laugh. “I like her already.”

Caleb, who’s been quiet so far, finally speaks. “We should find somewhere less crowded.” His green eyes flick toward the groom, who’s still stealing glances at Leah from across the room. What a creep.

Leah follows our gaze, her jaw tightening. “Gladly.”

We settle at a high-top table in the corner that gives us a view of the room while keeping us somewhat out of the spotlight. The seating arrangement happens naturally: Jude and Liam flanking Leah, Caleb standing just behind her like a silent sentinel, and me across from her with a clear line of sight of all four of them.

“So,” Jude begins after a long sip of his ridiculous pink drink, “tell us about yourself... other than being what’s-his-name’s⁠—”

“Eric,” Liam supplies quietly.

“—Eric’s ex,” Jude finishes with a dismissive wave.

Leah winces slightly, but Jude’s easy tone seems to soften the blow. “Not my best conversation starter,” she admits.

Jude’s the first to recover, his voice as smooth as the whiskey he’s not drinking. “What do you do when you’re not attending weddings with strangers?”

She hesitates, glancing down at her champagne flute, and once again, for a second, I think she’s going to deflect. But then she straightens her shoulders.

“I bake,” she says, and there—a spark of pride in her eyes. “Actually, I just signed a lease for my own shop. Opening next month if the permit gods smile upon me.”

“That explains the scent,” Caleb murmurs, his gaze warming as it settles on her.

Her eyelashes flutter, clearly caught off guard, as her cheeks flush slightly. “What?”

“Vanilla and cinnamon,” he elaborates, and I notice his pupils dilate slightly. “It suits you.”

The blush deepens, and she takes another sip of champagne to hide her reaction. But I catch it. The way her throat moves as she swallows, the flutter of her pulse beneath pearl-toned skin.

Gorgeous.

Dark hair cut in a sharp bob that kisses her jawline, the kind that makes a man fantasize about how it’d feel brushing his bare chest. Eyes like aged whiskey—warm brown with gold flecks that glow under the chandeliers. And that mouth. Pink and full, currently worrying her bottom lip between her teeth in a way that has my own teeth sinking into my tongue.

If she’s not single, someone’s failing spectacularly at their duties.

Across the room, her ex watches us with narrowed eyes. The way he tracks our interactions—lingering on Caleb’s hand at the small of her back, the way Jude leans in—suggests this is more than casual curiosity. Isn’t he getting married tomorrow? So why the fuck is he so interested in us? There’s something possessive in his gaze that makes my hackles rise.

Jude perks up, snatching my attention back to the conversation, and I take a sip of my drink to clear my thoughts. “A baker? What’s your specialty? Sugar or spice?”

She gives a tiny smile, even as her cheeks grow warm. Again. Cute. “Both. But I do have a sweet tooth. My cinnamon rolls have been called ‘illegal’ in three states.”

Jude chokes on his absurd pink cocktail. “Is that a challenge?”

“It’s a fact,” she says, her chin lifting with mock pride. “I’ve got cease-and-desist letters from a PTA in one state to prove it.”

Caleb’s lips twitch like he’s fighting a full grin. “Why?”

“Apparently, I ‘incited chaos’ at a bake sale. The kids mobbed my table.” Her grin is pure mischief. “Worth it.”

I see the exact moment the alphas fall for her.

Jude leans in, his freckled nose crinkling. “Marry me.”

“No,” Caleb and Liam say in unison, their voices overlapping in a way that’s so unplanned it almost makes me chuckle.

Leah laughs. It’s a bright, startled sound that makes all three alphas twitch like they’ve been zapped. Liam recovers the fastest, snagging a petit four from a passing tray. The dessert is decorated within an inch of its life, drowning in gold leaf.

“Here, Ms. Sweet Tooth,” he says, sliding it toward her. “Try this.”

Leah’s fingers brush his as she takes it. “You’re my hero.”

The words are light, teasing, but Liam’s spine straightens like she’s pinned a medal to his chest. Pathetic. And yet—I watch as he shifts slightly, putting himself between her and a group of alphas who’ve been staring.

Caleb’s doing the same on her other side.

Do they even realize they’re posturing?

Caleb’s nostrils flare when Leah takes a bite, her lips closing around the pastry.

Then—

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

She’s got chocolate on her lip. A tiny smear, barely there. Caleb’s staring at it like it’s a personal challenge.

I kick his ankle under the table. Down, boy.

He growls quietly, but Leah doesn’t notice. She’s too busy licking the raspberry glaze from her thumb, blissfully unaware that all three of my packmates are now hyper-focused on her mouth.

Jude’s easygoing grin falters, replaced by something softer, almost reverent, as he watches Leah take another bite of the pastry. Liam, usually so composed, shifts restlessly, his gaze fixed on the way her lips curve around the fork. Caleb, ever the stoic, doesn’t move a muscle, but the subtle flare of his nostrils betrays a sudden, intense focus. Even I feel a strange pull, a tightening in my chest I can’t explain.

We’re supposed to be pretending.

So why does this feel… real?

I watch as the impromptu charade unfolds around me, each of my packmates falling into their natural roles with alarming ease. It’s like watching a play where only I know the script is being improvised.

When the omega looks up, finally catching them staring, Jude clears his throat so loudly, I have to resist facepalming. “That woman’s hat deserves its own zip code,” he murmurs, nodding toward someone wearing what appears to be a small garden on her head.

I’m sure she’ll see straight through his horrible attempt at diverting her attention, but instead Leah looks at where he gestures and stifles a laugh. I watch him register the sound again—his pupils dilating slightly, his scent warming. Fucking trouble brewing.

A server glides past with silver trays of hors d’oeuvres. Bacon-wrapped dates dripping with honey. Crostini piled high with whipped goat cheese and figs. Liam intercepts them with the quiet precision of a sommelier selecting a vintage, his broad shoulders cutting effortlessly through the crowd.

I’ve seen this look before. That hyperfocus he gets when optimizing barrel rotations at the brewery. His fingers hover over the tray like he’s mentally calculating flavor pairings before assembling a perfect bite: one smoked salmon roulade, two of the caramelized onion tarts.

“Here,” he murmurs, offering the plate to Leah. “The chef clearly spent actual effort on these.” His thumb brushes the edge of the porcelain as she takes it. And…did her breath just hitch?

Jude grins around a stolen canapé. “Careful, Liam. You’ll spoil our omega before dinner.”

Our omega? I hope he knows this is temporary and that we’re still just pretending. Right?

A hint of a genuine smile plays at her lips as she stares down at the plate before her. “Uh…thanks. This is very…thoughtful. You didn’t have to.”

Despite her words, I notice how her shoulders drop another half-inch. How her scent, though still nervous, takes on notes of gratitude.

As we slip into a comfortable silence, the alphas all scan the room, sip their drinks, and pretend they’re not completely focused on the omega sitting with us. Hell.

If I hadn’t personally reviewed the PackPlus profile for the omega we were supposed to hire—brunette, blue-eyed, marketing executive with a penchant for designer perfumes—I might believe this charade myself.

Leah is either the world’s best actress or she genuinely thinks we’re her hired dates.

“Your ex keeps watching,” I murmur, noting how the groom’s gaze returns to our group every few minutes.

She cringes. “I’m sorry about that.”

“There’s no need to apologize.” Caleb shifts closer to her, and I catch a subtle rumble in his chest once more—protective alpha instincts kicking in. His eyes darken as they fix on the groom across the room, and for a moment, I worry he might actually start something.

I clear my throat slightly, catching his attention. When his eyes meet mine, I give him a subtle glare. What the fuck has gotten into you?

He nods almost imperceptibly, reining himself in. But his hand finds the small of Leah’s back again. She jerks slightly, surprised maybe, but she doesn’t move away.

Whether she realizes Caleb’s possessiveness is showing or not, I’m not sure.

Before our conversation can continue, an older omega in an aggressively floral dress approaches our group. The moment I spot her, I know she’s trouble. Her eyes are alight with curiosity.

“Leah, darling!” Her voice is as overwhelming as her perfume, thick and cloying. “Eric said you’d be here, but he didn’t mention you were bringing guests.”

Curious. The invitations specifically said ‘pack seating’ rules applied, and they didn’t think she was bringing guests?

Leah’s pulse jumps—I can see it at the base of her throat—but she manages a smile. “Eric’s… mom,” she says brightly, though the smile is so tight it could snap. It’s the kind of smile that says she’d rather be anywhere else. “Yes, these are my... friends.”

The woman’s gaze sweeps over us, lingering on each of us with undisguised interest. The kind of interest that feels invasive, like she’s cataloging every detail for future gossip.

“And how did you all meet our Leah?” she asks with a smile that’s just a shade too sharp.

We all start talking at once:

Jude: “Coffee shop⁠—”

Liam: “Through work⁠—”

Caleb: “Mutual friend⁠—”

I cut in smoothly, my voice steady and calm. “All of the above, actually. Fate kept throwing us together until we got the hint.”

Her eyes narrow slightly, as if she’s not entirely convinced. But before she can press further, Caleb steps forward.

“We’re a pack,” he says, voice carrying that quiet alpha authority that brooks no argument. “Le Roux.”

The woman blinks, visibly thrown. “Le Roux. Like the brewery?”

Caleb gives her a dashing smile, the kind that could charm even the most hardened critic. “The same.”

Leah’s lashes flutter as she blinks several times. I catch the exact moment it clicks for her—her whiskey-brown eyes widening, lips parting on a soft inhale.

Le Roux. The craft brewery that took the industry by storm last year. The one whose limited-release imperial stout had food bloggers fist-fighting in parking lots. The pack every omega in the city had whispered about at bonding mixers.

And she’d just spent twenty minutes letting them hand-feed her strawberries.

“Oh!” The woman’s eyes widen, and for the first time, she seems genuinely flustered. “Well, that’s… that’s something!” She blinks rapidly, her pasted-on smile faltering just a little. “Well, it was nice seeing you again, Leah.”

Without waiting for a response, she floats away in a cloud of aggressive floral perfume, her curiosity likely already morphing into gossip.

The moment she’s gone, Leah lets out a breath so deep it’s like she’s been holding it for hours. For three full seconds, she just breathes, her white-knuckled grip on her clutch slowly loosening. Then— “Sorry about that. She’s a terrible gossip.”

“You handled her well,” I tell her, watching how her shoulders are still tense, like she’s bracing for another wave.

Jude leans in slightly, his voice low and teasing. “I don’t know—she clearly adored me.”

Leah snorts softly, the sound seeming to catch her off guard.

“She’ll be talking about us for weeks,” Liam adds with a small, self-deprecating smile, as if to say, “Let her”.

Caleb doesn’t say anything right away, but he shifts just behind Leah, close enough that she can feel the steady, grounding warmth of his presence.

Jude catches her eye and offers her the last petit four from a passing tray, plucking off the unnecessary gold leaf before handing it over. “Here. For bravery. Sugar helps with toxic ex-in-law exposure.”

She takes it, her lips quirking into a faint smile. “Bravery for surviving Eric’s mother?”

“And for not bolting the second she opened her mouth,” Jude replies.

Leah laughs—a short, startled sound that softens the tension in her shoulders.

Liam slides her champagne flute closer to her, his voice soft but steady. “Drink,” he says. “You’ve earned it.”

She does, and for the first time since Eric’s mother approached, I see some of the tension drain from her.

She glances at me, then at Caleb, Jude, and Liam, her gaze lingering on each for a moment longer than necessary. Something like wonder crosses her face.

It almost makes my heart hurt.

It’s a look I’ve seen before—the surprise of an omega who’s never experienced true pack protection.

And suddenly, I understand why neither Liam nor Jude has questioned her identity. She fits with us in a way that’s oddly seamless. Her scent’s already blending with ours, settling into something that feels... right.

She’s responding to their protective instincts, and they’re responding to her need.

I should tell them this isn’t our hire. But the way she leaned into Caleb’s touch, the relief in her scent when Jude made her laugh…

Instead, I keep my damn mouth shut.

Whatever game we’re playing, it stopped being just pretend the moment Caleb growled at her ex.

5

LEAH

Two hours into this charade, and I’m starting to think I’ve made a terrible mistake.

Not because the Le Roux pack is awful. Quite the opposite. They’re attentive, protective, and unnervingly perceptive. Every time I shift my weight, one of them notices. Every time my smile falters, someone smoothly changes the subject. It’s like being surrounded by very attractive, very intuitive bodyguards.

It’s both flattering and completely overwhelming.

“Another drink?” Jude materializes at my elbow, his fingers brushing against my arm as he leans in close. Too close. His scent, citrus and something woodsy, wraps around me, making it hard to think straight.

“I’m good,” I say, lifting my still-half-full champagne flute. “But thanks.”

His hand lingers on my arm. “Dance with me instead, then.” The band has just shifted to something slow and romantic, and several couples are already making their way to the dance floor.

Panic flutters in my chest. Dancing would mean being pressed against him, his hands on my waist, his face close to mine... No. Absolutely not. I’m already in too deep with this fake date situation.

“I should actually check on my friend,” I blurt out, gesturing vaguely toward the entrance. “She texted earlier, and I’ve been ignoring her.”

It’s a terrible excuse, especially since I haven’t looked at my phone once in the past hour. Jude’s eyes narrow slightly, but his smile remains intact.

“Don’t be too long,” he says, fingers trailing down my arm as I step away. “I’ll save that dance for later.”

I nod, not trusting myself to speak, and make my escape toward the restrooms. I need a minute to breathe, to remind myself this is all temporary. Just a convenient fiction to get me through one awkward evening.

Except it doesn’t feel like fiction anymore. Not with the way Caleb’s eyes follow me across the room, or how Mason’s quiet attention makes me feel both seen and protected. Not with the way Liam seems to read my every emotion before I’ve even fully processed it myself.

I push open the restroom door with more force than necessary and lean against the sink, exhaling slowly. An omega touching up her lipstick gives me a curious look.

“You okay, honey?”

“Fine,” I say automatically. “Just... taking a breather.”

She nods knowingly. “Let me guess. Overwhelming alpha?”

I laugh despite myself. “Try three of them.”

Her eyebrows shoot up. “Pack dynamics, huh? Been there.” She caps her lipstick and drops it into her clutch. “Good luck with that.”

After she leaves, I wash my hands and press the cold tips of my fingers under my eyes. It’s an old trick for calming down, but right now, it barely helps. I check my reflection, smoothing my hair and reapplying lipstick. I look flushed, eyes a little too bright. Like I’m enjoying this game way more than I should be.

Maybe I am.

When I emerge from the restroom, Liam is waiting in the hallway, looking casual but alert. My heart does an annoying little flip.

“Everything okay?” he asks, his gentle voice belying the intensity of his gaze.

“Fine,” I say, wondering how obvious it is that I was hiding. “Just needed a minute.”

He nods, but doesn’t push for more explanation. “It’s getting crowded in there. I thought you might like some air.”

He gestures toward a set of French doors leading to a small balcony overlooking the estate gardens. It’s thoughtful and exactly what I need—a moment away from the press of bodies and the weight of Eric’s occasional glares.

Eric. What a dick. Fuck. Him.

“That would be perfect, actually.”

Liam guides me through the crowd with a protective hand hovering near the small of my back, not quite touching like Caleb had, but close enough that I can feel his warmth. I can feel his gentle strength as he moves, creating a path and subtly shielding me from the curious stares of other guests.

Something warm unfurls in my chest at his consideration—the way he protects without claiming, supports without demanding. It's a delicate balance I didn't know alphas were capable of.

The evening air is cool and sweet with the scent of roses. I take a deep breath, closing my eyes briefly as the tension in my shoulders begins to unwind.

“Better?” Liam asks, leaning against the stone balustrade.

“Much,” I admit. “Thank you. I’m not usually so... overwhelmed at these things.”

“It’s a lot,” he agrees. “Even for us, and we do this kind of networking regularly.”

“Is that really why you’re here? Networking?”

He hesitates, then nods. “Partially. We’re trying to expand our client base. This wedding has several potential high-profile clients attending.”

“And the, um, hired date?” I ask, curiosity getting the better of me. “Is that standard procedure?”

A small smile plays at his lips. “No. That was Jude’s idea. The invitation specified pack seating, and he thought showing up as four packmates without an omega would draw attention.”

“Of course he did,” I mutter, earning a soft laugh from Liam.

“He’s not wrong, though. People make assumptions about alphas without an omega.” His expression turns thoughtful. “Tell me about your bakery. What made you decide to open your own place?”

The abrupt change of subject catches me off guard, almost like he’s genuinely interested. Which he couldn’t be. He’s an alpha after all. One who probably thinks an omega opening her own business is horseshit.

But talking about baking is always easier than navigating the complicated dynamics of alphas and omegas and packs.

“I’ve always loved creating things.” I smile, gaze shifting to the gardens before us. “There’s something magical about taking basic ingredients and transforming them into something that makes people happy, you know? And I was tired of working in other people’s kitchens, following their recipes.”

“You wanted creative control,” he says, nodding.

“Exactly. Plus, there’s a serious lack of omega-owned businesses in the area. I wanted to show that we can be more than just... pack accessories.”

I wince at my own words, suddenly aware I might be insulting the very concept his pack is built on. But Liam doesn’t look offended.

“That’s admirable,” he says after a moment. “Taking that risk.”

What? He…doesn’t think I’m ‘brave’ or ‘stupid’?

I stare at him for a few moments.

“Terrifying is more like it,” I admit. “But worth it, I hope.”

“It will be,” he says. When I glance at him, there’s an intense look in his eyes that makes me completely aware that we’re out here alone, standing so close together. His scent—old books and rain—wraps around me, comforting rather than overwhelming.

I release a short, breathy thing that can hardly be classed as a laugh. “I’m working on a recipe. Lavender honey cake with blueberry filling. I have a thing for blueberries. But the recipe’s been driving me crazy for weeks.”

Now, why did I say that? He didn’t even ask. It’s one thing to bore your date with details of your life. But your fake date? That has to be some crime. It is really too easy to talk to this alpha.

“Sounds delicious,” he replies, his gentle voice dropping an octave that makes something flutter low in my chest.

“Sorry, I tend to ramble about baking.”

“Don’t apologize.” He smiles, a genuine one, revealing perfect teeth. “It’s refreshing to hear someone passionate about their work.”

Oh…God. He’s perfect.

The French doors open behind us, and Caleb’s imposing figure fills the doorway. “There you are,” he says, his deep voice sending an involuntary shiver down my spine.

“Just getting some air,” Liam explains, straightening up.

Caleb nods, then fixes his gaze on me. “Your…ex has been looking for you.”

My stomach drops.

“Don’t worry,” Caleb says, stepping onto the balcony. “He won’t approach you while we’re here.”

The confidence in his voice is both reassuring and a little intimidating. He moves to stand beside me, close enough that his arm brushes against mine. Unlike Jude’s deliberate touches, this contact seems unconscious, natural. I try to ignore the tingle that races up my arm.

A waiter appears with a tray of champagne. I reach for a fresh glass. I’ve probably had enough, but it keeps my hands occupied. Offers instances where I can take a sip and gather my thoughts before I say or do something stupid. But my head is pleasantly fuzzy, and the last thing I need is to make a fool of myself at Eric’s pre-wedding dinner.

Caleb’s gaze is steady, assessing. “How are you holding up?”

"I'm fine," I say automatically, then amend, "A little tired, maybe. And hungry." My stomach chooses that moment to growl softly, reminding me I've barely eaten all day. "I keep thinking about this little Mediterranean place near my apartment. They make this slow-roasted lamb that's just..." I trail off, realizing I'm rambling about food to an alpha I barely know. "Sorry. Stress makes me fixate on comfort food."

“We can leave whenever you’re ready.”

The offer is so casual, so natural, as if we really came together. As if he’s genuinely concerned about my comfort. It sends a strange warmth spreading through my chest.

“Soon,” I promise. “I just need to make it through the next half hour.”

Caleb’s jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. “Has that ex of yours been bothering you without one of us noticing?”

“N-no,” I say, aiming for lightness and missing by a mile.

“He’s been giving her smug looks from across the room,” Liam supplies to my utter mortification. He noticed?

“Tell me if he comes near her,” Caleb says, and it’s not a request. The alpha authority in his voice should irritate me—I’ve spent two years building a life independent of alpha protection—but instead, it makes me feel oddly safe.

Which is ridiculous. I barely know this man.

Before I can respond, Mason joins us on the balcony, a steaming cup in hand. “Thought you might need this,” he says, offering me the cup.

The rich aroma of coffee hits me, and I realize I’ve been yawning. “God, yes,” I say gratefully, accepting the cup as Caleb helpfully takes the champagne from my fingers. Again, at that brief touch, electricity races up my arm and down my throat straight into my gut.

I gulp, gaze shifting to Mason. Unlike the others, Mason seems content to observe rather than possess, and there’s something incredibly appealing about his quiet attention.

“Perfect timing,” I tell him after taking a sip. “How did you know?”

He shrugs, a small smile playing at his lips. “You’ve been suppressing yawns for the past fifteen minutes. And you keep checking the time.”

I feel my cheeks warm. “That obvious, huh?”

“Only to those paying attention,” he says simply.

And something tells me he's exactly the type of guy that pays attention. The quiet observer.

The coffee is exactly what I need—strong and sweet with a hint of something that makes me pause mid-sip. There's a familiar warmth beneath the richness, something that instantly soothes my frayed nerves. “Did you add cinnamon to this?”

He nods, his expression unchanged but something like quiet interest flickering in his eyes. “The bartender said they had it.”

“It’s...my favorite,” I say, genuinely surprised. I’ve never mentioned this preference to any of them—how could I have? We just met. Yet somehow, this quiet beta had instinctively known. “How did you...?”

He shrugs slightly, as if it were nothing special. “You seem like someone who appreciates the unexpected in familiar things.”

The simple observation—so accurate it’s almost unsettling—leaves me momentarily speechless.

Jude joins us a moment later, completing our little group on the balcony. “There you all are,” he says, a hint of petulance in his voice. “The networking is happening inside, you know.”

“We’re taking a break,” Liam says mildly.

Jude squeezes in to lean against the balustrade next to me, close enough that our shoulders touch. “Are we boring you already, doll?”

“No, not at all,” I smile, raising my coffee cup. “Just recharging.”

He grins back, the slight edge in his voice softening. “Good. Because you still owe me that dance.”

The reminder makes my pulse quicken. I glance at my watch, relieved to see it’s nearly nine. “Actually, I should probably head out soon. It’s getting late.”

“Leaving so soon?” Jude asks, his tone laced with surprise. “But we’ll see you tomorrow at the wedding, of course.”

I freeze, my escape plan crumbling. “T-Tomorrow?” I stammer. “Oh, um... about that...”

Just then, I spot Eric approaching from the still-open doors. What the fuck? Had he been keeping tabs on where we went? Damn. Fuck. Shit! His timing is as terrible as ever. And it’s clear he’s caught the tail end of our conversation. He’s got that look on his face—the one that always preceded his most condescending comments during our relationship.

“Leaving already, Leah?” he asks, a smug smile playing at his lips. “Surely, we’ll see you at the main event tomorrow?”

My mind races. I can’t admit I wasn’t planning on attending the wedding, not with Eric gloating right here. The whole point of this charade was to show him I wasn’t still hung up on our breakup. That I’d moved on. Admitting I was planning to skip his wedding would just confirm what he already thinks—that I care too much.

Fuuuuuuck!

“Of course we’ll be there,” I blurt out, shooting a panicked look at the Le Roux pack. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

Eric’s smile falters slightly, and I feel a petty thrill of satisfaction. He wanted me to squirm, to admit defeat. Not today, Eric.

“Wonderful,” he says, recovering quickly. “The ceremony starts at two. Do try to be on time.”

As he walks away, the full weight of what I’ve just done hits me. I’ve committed to attending a wedding. With four men I just met. Men who think I’m someone else. Someone they hired to pretend to be their pack omega for the weekend.

I’m so screwed.

Caleb steps closer, his phone in hand. “Now that that’s out of the way…” From the way he’s sneering at Eric as he retreats tells me I could fall in love with this man.

No. No, Leah. Stab that thought and bury it right here, right now.

“I’ve been trying to text you,” Caleb says, his voice low enough that only I can hear. “They haven’t been going through.”

For a moment, I’m confused. Then I realize—he’s been trying to text their hired date, not me. This is my chance to come clean, to explain the whole misunderstanding.

Instead, I catch Eric’s gaze from where he’s stopped inside the building, talking to a group of his guests, but his eyes are on me. My traitorous tongue—fueled by pure reflex—seizes the opportunity to dig myself even deeper.

“Oh, I had to change my phone,” I improvise, hoping they’ll buy it. “Here, let me give you my... new... number.”

Like a fool, I recite my actual number, my heart pounding as I realize I’ve just agreed to see these incredibly attractive strangers again tomorrow. At a wedding. With my ex.

What am I doing?

“We should get going,” Mason says, checking his watch as we head back into the main room. “Early day tomorrow.”

“Right,” I agree, desperate now to escape the awkwardness. “I should head home too.”

“We can give you a ride,” Liam offers immediately.

“No!” I say, too quickly. “I mean, no, thank you. My friend should actually be waiting for me.” I scan the room desperately and spot Zoe near the entrance, no doubt wondering where I am. “There she is now.”

“At least let us walk you out,” Caleb says, his hand returning to the small of my back.

I allow them to escort me through the crowd, acutely aware of the curious glances we attract. Four absurdly attractive men surrounding one omega creates a certain impression, and I can practically feel the gossip spreading through the room.

At the entrance, Jude leans in close. “Until tomorrow, doll,” he murmurs, his lips brushing my cheek in a gesture that’s just shy of inappropriate for public.

Liam offers a more reserved goodbye, squeezing my hand gently. “It was lovely meeting you.”

Caleb simply holds my gaze for a moment too long, his green eyes intense. “Be safe.”

Mason is the last to say goodbye. “Thanks for the interesting evening,” he says, a knowing glint in his eye that makes me wonder if he sees through the entire charade.

“See you tomorrow,” I say, offering a bright, slightly manic smile before practically sprinting towards Zoe.

“Who the hell were those guys?” she hisses as soon as I reach her. “And why were they all over you?”

“Car. Now,” I manage, grabbing her arm and steering her toward the exit. “I’ll explain everything, but we need to get out of here before I completely lose my mind.”

The cool night air hits me as we step outside, and I gulp it down gratefully. Zoe keeps shooting me confused looks as she leads me to her car.

“Are you drunk?” she demands as we buckle in. “Because you have that manic look you get when you’ve had too much champagne.”

“I wish I were drunk,” I groan, leaning my head back against the seat. “That would explain my terrible life choices.”

“Start talking,” she says, starting the car. “Who were those guys? The tall one with the green eyes looked like he wanted to eat you alive.”

“That’s Caleb,” I say, then immediately regret it when Zoe’s eyebrows shoot up.

“You’re on a first-name basis with them? Leah, what happened to ‘show up alone, smile through the pain, and leave early’?”

I cover my face with my hands. “It’s a long story.”

“We’ve got twenty minutes to your apartment,” she says, pulling onto the main road. “Start talking.”

So I do. I tell her about bumping into Jude, about Eric’s smug face, about the split-second decision to go along with their mistaken identity. By the time I get to the part where I agreed to attend the wedding with them tomorrow, Zoe nearly drives off the road.

“You’re actually going to the wedding with them?!” she shrieks. “Tomorrow? It’s gonna be a disaster!”

“I knowwww,” I groan. “But what choice did I have? Eric was right there, looking all superior with his ‘disappointed your pack isn’t coming’ bullshit.”

“Your fake pack,” Zoe clarifies, still looking shell-shocked. “Who think you’re someone else that they hired to pretend to be their omega for the weekend.”

“Yes.”

“And you gave them your real phone number.”

“Yes.”

“And now you’re going to show up at Eric’s wedding tomorrow with these four strangers and somehow convince everyone—including them—that you’re part of their pack.”

Put like that, it sounds completely insane. “Yes?”

Zoe is quiet for a long moment, then bursts out laughing. “Oh my god, Leah. This is either the worst idea you’ve ever had or the beginning of something great.”

“It’s definitely the worst idea I’ve ever had,” I mutter, though the memory of Caleb’s hand on my back, of Liam’s gentle questions about my bakery, of Jude’s playful flirtation, and Mason’s quiet perceptiveness makes something flutter in my chest. “They’re going to figure out I’m not who they think I am.”

“Probably,” Zoe agrees, unhelpfully.

“And then they’ll be angry.”

“Or intrigued,” she counters. “I mean, four extremely hot guys? Who seemed weirdly protective of you after knowing you for like, five minutes? That’s not nothing, Leah.”

“They were being polite,” I insist. “Playing along for their business contacts.”

Zoe snorts. “The way Green Eyes was looking at you wasn’t ‘polite.’ That was pure ‘I’d like you in my bed, baby. But I’m too much of a gentleman to say it outright’.”

I groan again.

I remember the intensity in Caleb’s gaze. The way he’d growled at Eric.

… The way I’d liked it.

Oh man, I’m screwwwed.

“It doesn’t matter.” I let out a breath. “After tomorrow, I’ll never see them again.”

“If you say so,” Zoe says, clearly unconvinced. “But just so we’re clear—I’m coming over early tomorrow to help you get ready. If you’re going to crash and burn, you might as well look hot doing it.”

I groan, leaning my head against the window. “What have I done?”

“Something incredibly stupid,” Zoe says cheerfully. “Or incredibly brilliant. I guess we’ll find out tomorrow.”

The thought of facing the Le Roux pack again—of continuing this elaborate charade through an entire wedding ceremony and reception—makes my stomach twist with anxiety. But underneath the panic, there’s a tiny spark of excitement that won’t go away.

One more day of pretending. One more day with four alphas who made me feel more protected and desired in two hours than Eric did in two years.

What could possibly go wrong?

6

CALEB

The cancellation confirmation glows on my phone screen. Olivia from PackPlus, with her sensible shoes and even more sensible investment portfolio, is officially off the hook. A strange pang of something—guilt, maybe?—hits me, but it’s quickly overshadowed by the image of Leah, radiant in black, her laughter echoing in my ears. Professionalism be damned. There’s no way I can bring another omega to this wedding, not after the way I reacted to her last night.

“Did you just cancel our actual date?” Mason asks, appearing at my shoulder with uncanny timing.

I pocket my phone. “She wasn’t going to show anyway.”

He raises an eyebrow but doesn’t push further. “And our mystery baker?”

“She’ll be here.” I sound more confident than I feel.

“You sure about that?” Jude calls from the bathroom, where he’s been fussing with his hair for twenty minutes. He and Liam know now, too. The omega we’d been enjoying the company of wasn’t the one we hired. “Because if she ghosts us, I’m going to convince the catering staff to replace the wedding cake with a giant cinnamon roll. In Leah’s honor, of course.”

“She’ll be here,” I repeat, cutting him off. The alternative isn’t something I want to consider.

Liam emerges from his room, adjusting his cufflinks. “Either way, we need to be there in thirty minutes.”

The drive to the venue is quiet, each of us lost in our own thoughts. I catch Jude checking his reflection in his phone camera, Liam adjusting his cufflinks for what must be the twentieth time with the precision of a watchmaker, and Mason watching the passing scenery with his usual inscrutability. My own mind keeps replaying fragments from last night—the way Leah’s eyes widened when I growled at her ex, the subtle shift in her scent when I stood close to her.

It was just a performance. A convenient fiction. Nothing more.

So why can’t I stop thinking about her?

The wedding venue is... a lot. White roses everywhere, enough tulle to suffocate a small army, and a faint, cloying scent of Eric’s pack clinging to the air since, out of respect and custom, everyone else wore scent blockers. We find our seats—thankfully, normal chairs, not those ridiculous pew things—and I immediately feel Jude’s nervous energy buzzing beside me.

“Think she’ll actually show?” he mutters, adjusting his tie for the tenth time.

“She gave Caleb her number,” Liam reminds him, ever the voice of reason. But even he sounds a little strained.

Mason, quiet as always, scans the room, his gaze sharp and assessing. “She doesn’t owe us anything,” he says after a few moments.

I want to argue, but he’s right, of course. Last night was a performance, a mutually beneficial illusion. But still, the thought of her not showing up leaves a strange hollowness in my chest.

I check my phone again, debating whether to text her. We’ve already sent two messages—one confirming the time and location, and another letting her know where we’re seated.

She hasn’t responded to either.

The seats around us begin to fill with wedding guests in pastel dresses and tailored suits. The air grows thick despite the scent blockers—excitement, nervousness, expensive perfume. I fight the urge to wrinkle my nose.

And then, she arrives.

A vision in emerald green, her dress shimmering as she moves, her dark hair pulled back to reveal the elegant curve of her neck. The room, which had been a blur of dainty omegas and overly-coiffed alphas, suddenly snaps into focus. My breath hitches, and the possessive urge to shield her from the gazes of the other alphas in the room suddenly flares, hot and fierce.

Beside me, Jude makes a sound that’s half-sigh, half-groan. “Holy shit.”

For once, I agree with him completely.

Leah spots us and hesitates, uncertainty flashing across her face. Then she straightens her shoulders and makes her way toward our row, apologizing softly as she squeezes past other guests.

“You came,” I say, the words coming out more startled than I want.

“I said I would,” she replies, sliding into the seat beside me. I can almost catch a hint of her vanilla and cinnamon beneath the blockers, and I have to fight the urge to lean in closer.

“You look...” I begin, then falter when she meets my eyes. Beautiful seems inadequate. Stunning feels too obvious.

“Green,” Jude supplies helpfully from her other side. “Very green. Emerald. Verdant. Like a well-maintained hedge.”

Leah laughs, the tension breaking. “Thank you, I think? You clean up nice too.”

“We try,” Liam says with a smile, leaning forward to greet her. “Glad you made it.”

Mason nods from the end of our row, his expression unreadable. “Nice dress.”

She blushes slightly, smoothing the fabric over her knees. “Thanks. My friend Zoe convinced me to go for something more... noticeable.”

“Mission accomplished,” Jude murmurs, earning a subtle elbow from Liam.

Before we can continue, the music changes, signaling the start of the ceremony. The guests quieten, turning toward the entrance. I’m acutely aware of Leah beside me, of the slight tremor in her hands as she folds them in her lap. Without thinking, I shift slightly closer, letting my shoulder brush against hers.

She doesn’t pull away.

The ceremony itself is a blur of flowery vows and overly-enthusiastic bridesmaids. Eric, surprisingly, keeps his composure throughout, though his gaze keeps drifting toward our row. It’s obvious, even to me, that he’s trying to gauge Leah’s reaction, searching for some sign of regret, some flicker of what might have been.

Leah, however, remains impassive, her expression bordering on boredom. She yawns discreetly behind her hand at one point, which, for some reason, makes my chest tighten with something like pride.

“If anyone can show just cause why this pack cannot lawfully be formed and joined together in matrimony, let them speak now or forever hold their peace,” the officiant intones.

Jude leans forward slightly, a mischievous gleam in his eye. Liam immediately clamps a hand on his shoulder, forcing him back into his seat.

“Don’t even think about it,” I mutter under my breath.

Leah’s shoulders shake with suppressed laughter. “Would he really?”

“Without hesitation,” I confirm.

“I would never,” Jude whispers, looking wounded. “Not without a very elaborate plan involving at least two costume changes and possibly a trained parrot.”

Mason sighs heavily from the end of our row.

The ceremony concludes, mercifully, without Jude causing an incident. As the newlyweds proceed down the aisle, Eric’s gaze drifts over us again, lingering on Leah with an expression I can’t quite decipher. Beside me, Leah tenses almost imperceptibly.

“He’s not worth the energy,” I murmur close to her ear.

She turns to me, surprise flashing across her face. “How did you⁠—”

“Your scent changes when you see him,” I explain. “Even with the blockers.” I immediately regret the admission. It’s too intimate, too revealing of how closely I’ve been tracking her reactions.

But instead of pulling away, she gives me a small, grateful smile. “Good to know. I’ll work on my poker face.”

“Your poker face is excellent,” I assure her. “I’m just...”

“Observant?” she supplies.

“Something like that.”

The reception is held in a lavish ballroom, dripping with crystal chandeliers and more white roses. We’re seated at Table 12, far enough from the head table to avoid constant interaction with the wedding party, but close enough that Eric can still see us clearly if he looks. Which he does. Frequently.

“Is it just me,” Jude says between bites of surprisingly decent salmon, “or is the groom spending more time staring at our table than at his new bride?”

“It’s not just you,” Mason confirms quietly.

Leah stabs at her salad. “He always did have a problem with attention span.”

The comment surprises a laugh out of me. There’s a bite beneath her sweet exterior that’s so damn intriguing. Even when the slight flush that colors her cheeks tells me she hadn’t meant to reveal quite so much of herself in that moment.

Jude grins, leaning closer. “So what else should we know about your ex? Any embarrassing allergies we could accidentally introduce to the wedding cake?”

“Jude,” Liam warns, though I catch the slight twitch at the corner of his mouth.

Leah shakes her head, but there’s a reluctant smile playing on her lips. “Let’s just say there’s a reason I’m opening a bakery and he’s... well, not.”

“Creative differences?” Mason suggests.

“Creative inability,” she corrects. “The man once burned water.”

We all laugh at that, and her shoulders relax just slightly.

The conversation shifts to safer topics after that. I’m about to ask more about her bakery when a server approaches our table with a bottle of champagne.

“Compliments of the groom,” she announces, presenting the bottle with a flourish.

A heavy silence falls over our table. The label faces directly toward Leah. It’s a particular vintage I recognize immediately. Expensive, but more importantly, specific. The kind of specific that suggests a shared history.

Leah’s face drains of color. “Thank you,” she says stiffly. “But we’re fine with what we have.”

The server hesitates, clearly caught in an awkward position. “The groom insisted. He said to tell you it’s the ‘2019 vintage you enjoyed in Napa.’”

What. The fuck.

I have to bite back a snarl.

Jude’s eyebrows shoot up, and Mason straightens almost imperceptibly in his seat. Liam’s usual calm expression hardens just slightly at the edges.

“We’re fine,” I repeat firmly, meeting the server’s eyes. “Please thank the groom for his... thoughtfulness, but we’ll pass.”

After the server retreats, Leah stares at her plate, her scent spiking with a complex mix of embarrassment and anger.

“Sorry about that,” she finally says. “That was...”

“A power play,” Mason finishes for her, his voice quiet but certain.

“A pathetic one,” Jude adds, deliberately loud enough to be heard at nearby tables.

Leah laughs, though it sounds slightly forced. “It’s the same one he’d ordered at dinner the night he broke up with me. He knows I hate that champagne. Too sweet.”

“What an ass,” Liam says with bluntness that’s unusual for him.

I watch her carefully, noting how she’s recovered her composure with impressive speed. “You okay?”

“Fine,” she says. But her face drops.

I shoot a glare at the head table, only to find that shitfaced idiot of her ex smirking. Fucking bastard. When my gaze shifts back to my pack, they’re all equally glaring at him, too. Good. We’re all on the same page.

I turn to Leah, hoping I can find the right words to make her feel better when I see something unexpected. The dejected look that had come over her face has transformed into something else. Her shoulders stiffen as her jaw tightens.

She lifts her head, eyes unreadable. “I think I suddenly need to visit the dessert table. Care to escort me? It’s right past the head table.”

A slow smile spreads across my face as I understand her intention. “It would be my pleasure.”

As we stand, Jude raises his water glass in a mock toast. “To pettiness. The underrated virtue.”

“My favorite kind of spite,” Mason agrees with a rare smile.

I offer Leah my arm, and she takes it, her touch sending an unexpected jolt through me. We make our way toward the elaborate dessert display, deliberately taking a path that leads us right past Eric, his pack, and his new bride.

“Don’t look at him,” I murmur close to her ear. “Let him look at you.”

She nods almost imperceptibly, then turns her face up to mine with a smile so genuine it momentarily steals my breath. “You’re good at this game,” she says, just loud enough not to be overheard.

“It’s not entirely a game,” I admit, the words escaping before I can stop them.

Something flickers in her eyes—surprise, followed by something warmer—before she looks away, focusing on the towering display of petit fours and chocolate fountains ahead of us.

As we pass the head table, I feel Eric’s gaze burning into us. Good. I’ve never been the petty type but, for some reason, for her, I feel the urge to do this.

Without looking directly at him, I allow my hand to drift from Leah’s elbow to the small of her back, my fingers meeting bare skin where her dress cuts low, exposing the dip of her spine. The contact jolts through me like electricity. Her breath hitches, skin pebbling under my touch, and I can’t stop myself from tracing a slow circle against that warm skin, feeling the ridge of her spine beneath my fingertips.

Even through the scent blockers, I catch something—just a hint of her breaking through. Raw. Real. Fuck. My cock hardens so fast it’s almost painful, straining against my pants. I have to shift my stance, grateful for the tuxedo jacket as I lean closer, my breath stirring the loose strands at her neck.

I wasn’t lying when I said this wasn’t entirely a game anymore.

“That wasn’t necessary,” she whispers once we’re safely at the dessert table.

“Wasn’t it?” I ask, watching as she selects a chocolate-dipped strawberry.

She meets my eyes, long lashes making her look like a siren, challenge and confusion mingling in her gaze. “This is all pretend, remember?”

“Is it?” The question hangs between us, heavier than it has any right to be.

Before she can answer, Jude appears at her other side, snagging a miniature éclair. “The bride’s aunt is telling everyone you two have ‘unmistakable chemistry,’” he informs us with obvious delight. “Apparently, you two are catching eyes.”

Leah clears her throat and averts her gaze from mine, but the redness that creeps up her neck is telling. “People at weddings are desperate for drama.”

“Oh, absolutely,” Jude agrees, way too cheerful. “And you’re giving them quite the show.” He winks at me over her head, earning a warning glare in response.

We make our way back to the table with our dessert plates, Leah’s step noticeably lighter now. The small victory over Eric seems to have restored something in her—a spark of confidence that makes her even more captivating.

“Mission accomplished?” Mason asks as we sit down.

“Spectacularly,” Jude confirms before either of us can answer. “The groom looked like he swallowed a lemon.”

Leah’s smile is small but satisfied. “Then my work is done.”

“Not quite,” Liam says, nodding toward the head table. “He’s still watching.”

“Let him,” she says with a shrug, then turns to Liam with a sparkle in her eye. “Now, about those beer and pastry pairings…”

The conversation flows from there. Leah describes her bakery with an infectious enthusiasm, her words painting a vivid picture of the cozy space she’s creating.

I imagine her there…and then I imagine us there, too. Which is bad. Isn’t it?

Mason catches my eye and shakes his head slowly with a sigh, as if he knows exactly what I’m thinking. I shrug. I can’t help it.

We’ve built something good together, the four of us. Five years of turning a struggling microbrewery into one of the most respected craft operations in the region. We work well as a unit—Liam’s business acumen, Mason’s steady reliability, Jude’s creative flair, and my ability to pull it all together. We’ve always had each other’s backs.

We’ve even tried dating before—set up “interviews” with omegas who looked good on paper. Those evenings always started promising enough but inevitably fizzled out by dessert. Jude would flirt relentlessly but never follow through. Liam would mentally check out halfway through. Mason would be polite but distant. And I’d be left making excuses about early morning deliveries.

No one ever even remotely fit.

Until now.

Plus, I’m not the only one daydreaming. I’ve seen how Mason’s been watching Leah when she’s not looking.

Jude, too. Right now, as the other guests mingle and the event winds down, he’s regaling her with exaggerated tales of brewing mishaps and eccentric customers. But Liam steers the conversation away and begins talking collaboration with that intense focus he usually reserves for perfecting a new brew. He’s sketching flavor combinations on a cocktail napkin, all animated about how we could make something to complement her dark chocolate tarts. I’ve never seen him this eager to blend his creations with someone else’s before.

“A stout with your chocolate cake,” he muses. “Or perhaps a lighter ale with those cinnamon rolls you mentioned.”

She has no idea he’s completely serious.

And he’s a genius. If we worked with her…then we could see her again. And again. Because as the minutes turn into hours, it’s becoming increasingly clear that time’s moving too fast. This evening is going by too quickly.

I watch how she interacts with my packmates. I’ve never met an omega who can match Jude’s energy without letting him dominate the conversation. She listens to Liam with genuine interest, asking follow-up questions that show she’s really engaging with his ideas. Even Mason. He’s always reserved with strangers, and yet he’s engrossed with her, offering quiet comments that make her laugh.

It’s... easy. Too easy to imagine her as a real part of our group. To forget that this is all pretend.

The DJ’s voice cuts through the chatter. “Ladies and gentlemen, it’s time for the bouquet toss! All eligible singles, please make your way to the dance floor.”

Jude nudges Leah. “You’re up.”

She shakes her head. “No way.”

“Come on,” he insists. “It’s tradition.”

“A stupid tradition,” she mutters, but Jude’s already pulling her to her feet.

“Consider it part of your revenge,” Mason says quietly. “Show him you’re moving on.”

I watch as she reluctantly joins the small cluster of betas and omegas. She hangs at the back, clearly hoping to avoid participation while technically participating. The bride turns her back to the crowd, bouquet clutched in her manicured hands.

One. Two. Three.

The bouquet sails through the air in a perfect arc—directly toward Leah. She reflexively reaches up, her eyes widening in horror as the flowers land squarely in her hands. A spotlight finds her instantly.

The guests cheer. Eric’s face darkens. Jude whoops loudly from our table, and I can’t help the satisfied grin that spreads across my face as she makes her way back to us, her cheeks flushed with embarrassment.

“Don’t,” she warns as she sits down, tossing the bouquet onto the table like it’s radioactive. “Not one word.”

She glares at all of us as we chuckle, but there’s no real anger in it. And that little pout on her lips…it does something to me. Makes my mouth go dry. Makes me wonder what those soft lips would taste like if I leaned across the table right now and claimed them.

Her pulse jumps at her throat when our eyes lock, and I know she can feel it too—this current humming between us, getting stronger by the minute. She breaks first, looking down at her napkin, but not before I catch the slight tremble in her fingers as she reaches for her water glass.

The toasts begin next. The maid of honor goes first, delivering a speech that’s equal parts sentimental and embarrassing for the bride. The best man follows with a series of inside jokes that fall flat for most of the room.

Then Eric stands, champagne flute in hand, and my attention sharpens.

“I want to thank everyone for coming today,” he begins, his gaze sweeping the room. “Finding your pack—finding the people who complete you—is life’s greatest adventure.”

Beside me, Leah’s scent shifts, a subtle note of distress breaking through the scent blocker she’s wearing.

“To those who’ve found their pack,” Eric continues, his gaze finally settling on our table, on Leah specifically. “And to those... still searching.”

The barb is unmistakable. I feel Leah tense beside me, her knuckles tightening around her champagne flute enough that she might break the thing.

That. Fucker.

Instinct takes over. I don’t think. I move.

My hand closes over Leah’s nape, barely squeezing—just enough pressure to make her gasp. My thumb strokes the vulnerable skin behind her ear as I lean down, lips brushing the shell of it.

“Watch,” I rumble.

Then I drag my teeth over the soft skin of her neck. Right where I would mark her.

Not a bite. Not even close. But the threat—the promise—hangs in the air as my scent explodes across her skin.

The room goes silent. A glass shatters. Someone screams. Eric’s chair screeches back as he stands so fast it topples.

Leah is motionless against me, her breath coming in shallow pants.

“You didn’t⁠—”

“Had to,” I growl against her pulse. My teeth ache. And something else grows uncomfortably hard. “He was looking at you like you’re still his.”

Jude whistles. “Well. That happened.”

7

LEAH

Caleb’s teeth graze my neck, and the world tilts.

It’s not a bite. It’s not even close. But the threat of it—the possessive rumble in his chest, the way his fingers tighten just enough at my nape to make my breath hitch—sends a shockwave through me. My skin burns where his lips touch, and my pulse kicks so hard I’m certain the entire room can hear it.

Across the ballroom, Eric’s face twists into something ugly. His champagne flute slips from his fingers, shattering against the floor. The sound is swallowed by the sudden, deafening silence that falls over our section of the reception.

Then chaos erupts.

Gasps. Whispers. A server drops a tray of desserts. The bride—Melissa—whirls on Eric, her perfectly manicured nails digging into his arm as she hisses something in his ear.

And Caleb? He just leans back, smug as hell, his thumb stroking idle circles over the spot he’d just almost marked. His scent surrounds me completely, breaking through the blockers like they don’t even exist—dark chocolate and something deep and earthy that makes my knees weak.

Marked. Almost marked. In front of everyone.

Oh my God.

Jude whistles, low and impressed. “Well. That happened.”

Liam’s glass is frozen halfway to his lips. Mason’s eyebrows have disappeared into his hairline.

And me? I’m a live wire, every nerve ending screaming, caught somewhere between mortification and a dangerous, heady thrill that I absolutely should not be feeling for a man I met yesterday.

“You didn’t—” I whisper, voice strangled.

Caleb’s grin is all alpha satisfaction. “Had to.” His voice drops, rough and possessive against my ear. “He was looking at you like you’re still his.”

I’m going to kiss him. Or murder him. Or maybe both, in that order.

The bride’s shrill voice cuts through the murmurs. “Eric, sit down.”

Eric doesn’t sit. He’s still staring at us, his jaw clenched so tight I can see the muscle twitching. His packmates are glancing between him and Caleb like they’re waiting for a fight to break out.

Something wild and reckless flares in my chest. A part of me almost wants to see it—wants to watch Caleb put Eric in his place once and for all.

Caleb must sense it because his growl vibrates against my skin as he shifts closer, his arm sliding around my waist with a look that says, “Problem, groom?”

The challenge is unmistakable.

Eric’s nostrils flare. For a second, I think he might actually lunge across the room. But then Melissa yanks him back into his seat with a death grip, her smile strained as she raises her glass.

“To new beginnings,” she announces, voice dripping with forced cheer.

The guests awkwardly lift their glasses, casting furtive glances at our table.

Jude raises his empty champagne flute with a grin. “To drama.”

Liam sighs. Mason pinches the bridge of his nose.

And me? I’m still trying to remember how to breathe with Caleb’s scent wrapped around me like this, his hand at my waist, his lips still close enough to my ear that I can feel the warmth of his breath.

Caleb’s fingers flex against my hip, his thumb tracing idle circles through the fabric of my dress. “You okay?”

No. I am absolutely not okay. I’ve gone from fake date to public scandal in less than twenty-four hours, and the worst part is, I can’t bring myself to regret a second of it.

“Peachy,” I lie, my voice two octaves too high.

His smirk says he doesn’t believe me.

“That was quite a statement,” Mason observes quietly, eyes darting between me and Caleb.

“I thought it was hot,” Jude offers helpfully.

Liam shoots him a look. “Not helping.”

“What? It was!” Jude protests, gesturing with his water glass. “Did you see his face? I’ve never seen someone turn that particular shade of purple before. Fascinating, really.”

“Should we... leave?” I ask, finding my voice at last. My pulse is still racing, and I’m acutely aware of every place Caleb is touching me—his hand at my waist, his thigh pressed against mine, the lingering ghost of his teeth on my neck.

“Not yet,” Caleb says, his voice a low rumble that I feel more than hear. “I need to make sure he got the message.”

“Trust me,” Mason says dryly, “everyone got the message.”

Conversations around us have resumed, but I can feel eyes on us—curious, scandalized, envious. The weight of their attention should make me want to crawl under the table, but instead, I find myself sitting up straighter, almost leaning into Caleb’s touch.

What is wrong with me?

“Leah, dear!”

I slam back my drink as Eric’s mother barrels toward us again, all fake smiles and judgment, her floral dress practically screaming as loud as her opinions probably will.

“Such a…surprise,” she says, her gaze pointedly flicking to the spot on my neck where Caleb’s lips had been moments before. “I hadn’t realized how…close…you and the Le Roux pack had become.” The emphasis on “close” is heavy with insinuation.

“It’s recent,” I manage, the lie tasting like ash in my mouth. I can’t believe she’s bringing this up again.

“Very recent,” Caleb adds smoothly, his thumb resuming its maddening circles against my hip. “But when you know, you know.” He gives Eric’s mother a charming smile that does nothing to soothe my nerves.

Mrs. Donovan’s smile tightens. “How…romantic,” she says. “And to think, just last night, you introduced them as…friends.”

My cheeks burn.

“Well,” she continues, clearly struggling to wrap her head around this mess. Fuck, I am too. “I’m very happy for you, dear. Your alpha is quite…attentive.” Her tone suggests she’d prefer the word “possessive.”

Is he ever.

“Thank you,” I say, because what else can I say? ‘He’s not actually my alpha, we just met yesterday in a case of mistaken identity, and this whole thing is an elaborate charade that’s rapidly spinning out of control’?

After she leaves, I turn to glare at Caleb. “Did you have to do that?” I hiss, keeping my voice low so only he can hear. “The ‘when you know, you know’ bit? And the constant touching? It’s a bit much, don’t you think?”

His eyes meet mine, and for a moment, the smug alpha facade slips, revealing something more genuine—uncertainty, maybe even a touch of guilt. “No,” he says, and I think that’s the end of that. Until… “But I wanted to.”

Oh.

Oh.

The honesty in his voice disarms me completely.

“Just give me some warning next time,” I mutter, reaching for my water glass to hide the flush creeping up my cheeks.

Next time. As if there’s going to be a next time.

Caleb’s grin returns, slow and dangerous, and it does something to me. Something low in my stomach I really shouldn’t pay attention to. “I’ll pencil it into my calendar. ‘Tomorrow, 10 PM: Almost mark Leah again.’”

Despite everything, I laugh, even though my pulse is thrumming in my ears. “You’re impossible.”

“I believe the word you’re looking for is ‘charming,’” he counters, his voice dropping just enough to make it feel like a caress.

“Delusional,” I shoot back, but my voice sounds too breathless, and I can’t keep the smile from my face.

Before I can recover, Jude leans in closer on my other side, his freckled nose crinkling in mock indignation. His hand brushes mine, skin against skin, and a ridiculous jolt of heat shoots through me. “Charming? Delusional? I’m sitting right here, you know. If we’re doing adjectives, I’m at least ‘devastatingly handsome.’”

“Devastatingly something,” I mutter, trying to sound unaffected, but my heart is racing. Jude is close enough that I can feel the faint heat of him, the teasing edge in his grin doing things to me it absolutely shouldn’t.

“Hey now,” Liam chimes in, his voice calm and velvety as he slides a fresh flute of champagne toward me. His fingers graze mine in the process, the touch sending a shiver up my spine. “Give Jude some credit. He’s doing his best to be tolerable tonight.”

Jude gasps in mock outrage, his knee pressing against mine as he shifts closer. “Tolerable? Tolerable? You wound me, brother.”

“You’ll recover,” Liam says, though his lips curl in a way that makes me think he enjoys teasing Jude as much as I do.

The banter should calm me, but instead, it’s making my skin feel too tight, too aware of every small touch, every brush of warmth. I’m buzzing, heat pooling low in my belly, and I have no idea why.

This is ridiculous.

But then Caleb’s hand presses lightly against the small of my back, his thumb moving in a slow, absent-minded arc, and I realize I’m not imagining it. My body isn’t just reacting—I’m responding.

What the hell is wrong with me?

Eric’s glances continue from across the room. At some point, I stop trying to track them. Every time I look in his direction, he’s watching us—watching me—and every time, his expression darkens a little more.

The pack seems to notice too, though they don’t comment on it anymore. Instead, they close ranks like it’s instinct, their touches becoming less guarded, more natural.

Jude drapes his arm along the back of my chair, his fingers brushing the bare skin of my shoulder. His touch lingers, warm and surprisingly gentle, and the light pressure sends a spark of heat racing through me.

“You’re lucky we’re here, you know,” he says, leaning in so close that his breath skims the shell of my ear. “This wedding would be so boring without us.”

“Lucky,” I repeat, my voice catching on the word. “That’s definitely the word I’d use.” My pulse is pounding now, my skin prickling under his touch.

Liam chuckles softly, his golden hair catching the light as he shifts closer. “He’s not wrong. You’d be stuck with stale cake and awkward small talk if we weren’t here.”

“Don’t forget the bad music,” Mason adds from across the table. His voice is quiet but sharp, cutting through the haze clouding my mind. “If I have to hear one more off-key love song, I might start growling. Fair warning.” He’s been watching me like a hawk all night, and there’s something in his gaze that feels... knowing. He’s a beta with alpha energy. He hasn’t said much but those eyes…fuck. Definite alpha energy.

I laugh, the sound shaky as I try to push back against this raging hormonal and horny bitch that’s trying to claw her way out from my chest. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Mason’s lips twitch, just barely, and something about the way he looks at me makes my stomach flip.

“Good,” he murmurs. “Wouldn’t want to ruin your night.”

“Ruin it?” Jude interjects, his fingers tracing lazy circles over my shoulder. The motion is slow and absolutely maddening. “Please. We’re the highlight of this whole event. Look at us—charm, wit, devastating good looks...”

“Again with ‘devastating,’” I mutter, trying to focus on the conversation instead of the way my body is practically humming.

Jude’s smirk deepens, his freckled face way too close to mine. “What can I say? I’m consistent.”

By the time the DJ announces the last dance, I’m wound so tight I might snap. The weight of the pack’s attention, the lingering heat of Caleb’s almost-mark, the way the entire room seems to be watching us—it’s too much.

“We should go,” I mutter, twisting my clutch in my hands.

Jude pouts. “But I haven’t gotten my dance yet.”

“Jude.” Liam’s voice is a warning.

Mason stands, adjusting his cufflinks. “I’ll get the car.”

Caleb’s hand slides from my waist to my lower back as he guides me toward the exit. His touch is warm, steadying, and infuriatingly familiar for someone I’ve known less than 48 hours.

“You’re shaking,” he murmurs.

“Adrenaline,” I lie.

He hums, unconvinced.

The cool night air hits me like a slap as we step outside. Mason’s SUV idles at the curb, Liam already holding the door open.

Jude flops into the backseat with a dramatic sigh. “Best. Wedding. Ever.”

I don’t move.

Caleb stops beside me, his gaze searching. “Leah?”

This is it. The moment I should say thanks for the fun, but this was all pretend, and I’m never seeing you again.

Instead, I blurt out: “You marked me in front of two hundred people.”

His lips twitch. “Technically, I almost marked you.”

“Caleb.”

“You liked it.”

I did.

Oh God, I really did.

My face burns. “That’s not the point.”

“Then what is?” He steps closer, his scent wrapping around me—dark, rich, intoxicating. “Tell me to walk away, and I will.”

I should. This was supposed to be a one-time thing, a convenient arrangement to get me through my ex’s wedding without looking pathetic. Now it’s something else entirely—something that makes my skin hum and my pulse beat too fast.

“I don’t even know you,” I say instead.

“You could,” he replies simply.

Oh fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.

“Tell us to walk away, Leah,” he repeats, “and we will.”

I should.

I should.

But the words won’t come.

Jude leans out the car window. “If you two are done eye-fucking, we’ve got beer at home.”

Liam sighs, and I hear his mutter of “Way to be subtle, Jude,” even from here. Mason starts the engine.

And Caleb? He’s still watching me, waiting.

I swallow hard. “One drink.”

What the fuck am I doing?!?!?!?!?!

His grin is slow, dangerous. “One drink.”

And just like that, I’m in way over my head.

The ride to their place is quiet, charged with a tension I don’t quite know how to navigate. I sit between Caleb and Jude in the backseat, acutely aware of how their thighs press against mine, of the way their hands rest casually on their knees, so, so close to mine.

Jude, for once, seems to have run out of words. He stares out the window, occasionally glancing at me with an expression that’s hard to read.

From the front seat, Liam clears his throat. “Leah, I want to apologize if what happened back there made you uncomfortable.”

“It didn’t,” I say automatically, then immediately regret it when Caleb’s hand shifts slightly closer to mine. “I mean, it was... unexpected.”

“That’s one word for it,” Mason mutters from the driver’s seat.

“I thought it was badass,” Jude says, perking up. “Did you see how many people choked on their drinks? I counted at least three. Plus that one server with the dessert tray.”

“Not helping, Jude,” Liam sighs.

“What? I’m just saying, if you’re going to cause a scene, go big or go home.” He nudges me with his elbow. “And you two went nuclear.”

Heat floods my cheeks. Caleb’s scent—that dark chocolate and something richer, earthier—still clings to my skin where his teeth grazed my neck. I press my thighs together, grateful for the shadows hiding my reaction.

“Can we please talk about literally anything else?” My voice comes out strained.

Jude’s fingers drum against his thigh. “Fine. Let’s talk about how you’re shaking.”

I am. Fine tremors race through me, leftover adrenaline and something else—something that tightens low in my belly when Caleb’s knee brushes mine in the cramped backseat.

Liam turns from the passenger seat, his golden hair haloed by passing streetlights. “She’s in drop. Post-adrenaline crash.” His clinical tone doesn’t match the way his gaze lingers on my parted lips. “We should get fluids in her. Electrolytes.”

“I know exactly what she needs,” Jude purrs.

Caleb’s growl vibrates through the car. “Enough.”

The alpha command shuts everyone up.

Mason’s knuckles whiten on the steering wheel. Jude exhales sharply through his nose. And me? I writhe at the dominance in that single word.

Silence stretches.

Then, Caleb’s calloused thumb strokes my inner wrist where it rests in my lap. A silent apology. A question.

I don’t pull away.

Jude watches our joined hands like it’s the most fascinating thing he’s ever seen. “So. Your place or ours, Omega?”

Mason turns onto a tree-lined street. “Ours is closer.”

Liam glances back, his blue eyes dark. “If that’s... acceptable to you.”

Caleb’s thumb stills. Waiting.

Every sane thought screams danger. But the champagne and the scent-marking and the way all four of them are looking at me⁠—

“One drink,” I whisper.

Caleb’s smile is slow. Predatory. “One drink.”

The car purrs to a stop outside a modern townhouse. Moonlight glints off the windows, the sleek lines, the enormity of what I’m about to do.

Jude flings open his door with a flourish. “Welcome to the lion’s den, Red Riding Hood.”

Caleb pins him with a glare. “Don’t call her that.”

But when his large hand engulfs mine to help me from the car, his grip is gentle. “Changed your mind yet? We can take you straight home if that’s what you want.”

The terrifying answer?

No.

“No,” I say. “I’ll stay.”

His smile makes my stomach flip in a way that has nothing to do with champagne or wedding cake. Because there’s a look in his eyes that suggests he’s hoping for much more than that.

And the scary part? So am I.

8

CALEB

The moment the front door closes behind us, Leah’s breath hitches.

I can smell it—the sharp, sweet spike of her arousal cutting through the last of the scent blocker, the way her pulse flutters visibly at the base of her throat. She’s trying to play it cool, glancing around our foyer like she’s just here for a casual drink, but her body betrays her with every shallow breath, every subtle shift of her weight.

Mine, something primal in me growls.

“Well,” she says, voice too light as she gestures vaguely at our living room, “this is your⁠—”

I don’t let her finish.

I spin her around, pinning her against the door, and crash my mouth to hers.

She gasps, her hands flying to my shoulders, fingers digging into the fabric of my jacket. I swallow the sound, licking into her mouth, tasting champagne and her—vanilla, cinnamon, heat. Her scent blooms around us, filling my lungs and sending fire racing through my veins.

For a second, she freezes. Then she melts against me with a whimper, her body arching into mine as if she can’t help herself.

Fuck.

I’ve kissed plenty of omegas before, but none like this—none who shudder under my touch like they’ve been waiting for it, none who whimper into my mouth like they’re starving for it. Her taste is addictive, making my head spin and my control fray at the edges.

I pull back just enough to growl against her lips, “You’ve been driving me insane all evening.”

Her breath comes in shallow pants, her eyes wide and dark. “I—what?”

“The way you looked at me when I almost marked you.” My teeth graze her bottom lip, and she shivers, her pupils dilating until there’s barely any brown left. “The way you smelled after.”

Her cheeks flush a deep, rosy pink. “I didn’t⁠—”

“Liar.” I nip at her jaw, trailing down to the spot I’d claimed earlier. The skin there is still faintly red from where my teeth had grazed her at the reception. I drag my tongue over it, tasting the salt of her skin, feeling her pulse jump beneath my lips. “You liked it. You wanted it.”

She whines, high and desperate, her hips jerking forward unconsciously to press against mine. The sound travels straight to my cock, making it throb painfully against the confines of my dress pants.

Behind me, Jude lets out a low whistle. “Well, that escalated quickly.”

Leah stiffens in my arms, her eyes flying open. I’d almost forgotten the others were here—almost forgotten anything but the feel of her under my hands, the taste of her on my tongue.

But now, as I step back slightly, I see them—Jude leaning against the staircase, his tie already loosened, grinning like the cat who got the cream; Mason watching us with dark, hungry eyes, his usual calm demeanor nowhere to be found; Liam lingering near us, his expression carefully controlled but his scent filled with unmistakable want.

Leah’s breath hitches, her gaze darting between them. “I—um⁠—”

Jude pushes off the stairs, prowling toward us. His usual playfulness has given way to something more intense, more focused. “Don’t stop on our account, doll.” His voice is rough, almost a purr.

Liam follows, his movements measured as he approaches from the other side. “In fact,” he says, his voice a low rumble that I feel more than hear, “I think we’d all like to help.”

Leah’s eyes widen, her lips parting on a soft exhale. “All of you?”

Mason steps forward then, his gaze locked on hers with an intensity I’ve rarely seen from him. “If that’s what you want.” His gaze drops to the sweet plumpness that’s her lips. “We like to share.”

She hesitates—just for a second—but then her scent spikes, sweet and intoxicating, filling the foyer with the unmistakable perfume of omega arousal. The four of us inhale simultaneously, our bodies responding with an almost synchronous tension.

She wants this.

I don’t give her time to second-guess. I kiss her again, deep and filthy, my hands sliding down to grip her hips and pull her firmly against me. She moans into my mouth, her fingers tangling in my hair, pulling just hard enough to make me growl.

As I pull her off the door, Jude’s hands land on her waist from behind, his lips brushing the curve of her neck as he presses his chest to her back. “Fuck, you smell good,” he murmurs, nipping at the sensitive skin below her ear. “Like you were made for us.”

She gasps, arching back into him even as she presses forward against me, caught between our bodies. The sight of her between us—flushed, panting, wanting—sends a surge of possessiveness through me so strong it’s almost painful.

Liam steps in closer, his fingers brushing her jaw with his usual gentleness. “Tell us to stop,” he murmurs, though his eyes are dark with need. “If this isn’t what you want.”

Leah’s breath hitches as she looks up at him. Her gaze darts between us—Jude at her back, pressed along the length of her body; Liam’s hand on her face, his thumb tracing her lower lip; me still holding her hips, my cock hard against her stomach.

Then her eyes find Mason, who watches from a slight distance, patient but hungry.

Her voice, when it comes, is soft but certain: “Don’t stop.”

That’s all it takes.

Jude’s hands slide up her sides, pushing the fabric of her dress higher, his fingers skimming the bare skin of her thighs. The emerald silk rustles as it bunches around her waist. “Fuck, you’re perfect,” he groans, pressing open-mouthed kisses along her shoulder.

Liam captures her mouth next, kissing her with a slow intensity that makes her whimper. I watch, mesmerized, as her fingers clutch at his shirt, pulling him closer. He takes his time exploring her mouth, learning what makes her gasp and what makes her moan.

Mason moves behind me, his voice a low rumble in my ear. “Take her upstairs.”

I don’t need to be told twice.

I lift Leah into my arms, her legs wrapping around my waist instinctively. She’s light, pliant, her breath coming in quick little gasps as I carry her up the stairs. Her dress is still bunched around her waist, leaving her long, smooth legs bare against my hands, and I can’t help but balance her with one arm while the other runs along her skin.

Jude follows behind, his fingers already working at the buttons of his shirt, leaving it to hang open as he takes the stairs two at a time. “Bedroom. Now.”

Liam and Mason trail behind. The stairwell is filled with the heady mixture of three alphas and one very aroused omega, a combination so intoxicating I’m surprised we make it upstairs at all.

I kick open the door to my room, barely registering the dim lighting filtering through the blinds, the king-sized bed with its navy sheets, the way Leah’s eyes widen as I set her down at the foot of the mattress.

“Last chance to back out,” I murmur, my fingers tracing the thin strap of her dress where it cuts across her collarbone.

She shakes her head, her eyes never leaving mine as she reaches for the zipper at the side of her dress. “I’ve never been more sure of anything,” she says, her voice breathless but steady. “Please.”

That’s it. That’s all I need.

I yank the strap down, baring her shoulder, and sink my teeth into the soft skin there—not hard enough to mark permanently, but enough to make her cry out, her back arching.

Jude groans, shoving his shirt off completely and tossing it aside. “Fuck, Caleb, warn a guy.”

Leah’s hands are already pulling at my belt, her fingers trembling with impatience. “Too much clothes,” she whines, tugging at the leather.

Liam chuckles, stepping forward to help. “Impatient, aren’t we?” His fingers make quick work of my belt as Leah fumbles with the buttons of my shirt.

Between the four of us, it doesn’t take long. Clothes hit the floor in a frantic rush—her dress pooling around her ankles, my shirt ripped in our haste to get it off, Jude’s pants kicked aside carelessly.

And then she’s bare except for a scrap of emerald lace that matches her dress, sprawled across my bed, her skin flushed a delicate pink, her chest rising and falling with each ragged breath. Her hair has come loose from its careful styling, dark strands spilling across my pillows like ink.

Gorgeous.

Jude doesn’t wait. He climbs onto the bed, his hands sliding up her thighs, spreading them wide to expose the damp patch on her panties. “Look at you,” he murmurs, his voice rough with want as he settles between her legs. “Fuck, Leah.”

She whimpers, her hips lifting off the mattress, seeking friction. The movement is unconscious, instinctive—omega seeking alpha—and it strikes something primal in me.

I don’t let her wait. I crawl over her, pinning her wrists above her head with one hand as I kiss her again, deep and claiming. She moans into my mouth, her body arching against mine, skin to skin at last. The feel of her bare breasts against my chest sends electricity racing down my spine.

Jude’s fingers trail higher, teasing along the edge of her panties, never quite giving her what she needs. “You’re soaked,” he groans, the pad of his thumb barely grazing her through the thin fabric.

Leah whines, her legs trembling on either side of his hips. “Please⁠—”

Liam’s hand slides into her hair, tilting her head back to expose the long line of her throat. “Tell us what you want,” he demands softly, his lips brushing the shell of her ear.

Her breath hitches, her eyes fluttering closed as she surrenders to the sensation of three alphas touching her at once. “Everything.”

“Yesss,” I growl.

Jude hooks his fingers in the waistband of her panties and drags them down her legs, tossing them over his shoulder with a growl of approval. Then his mouth replaces his fingers, his tongue licking a slow, filthy stripe up her center.

Leah screams, her back bowing off the bed, her wrists straining against my grip. The sound is raw. Pure pleasure with no restraint.

“That’s it,” I murmur against her lips, watching her face contort with ecstasy. “Let us hear you.”

I watch, mesmerized, as Jude devours her, his hands gripping her thighs to hold them apart, his tongue working with focused precision. She writhes beneath him, incoherent sounds spilling from her lips as her head thrashes on the pillow.

Liam’s lips find her neck, his teeth grazing her pulse point as he works his way down to her breasts. “You taste perfect,” he murmurs against her skin, his tongue circling one nipple before he takes it into his mouth, sucking hard.

Mason moves to the head of the bed, his fingers tracing the outline of her lips as he watches her fall apart beneath us. “Open,” he commands softly.

She does without hesitation, her tongue darting out to lick his fingers before taking them into her mouth. She sucks greedily, her eyes locked with his, and I feel Mason’s subtle shudder at the sight.

The four of us work in perfect synchronicity, as if we’ve done this a thousand times before—Jude between her legs, his mouth relentless; Liam at her breast, alternating between gentle kisses and sharp nips; Mason’s fingers in her mouth, his other hand stroking her hair; and me, still pinning her wrists, watching her face as pleasure overwhelms her.

The sight of her like this—spread out, claimed by all of us at once—sends a surge of possessiveness through me so intense it makes me ache. My cock throbs, desperate for relief, but I force myself to wait. This first time is about her.

Until I can’t wait any longer.

But I force myself to hold back. Not yet. Not before I’ve had a taste of her.

I release her wrists, my hands skimming down her sides, feeling the way her body trembles beneath my touch. “Not done with you yet,” I murmur, leaning down to kiss her again. This time, it’s slower, deeper, like I’m trying to memorize the way she tastes. Her body shudders, and I’m sure she just came.

Jude glances up from between her legs, his mouth glistening, his eyes dark and wild. “She’s fucking addictive,” he growls, his fingers digging into her thighs as he holds her open. “Can’t get enough of her.”

Leah’s head thrashes against the pillow, a broken whimper spilling from her lips. “I—please, I can’t⁠—”

“You can,” I tell her, my voice low and firm. “And you will.”

I nudge Jude aside, and he goes reluctantly, though not far. He stays close, his hand stroking her inner thigh, his lips brushing lazy kisses over her flushed skin.

Leah looks up at me, her eyes hazy with need, her lips parted as she struggles to catch her breath. She’s wrecked already, her chest rising and falling in short, uneven pants, her body trembling under our hands.

And yet, she still wants more.

I slide my hands under her thighs, lifting her hips slightly and spreading her wider. Her scent is so rich, so intoxicating, that my head spins as I lower myself between her legs.

She gasps when my mouth makes contact, her hands flying to my hair, clutching at the strands as if she needs something to anchor her. I groan against her, the taste of her flooding my senses. Jude didn’t exaggerate. She’s sweet and musky and utterly addictive.

“Fuck,” I growl, my tongue sweeping over her slick folds. “You’re perfect.”

Her hips jerk, a strangled cry escaping her lips. “Caleb⁠—”

Jude’s hand moves to her clit, his thumb circling it with gentle, teasing pressure. “Relax, doll,” he murmurs. “Let us take care of you.”

I glance up and meet his eyes, and in that moment, there’s no need for words.

Jude focuses on her clit, his strokes growing firmer while I devour her, my tongue plunging inside her before dragging up to flick over the sensitive bundle of nerves Jude’s touching. Leah’s cries grow louder, her body writhing between us, her thighs trembling as we push her closer and closer to the edge.

“Beautiful,” Liam murmurs from beside her, his lips trailing from her breasts to her neck then back. He takes her nipple into his mouth, sucking hard enough to make her arch off the bed.

Mason moves to her other side, lavishing the other nipple with attention.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, his voice thick with approval.

I slide my tongue deeper, groaning at the way her body responds—her hips bucking, her cries growing louder, her fingers tightening in my hair. Jude’s thumb presses harder against her clit, circling faster, and her entire body tenses, her breath hitching in her throat.

“She’s close,” Jude says, his voice rough.

I double down, my tongue moving in long, firm strokes, matching the rhythm of Jude’s fingers. Her thighs clamp around my head, her body shaking as she teeters on the edge.

“Come for us,” Jude growls, his voice sharp and commanding.

And she does.

She shatters, her back arching off the bed, a scream ripping from her throat as she falls apart beneath us. Her body convulses, her inner walls fluttering, her nails scraping against my scalp as waves of pleasure crash over her.

I don’t stop. I keep licking her, tasting every drop of her release, drawing out her orgasm until she’s trembling, her breath coming in ragged gasps.

When I finally pull back, my lips and chin slick with her, she’s a wreck—her skin flushed, her hair tangled, her chest heaving as she struggles to catch her breath.

“Fuck,” Jude mutters, his eyes fixed on her. “That was—fuck.”

Leah’s head turns toward me, her eyes wide and glassy. “I—Caleb, I⁠—”

I press a kiss to the inside of her thigh, my voice rough with need. “Not done with you yet.”

Her breath hitches, her hands reaching for me as she pulls her bottom lip into her mouth. Cute.

I position myself between her thighs, the head of my cock brushing against her, slick with her release. The heat of her is maddening, and it takes everything in me not to slam into her in one desperate thrust.

“Last chance,” I murmur, my voice low and strained. “Tell me to stop.”

Her response is immediate, her voice trembling but certain. “Don’t stop.”

I push into her slowly, inch by inch, groaning as her body stretches to accommodate me. She’s tight, impossibly tight, and so, so wet.

Her head falls back against the pillow, a choked cry escaping her lips. “Oh my God⁠—”

“Fuck,” I growl, my fingers digging into her hips as I bury myself to the hilt. She’s perfect—hot and soft and so fucking perfect that it feels like she was made for me.

And maybe she was.

Jude curses under his breath, his hand sliding up her thigh to where we’re joined. “Fuck,” he murmurs, his voice full of awe.

I pull back and thrust into her again, harder this time, and she cries out, her nails digging into my shoulders. Her body rises to meet mine, her hips moving in sync with every stroke, her moans growing louder with every thrust.

Liam’s hand tangles in her hair, tilting her head back so he can capture her lips in a bruising kiss. Mason strokes her jaw, his lips still on her breast, his touch gentle but possessive.

And through it all, I keep moving, lost in the feel of her, the sound of her, the way her body responds to mine like she was made for this.

“Fuck, Leah,” I growl, my pace quickening. “You feel so fucking good.”

Her only response is a broken moan, her body tightening around me as she spirals closer to another release.

“Come again,” Jude commands, his fingers finding her clit and circling it with relentless pressure. “Come for us, Leah.”

Her body obeys before her mind can catch up. She tenses beneath me, her breath catching for a single, suspended moment before she shatters.

Her cry is high and raw, her nails raking down my back as her body clenches around me, pulling me deeper, holding me there. She’s stunning like this—flushed and wrecked and mine.

The sight of her, the feel of her, the combined scents of my pack and this omega losing herself to pleasure—it’s too much.

I follow her over the edge, my hips slamming into hers one last time as I bury myself to the hilt. My teeth graze her shoulder as I mark her with my scent, my claim just as I spill inside her. The sensation is overwhelming, a rush of heat and possession and something deeper, something I can’t name but feel in every inch of my being.

I collapse beside her, my chest heaving, but before she can catch her breath, Jude is there, his eyes wild with need.

“Leah,” he growls, flipping her onto her stomach with a gentle but firm motion.

She gasps, her face pressed into the pillow as Jude positions himself behind her, his hands gripping her hips to lift her ass into the air. She looks back at him over her shoulder, her eyes heavy-lidded but hungry.

“Is this okay?” he asks, his voice strained as he strokes himself, the head of his cock nudging against her entrance.

“Yes,” she breathes, pushing back against him. “Please, Jude.”

He slides into her with a single, smooth thrust, and her back arches as she cries out his name. The sound makes my spent cock twitch with renewed interest.

“Fuck, you’re so tight,” Jude groans, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of her hips. “So perfect.”

He sets a relentless pace, each thrust harder and deeper than the last. Leah’s moans grow louder, her hands fisting in the sheets as she pushes back to meet him.

Liam moves in front of her, his hand gentle on her jaw as he tilts her face up. “Open,” he commands softly, his cock hard and heavy in his other hand.

She complies eagerly, her lips parting as Liam guides himself into her mouth. The sight of her taking both of them at once is enough to make my head spin.

Mason watches from beside me, his hand moving lazily over his length as he takes in the scene before us. His usual composure is gone, replaced by raw hunger.

Jude’s pace grows more erratic, his breathing ragged as he nears his release. “Fuck, Leah, I’m gonna⁠—”

She moans around Liam’s cock, the vibration making him hiss with pleasure. Jude throws his head back, a guttural groan tearing from his throat as he empties himself inside her, his hips jerking with each pulse.

Liam pulls back, allowing her to catch her breath as Jude collapses beside her, his chest heaving. But before she can recover, Mason is there, lifting her as if she weighs nothing and settling her across his lap.

“Come here,” he murmurs, his voice low and commanding as he guides her down onto his length.

She sinks onto him with a gasp, her hands bracing on his broad shoulders. Mason, always the controlled one, sets a slow pace, his hands on her waist guiding her movements.

“That’s it,” he rumbles, his eyes never leaving hers as she rides him. “Take what you need.”

Liam moves behind her, his hands cupping her breasts as he kisses the back of her neck. His cock presses against the small of her back, still hard and seeking release.

She reaches back with one hand, fingers wrapping around him as she continues to move on Mason. Liam groans, his hips thrusting into her grip.

“Perfect,” he breathes against her skin. “You’re doing so well.”

The sight of her pleasuring both of them at once is mesmerizing. Her movements grow more frantic, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps as Mason’s thrusts hit deeper.

“Come for me,” Mason commands, his voice rough as his fingers find her clit. “One more time.”

And she does, her body convulsing around him as she throws her head back against Liam’s shoulder, a wordless cry escaping her lips. Mason follows immediately, his control finally breaking as he pulls her down hard onto his cock, his release pulsing inside her.

Liam doesn’t last much longer, his hips jerking against her hand as he spills over her fingers with a low, ragged groan.

For a moment, the room is silent except for the sound of our uneven breathing.

Leah collapses against Mason’s chest, utterly spent. Her skin glistens with sweat, her hair a wild tangle around her flushed face. She’s wrecked in the most beautiful way possible.

I move closer, unable to resist the urge to touch her again. My hand skims up her spine, feeling the subtle tremors that still run through her body. “You okay?” I murmur.

She turns her head to look at me, a slow, sated smile spreading across her lips. “Better than okay.”

We help her lie down in the center of the bed, the four of us arranging ourselves around her like protective satellites. I pull her against my chest, while Jude curls against her back. Liam settles at her feet, his hand resting on her ankle, while Mason stretches out beside me, his arm long enough to reach across and touch her hip.

She fits between us perfectly, as if the space was made for her all along.

I press a kiss to her temple, breathing in the combined scent of us all, realizing our scents are blending into something new and intoxicating.

Ours. The thought comes with force, but it feels right.

I glance at the others, and I can see it in their eyes too. In the way they look at her, at each other, at me.

This isn’t just about tonight.

It feels a lot like fate.

9

LIAM

The scent of Leah’s pleasure still lingers in the air as she collapses against the bed, her breathing ragged, her body limp with exhaustion.

Perfect.

I watch as Caleb strokes her hair, his usual intensity softened into something dangerously close to tenderness. Jude, ever the opportunist, sprawls across the foot of the bed, licking his lips with a satisfied smirk—his tongue still glistening from where he’d worked between her thighs. Mason lingers near the headboard, his fingers flexing absently as if remembering the way she’d clenched around them earlier.

And me?

I can still taste her on my tongue.

Four times.

Once for each of us.

Now she’s wrecked. Beautifully ruined. And I’m already calculating how to keep her here.

Not just for tonight. Not just for tomorrow.

For good.

Leah’s eyelids droop, her body sinking deeper into the mattress. “M’tired,” she mumbles, her voice slurred with satisfaction.

Jude grins, propping his chin on her knee. “That’s what happens when you come that hard, doll. Four times has to be some kind of record.”

She flushes gloriously, the color spreading from her cheeks down her neck to her chest as she buries her face in Caleb’s shoulder with a groan. “Oh my God.”

“What?” Jude’s grin widens. “We’re very proud of our accomplishments.”

“I hate you,” she mutters into Caleb’s skin, but there’s no real anger in it.

Caleb’s arms tighten around her, his lips brushing her temple. “Sleep,” he murmurs, his voice taking on that gentle note that I usually use.

But Leah shakes her head, forcing her eyes open. “I should…I should go…”

Not a chance.

Mason catches my eye, his expression unreadable to anyone who doesn’t know him as well as we do. But I recognize that subtle tightening around his eyes. He’s thinking the same thing.

“It’s late,” I say smoothly, reaching for the blanket tangled at the foot of the bed. “Stay.”

Leah hesitates, her gaze darting between us—Caleb’s possessive grip, Jude’s playful smirk, Mason’s quiet intensity, my outstretched hand with the blanket.

Jude pokes her thigh. “Also, you’re naked. And we just got you all comfortable and...satisfied.”

“I have clothes,” she mutters, but there’s no real conviction in it. She makes no move to actually get up.

Caleb growls softly, nuzzling the spot where he’d almost marked her earlier at the wedding. The sight had turned me on more than I’d like to admit. “Stay.”

No alpha command, but Leah shivers, her resistance crumbling visibly under the weight of his request. Our request. “...Fine. But just until morning.”

We’ll see about that.

I catch Mason smiling slightly, the corner of his mouth lifting in that subtle way that speaks volumes. He knows as well as I do that “just until morning” is already more than we had any right to hope for.

“I should at least clean up,” she says, making a half-hearted attempt to sit up.

“I’ve got it,” I offer, heading to the en-suite bathroom. My fingers tighten around the warm washcloth as I return, torn between handing it to her and doing it myself.

Her fingers tremble slightly when she reaches for it—that small, vulnerable motion deciding for me. I let her take it, though every instinct screams to care of her myself.

“Thanks,” she murmurs, her eyes meeting mine briefly before darting away.

I watch, jaw clenched, as she cleans herself. The sight is more intimate than the sex—her fingers hesitating, the flush creeping up her chest, the way she keeps her thighs pressed together like she’s still getting used to the feel of us.

Next time, I promise silently, I won’t hand you the cloth. I’ll kneel between your thighs and clean you with my own hands, slow and thorough, until you’re sighing instead of trembling.

For now, I give her this small control. But the possessive ache in my chest doesn’t ease. Not when Jude steals the damp cloth to press a kiss to her palm. Not when Caleb growls at him to stop crowding her. Not even when Mason wordlessly offers her his shirt to wear.

She’s ours now. Even if she doesn’t know it yet.

Jude, predictably, breaks the moment.

“So,” he drawls, stretching like a cat and deliberately flexing his abs. “Since we’re all very awake⁠—”

“We’re not,” Caleb mumbles, pressing closer to Leah.

“—let’s play a game.”

Mason exhales through his nose, but there’s a flicker of amusement in his eyes. “What kind of game do you suggest at—” he checks his phone, “—one in the morning after we’ve all just had the best sex of our lives?”

At his words, a fresh wave of heat reddens Leah’s face.

“Never Have I Ever,” Jude declares, his grin turning wicked.

Caleb lifts his head just enough to glare. “That’s a terrible idea.”

Leah releases the cutest little giggle. “I agree.”

“The best ideas always are.” He wiggles his eyebrows. “Come on, omega. Live a little. We need to get to know each other better since we’ve, you know, done things backwards.”

Caleb’s grip tightens around Leah’s waist, but before he can protest, she sighs. “Fine. But if this ends with anyone doing anything ridiculous⁠—”

“Too late,” Jude says cheerfully, gesturing to our half-naked bodies scattered across the bed.

She chucks a pillow at him with surprising accuracy for someone who claimed to be exhausted. He catches it, laughing.

“I’ll get drinks,” I offer, heading to the mini-fridge Caleb keeps in the corner of his massive room. I pull out water bottles for everyone, tossing them across the bed. “Let’s hydrate while we play.”

Leah accepts her bottle gratefully, gulping down half of it in one go. Her throat works as she swallows, and I catch all three of my packmates watching the movement with undisguised hunger.

“Okay,” Jude claps his hands together, settling cross-legged at the foot of the bed. “Rules are simple. If you’ve done it, you drink. Let’s start tame and work our way up.”

“Define ‘tame,’” Mason says dryly.

Jude grins, rolling onto his stomach to face Leah. “Never have I ever... hired an omega to pretend to be my date.”

All four of us drink without hesitation, and something complicated flashes across Leah’s face—guilt mixed with what looks like resolve. She opens her mouth as if to say something, her shoulders tensing.

I recognize that look. She’s about to confess.

Before she can speak, Mason cuts in smoothly. “Never have I ever been to a wedding where the groom sent over champagne just to be petty.”

The tension breaks as Leah laughs, though there’s relief in her eyes at the subject change. “That was so embarrassing! I can’t believe he did that.”

“Classic alpha insecurity,” Jude says, stretching languidly. “He couldn’t handle that you’ve moved on to better things.”

She blushes, fidgeting with her water bottle. “It wasn’t... I mean, we’re not really⁠—”

“Never have I ever,” Caleb interrupts, his voice rumbling against her back where he’s moved so she’s nestled against his chest, “fallen asleep during sex.”

No one drinks. Then Mason, in that deadpan way of his, takes a long sip.

Leah’s eyes go wide. “Wait, what?”

A chuckle brushes through Mason’s nose. “Not my proudest moment. But in my defense, it was after a 36-hour brewfest and she insisted on giving this... very slow massage first.” He shudders. “Like watching paint dry, but with more scented oils.”

Leah dissolves into giggles, the sound light and musical in the otherwise quiet room. It’s so unexpected and charming that all of us stop to stare at her.

Jude’s lips quirk as he adds, “Wish I could have seen her face when she realized you were snoring.”

Mason shakes his head, eyes rolling.

Jude points at him. “Marketing, my friend. Always market your failures as intentional features. ‘I wasn’t sleeping - I was testing out your new orthopedic mattress.’”

Leah snorts and giggles again. The sound makes something warm bloom in my chest.

“Well?” she asks, looking around at all of us. “Did none of you think to warn me about this before I agreed to come back here?”

I raise an eyebrow. “That Mason occasionally falls asleep during intimate moments? Not exactly first-date conversation.”

“Though now I’m a little worried,” she says, throwing a teasing glance at Mason. “Should I be checking for signs of consciousness during⁠—”

“Trust me,” Mason interrupts, his voice dropping to that low rumble that makes even me pay attention. “That won’t be a problem with you.”

The blush that spreads across her cheeks is absolutely delicious.

“My turn,” Caleb rumbles. “Never have I ever been kicked out of a baking competition.”

Leah gasps, wide eyes turning his way. Caleb smirks. “How did you—” She narrows her eyes. “You Googled me.”

Jude shrugs, unrepentant. “Had to know who we were getting into bed with. Literally.”

She takes a long sip of water, then sighs. “Fine. The judges deemed my chili chocolate cake ‘unnecessarily provocative.’”

I burst out laughing. “That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Right?” She grins. My heart melts. “The head judge was this stuffy old alpha who believed desserts should be ‘gentle on the palate.’ The coward couldn’t handle a little heat.”

The room goes silent. I know what we’re all thinking.

“We could handle your heat,” Jude says with a wink.

I toss a pillow at his head. “Behave.”

Leah laughs, but there’s a blush creeping up her neck that suggests Jude’s flirting is having an effect. “It was just cake,” she insists, though her smile says otherwise. “Though I did win three regional competitions with variations of that recipe before getting disqualified.”

“Impressive,” Mason says, and there’s genuine admiration in his tone.

“My turn,” Leah says quickly, clearly trying to change the subject. “Never have I ever... had someone recognize me from my business before I was ready to tell them who I was.”

None of us drinks, though Mason’s eyebrow rises slightly.

“That sounds specific,” Jude prompts, nudging her knee. “Story time?”

Leah bites her lip, suddenly looking almost shy. “I, um... I recognized your name. At the wedding.” Her confession comes out in a rush. “I didn’t want to make it weird, but I’ve been a fan of Le Roux for ages. I had your special release Belgian-style ale just a few weeks ago and my friend, Zoe, practically drank the entire bottle of your artisan wine.”

I feel my chest expand with unexpected pride. The Belgian was my recipe. A labor of love that took nearly a year to perfect.

“No way,” Jude says, sitting up straighter. “You’ve had our stuff before?”

She nods, her cheeks coloring slightly. “Your stuff is incredible.”

Mason’s eyes have softened in a way I rarely see. Our reserved financial mastermind doesn’t often show how much the brewery’s success means to him.

“We worked on that Belgian for a long time,” I admit, unable to keep the pleased note from my voice. “Multiple test batches, countless adjustments.”

“It shows,” Leah says with a soft, genuine smile. “There’s this moment when you first taste it, where the malt and the spice notes just... blend perfectly. It’s like...” She gestures vaguely with her hands.

“Like everything clicks into place,” Caleb offers quietly from behind her.

Good thing she doesn’t turn around, because the look he’s giving her is downright possessive.

“Exactly.” She grins.

Another warm feeling unfolds in my chest watching her talk about our beer with such appreciation. She understands what we’ve poured into our work.

“Our stout was Caleb’s baby,” Mason reveals. “He nearly drove us insane perfecting the chocolate notes.”

“Oh! I think I’ve had that one, too!” Leah beams. “Sooo good!”

Caleb shrugs, but I can tell by the way his scent shifts that he’s pleased by her recognition.

“That stout got me through last winter when my heating broke down. Better than a blanket.”

“High praise,” I comment, watching as Caleb’s arm tightens just slightly around her waist.

“I’m surprised we haven’t seen you at the taproom,” Mason says.

The thought of Leah sitting in our taproom, enjoying our creations, possibly watching us from across the room without our knowledge, fills me with an unexpected mix of emotions.

“When you decide to visit,” Jude adds in, “you’re getting the VIP treatment.” He grins. “Behind-the-scenes tour, samples of the experimental batches, the works.”

“I’d like that,” she says softly, and the simple sincerity in her voice makes something in my chest tighten pleasantly.

“You,” Jude declares, looking at her with genuine admiration, “are my new favorite person.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Leah says, trying and failing to stifle a yawn.

I notice the time on the bedside clock—nearly 2 AM now—and the way her eyelids flutter with exhaustion. “Game’s over.” I catch Jude’s wrist as he opens his mouth to protest. “She needs sleep.”

Caleb shifts behind her, his arms tightening briefly before he helps her settle against the pillows. “We’ll give you the room,” he rumbles, though his jaw tenses at the words.

Leah’s already half-asleep, her fingers curling into the sheets as she mumbles, “Just until morning...”

“Of course,” I lie smoothly, flicking off the bedside lamp.

We move as one unit—Jude retrieving her water bottle, Mason straightening the blanket, and I propping an extra pillow within reach. Our silent coordination would be eerie if it weren’t so practiced.

At the doorway, we pause. Jude mouths ‘holy shit’ with wide eyes. Mason nods once. She fits. Caleb’s nostrils flare as he breathes in her scent still lingering on his skin. Mine. And me?

I press a hand against the doorframe, struck by how right she looks in Mason’s oversized shirt, curled in our sheets. How easily she could belong here. The realization hits like a punch to the chest—I don’t just want her in our bed.

I want her at our breakfast table. In our brewery. Wrapped in my arms at night and smiling at me over coffee in the morning.

Ours.

And not just for tonight.

Caleb surprises us all by grabbing a spare blanket from the hall closet. Without a word, he spreads it across the floor outside her door and drops a pillow at the head of his makeshift bed.

Jude snorts. “Subtle.”

“Someone should—” Caleb begins.

“Stand guard in case she bolts at dawn?” Mason finishes dryly. “Yes, we gathered.”

I squeeze Caleb’s shoulder as we head toward our own rooms. “She’s not going anywhere.”

Not when she wakes up to fresh cinnamon rolls and proper coffee. Not when Jude’s ridiculous pancake art awaits. And certainly not when Caleb’s looming presence at her door makes his intentions clearer than any words could.

Leah’s soft snores follow us down the hall.

Good.

She’ll need her rest.

Because tomorrow?

The real game begins.

10

LEAH

Iwake to the scent of dark chocolate and rain-soaked pages clinging to the sheets.

Oh no.

Not my bed. Not my sheets. And definitely not my shirt—this oversized cotton is all wrong, smelling faintly of sandalwood and something crisp. Mason’s.

The memories hit like a freight train.

The wedding. The pack. Four pairs of hands on my skin.

Oh my God. Oh my actual God.

I bolt upright so fast my head spins, clutching the sheet to my chest as if someone might be watching. The room is mercifully empty, but evidence of last night’s activities is everywhere. My dress lies discarded near the footboard. One strappy heel peeks out from under the bed. The other is...God, I don’t even want to know.

Jude’s belt is looped through the headboard slats. When did that happen?

I press my palms against my burning cheeks, mortification flooding every cell in my body. What was I thinking? I’ve known these men for exactly two days, and I⁠—

You let them touch you everywhere. You begged for it. You came four times while they watched.

My thighs clench at the memory, and I hate myself a little for the way my body reacts despite my brain’s panic alarm blaring at maximum volume.

This isn’t me. I don’t do one-night stands. I definitely don’t do one-night stands with four alphas. I mean, three alphas and a beta, but the details don’t matter. I’m the sensible omega who runs a bakery and has a sourdough starter named after her childhood pet cat. I’m thirty-minute documentaries and early bedtimes, and practical shoes.

Except, clearly, I’m not. Because practical-shoes Leah wouldn’t have fake-dated a pack to spite her ex. And she certainly wouldn’t have ended up naked in their bed.

Focus. I need to focus.

Oh my God, Zoe is going to have a field day with this.

Operation GTFO commences in 3...2...

I scan the room for my underwear. No luck. Great. Perfect. The universe really wants to ensure my walk of shame is as complete as possible.

I slide from the bed, wincing slightly at the delicious soreness between my thighs, and adjust Mason’s shirt. It falls to mid-thigh—decent enough to make my escape. I grab one shoe, shoving my foot into it while hopping toward the door, the rest of my belongings clutched to my chest.

The door creaks when I open it.

Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.

Caleb sleeps like a fallen sentry outside my room, bare-chested, one arm slung over his eyes. Morning light streams through a nearby window, catching the stubborn set of his jaw. Even asleep, he looks ready to fight someone.

Why is he sleeping outside the door? Was he afraid I’d run? Or—more likely—that I’d rob the place? Nobody normal sleeps on the floor outside a bedroom door. No matter how good the sex was.

No. Don’t think about the sex. Thinking about the sex leads to remembering the sex, which leads to imagining more sex, which is the opposite of leaving.

I hold my breath and lift one leg carefully over his outstretched form.

Step one: Don’t wake the alpha.

Step two: Don’t trip over his stupidly perfect abs.

Step three:—

“Leaving so soon, doll?”

I nearly jump out of my skin, clutching my dress to my chest like a shield. Jude lounges against the hallway wall, tousled strawberry-blond hair catching the light, wearing nothing but low-slung pajama pants. His citrus-and-woodsmoke scent wraps around me before I can dodge it.

Seriously, what is wrong with this pack? Do none of them sleep in actual beds?

“I—” My voice cracks embarrassingly. “I have a bakery to open.”

Liam appears like a blond specter at Jude’s shoulder, his rain-and-old-books scent deceptively calm. Unlike the others, he’s at least wearing a T-shirt with his sweatpants. “It’s Sunday…and I thought your bakery wasn’t officially open yet.”

Drat.

Mason materializes behind them, black hair damp from a shower, a towel slung around his neck. “Also, you’re wearing one shoe.”

Heat floods my face. I look down at my mismatched feet—one bare, one strapped into a silver heel that suddenly seems ludicrously formal. I must look like a disaster. Hair tangled from sleep (and other activities), wearing nothing but a borrowed shirt and one shoe, clutching a wrinkled dress, reeking of sex and four different scents.

This is a new low. Even for me.

Caleb stirs at my feet, his dark chocolate thickening the air as he blinks up at me. When our eyes meet, memories flash unbidden—his teeth on my neck, his hands pinning my wrists, his voice rough as he⁠—

Nope. Not going there.

The weight of their collective attention is suffocating. Four pairs of eyes track my every movement. Four scents intertwine around me, making it hard to think straight.

“I need air,” I blurt, taking a stumbling step backward. “I-I need to go.”

Jude catches my wrist as I dart past, his grip gentle but firm enough that I can’t just dislodge his hold. His thumb brushes my racing pulse. “We’ll drive you.”

“No. I don’t live far from here. I’ll walk.” The word comes out too sharp. I soften it with a forced smile. “I need⁠—”

To not be trapped in a car with four men who saw me come apart last night. To process the fact that I slept with not one, not two, but FOUR packmates after knowing them for less than 48 hours. To deal with the terrifying reality that I enjoyed every second of it and might be developing feelings for all of them.

“—some space,” I finish lamely.

Caleb rises in one fluid motion, his bare chest blocking my escape route. “Then I’ll walk you.”

It’s not a request.

“You don’t have to⁠—”

“I insist.” His voice is rough with sleep, and something in my traitorous chest flutters at the sound.

“We all will,” Jude adds cheerfully, as if the prospect of escorting a disheveled one-night stand home is the highlight of his Sunday plans.

“No!” I say, too loudly. They all look startled, and I lower my voice. “I mean, that’s really not necessary. I can call a car.”

Mason steps forward, his expression unreadable. “At least stay for breakfast. Liam makes excellent pancakes.”

As if on cue, the scent of coffee and something cinnamon wafts up the stairs. My stomach growls traitorously.

“I really should⁠—”

“Please,” Liam says, his voice soft but with an undercurrent of something that makes my pulse quicken. “Just breakfast.”

I should say no. I should insist on leaving immediately. I should not, under any circumstances, prolong this mortifying morning after.

But Liam’s eyes are earnest, and Jude’s grin is infectious, and Mason’s quiet presence is oddly comforting, and Caleb...

Caleb looks at me like he might die if I walk out that door.

“Fine,” I surrender, dropping my gaze to the floor. “Just breakfast.”

“Excellent choice,” Jude beams, releasing my wrist only to sling an arm around my shoulders. “You might want to lose the formal footwear, though.”

I kick off my remaining heel with as much dignity as I can muster—which is approximately none—and allow myself to be herded downstairs.

The kitchen is warm and surprisingly homey for four bachelor alphas. Sunlight streams through large windows, illuminating a space that’s both modern and lived-in. A stack of pancakes sits on the island, alongside fresh fruit, syrup, and what appears to be homemade preserves.

“You did all this?” I ask, genuinely impressed.

Liam shrugs modestly. “I was up early.”

“He stress-bakes,” Jude explains, grabbing a plate. “Or in this case, stress-breakfast-makes.”

“I don’t stress-bake,” Liam protests.

“You made soufflés the night before we launched Le Roux,” Mason points out, pulling out a chair for me at the table.

“And those weird little custard things before our investor meeting,” Jude adds, already piling his plate high.

“Pastéis de nata,” Liam corrects with a sigh. “And it’s not stress-baking. It’s... productive contemplation.”

Despite my discomfort, I find myself smiling. There’s something endearing about their familiar bickering, about the way they move around each other with the easy synchronicity of a long-established pack.

Caleb pulls out the chair next to mine and sits, his thigh brushing against mine. I tense, but he doesn’t acknowledge it, simply passing me the coffee pot.

“With a dash of cinnamon, right?” he asks.

I blink in surprise. “How did you⁠—”

“You mentioned it was your favorite,” he says, his eyes never leaving mine. “During the pre-wedding cocktail party.”

And he remembered.

My face heats again. “Thanks,” I murmur, accepting the coffee.

The pancakes are delicious—fluffy and light, with just a hint of cinnamon and vanilla. Under different circumstances, I’d be asking Liam why he chose this recipe. As it is, I force myself to eat slowly, hyperaware of the four males watching me with varying degrees of intensity.

“So,” Jude breaks the silence, “about last night.”

I choke on a bite of pancake. Mason immediately passes me a glass of water, which I gulp gratefully.

“Maybe not while she’s eating,” Liam suggests.

“What?” Jude looks genuinely confused. “I was just going to say it was awesome.”

My face is on fire. Actual fire. I’m certain I could fry another pancake on my cheeks right now.

“Jude,” Caleb warns.

“What? It was! We all thought so.” He looks at me with puppy-dog earnestness. “Right?”

Four pairs of eyes fix on me, waiting for my response. I stare down at my half-eaten pancakes, wishing the floor would open up and swallow me whole.

“It was... nice,” I manage, my voice barely above a whisper.

“Nice?” Jude repeats, sounding scandalized. “You came four⁠—”

“Jude!” Liam and Caleb snap in unison.

“For God’s sake,” Mason mutters.

I close my eyes, willing myself to disappear. When that fails, I set down my fork with a controlled deliberation that belies the chaos in my head.

“Look,” I say, finally looking up to meet their gazes. “Last night was... unexpected.”

“Good unexpected or bad unexpected?” Jude asks, earning himself an elbow from Liam.

“Just... unexpected,” I repeat. “I don’t normally do this.”

“This being...?” Mason prompts gently.

I gesture vaguely between us. “This. One-night stands. Multiple... partners. Any of it.”

“We don’t either,” Caleb says, his voice low and serious. “This isn’t a regular occurrence for us.”

“Right,” I say, not entirely convinced. The way they moved together last night spoke of practiced coordination, even if not with other omegas.

“He’s serious,” Liam adds, leaning forward. “We’ve never brought anyone home like this. Not as a pack.”

This revelation should be reassuring. Instead, it adds another layer of pressure. If this was as unusual for them as it was for me, then it means something. And “meaning something” is far more terrifying than a simple one-night stand.

“I think I should go,” I say abruptly, pushing back from the table. “This is... I need some time to process everything.”

“Of course,” Mason says, though disappointment flickers across his face.

“I understand,” Liam adds, standing to clear my plate.

Jude opens his mouth, probably to protest, but a look from Caleb silences him.

“I’ll drive you,” Caleb says, standing as well.

This time, I don’t argue. I’m too drained, too confused, too overwhelmed by everything to insist on independence.

“Let me get changed first,” I say, gesturing to my borrowed shirt and lack of appropriate bottoms.

“Second door on the left has a bathroom with a shower,” Liam offers. “I’ll find you something to wear home.”

Twenty minutes later, I’m showered, dressed in a borrowed pair of Liam’s sweatpants (rolled at the waist and ankles) and a fresh t-shirt from Mason. Borrowed house slippers adorn my feet and my wrinkled dress and one shoe are tucked into a paper shopping bag Jude produced from somewhere. I’ve never felt less put-together in my life, but at least I’m clean.

The goodbyes are awkward. Jude hugs me too tightly, whispering “Come back soon” into my ear. Liam shakes my hand, then seems to think better of it and pulls me into a brief, warm embrace. Mason simply nods, though his eyes say more than words could.

And then it’s just Caleb and me, walking to his car in the morning sunlight. The silence between us is heavy, charged with all the things neither of us knows how to say.

As I slide into the passenger seat, I can’t help but wonder: How did my life get so complicated in just two days? And more importantly, what am I going to do about it now?

11

LEAH

The car is saturated with their scent. A heady mix of dark chocolate, citrus and woodsy notes, old books and rain, and sandalwood with a surprising crispness. I press my forehead against the cool glass, fighting the wave of warmth that washes over me as their combined aroma fills my lungs, making it hard to breathe, harder still to process the events of last night.

He hasn’t spoken since we left their house.

Neither have I.

The silence is thick with everything we’re not saying.

Last night wasn’t pretend.

And neither is this.

My fingers tighten around my purse.

Caleb shifts gears, his forearm flexing. “I’m sorry about the floor thing.”

I blink. “The floor thing?”

“Sleeping outside your door.” His jaw works. “I was worried you might try to leave in the middle of the night.”

A laugh bubbles up, escaping from my throat. “Yeah, well. You still caught me trying to bolt at dawn.”

The corner of his mouth twitches. “I know.” He pauses, then adds quietly, “But I’d hoped you would stay until morning.”

“I did stay until morning,” I point out. “Technically.”

“You know what I mean.”

I do. He wanted me to wake up surrounded by them, to share breakfast without the awkwardness, to ease into the day together like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Like it wasn’t just a one-night stand.

A stoplight turns red. Caleb brakes, finally turning to look at me. The morning sun catches the gold in his green eyes, turning them translucent.

“Why?” I ask before I can stop myself.

His fingers flex on the wheel. “Because I wanted you to see that it wasn’t just about last night.”

“Then what was it about?” I ask, my voice barely audible over the engine.

He glances at me, his green eyes intense. “I think you know.”

I do. And that’s what terrifies me.

The light changes. Caleb accelerates, his attention back on the road. But I can still feel the weight of that look, the promise in it.

Two days ago, I was just Leah Carter, bakery owner, single omega.

Now?

Now I don’t know what I am.

And Caleb Le Roux is driving me home like none of that matters.

Like I’m already his.

“Which building?” he asks as we turn onto my street.

“The red brick one,” I tell him, pointing. “With the fire escape on the side.”

He pulls into a parking spot and cuts the engine but doesn’t immediately unlock the doors. For a moment, we sit in silence, the air between us thick with all the things we’re not saying.

“This is ridiculous,” I blurt out suddenly, unable to bear the tension a second longer.

Caleb’s eyebrows rise. “What is?”

“This,” I gesture vaguely between us. “All of it. This whole situation. I mean, what are we even doing? I barely know you! I barely know any of you!”

“You could get to know us,” he says simply.

“That’s not the point!” My voice rises with my frustration. “The point is that this isn’t normal. None of this is normal. We met two days ago under completely false pretenses, and now⁠—”

“False pretenses?” he interrupts, his expression sharpening.

Oh. Oh no.

I swallow hard, realizing what I’ve let slip. This is not how I wanted to do this. Not in his car, not while wearing Liam’s sweatpants and Mason’s shirt, not with the scent of his pack still clinging to my skin.

But it’s too late now.

“Caleb, I...” I take a deep breath, steeling myself. “I have to tell you something.”

His face smooths into that unreadable mask he wears so well. “I’m listening.”

“I wasn’t your real plus-one,” I confess in a rush. “I wasn’t the omega you hired. I was just there for my ex’s wedding, and when Jude mistook me for someone else, I... I went along with it.”

I wait for his anger, for the betrayal to flash across his face, for the coldness to enter his eyes. I brace myself for accusation, for hurt, for rejection.

Instead, he laughs.

Not a small chuckle, but a full, rich laugh that fills the car and makes the tension in my shoulders begin to dissolve despite my confusion.

I narrow my eyes at him, crossing my arms over my chest. “What’s so funny?”

“Leah,” he says, his laughter fading to a warm smile, “we know.”

I blink at him. “You... know?”

“We’ve known since about five minutes after meeting you.”

“But... how? Why didn’t you say anything?”

He shrugs, his eyes still dancing with amusement. “At first, we were just curious to see how far you’d take it. Our actual hire was supposed to be some omega named Olivia with a finance résumé and, according to her profile, an extensive knowledge of our business interests. You were clearly not her.”

My face burns with embarrassment. “Oh my God.”

“Then,” he continues, “we realized it was convenient for both of us. You needed a pack for the wedding. We needed an omega for networking opportunities. It worked out.”

My jaw drops. “So you just... went along with it?”

“Yes.”

“All of you?”

“All of us.”

The air rushes out of me. I sink lower in the seat, my gaze fixed on my apartment building. “I can’t believe you knew this whole time.”

“If it helps,” he offers, “we liked you better than we would have liked Olivia.”

A startled laugh escapes me. “How can you possibly know that?”

“Just a hunch,” he says, his eyes warm as they meet mine. “For one thing, I doubt Olivia would have stood up to your ex the way you did.”

“Eric,” I correct automatically.

“I prefer ‘your ex,’” Caleb says, a hint of growl entering his voice. “Or better yet, ‘that asshole.’”

Despite everything, I smile. “Fair enough.”

A silence falls between us again, but it’s different now—less tense, more contemplative.

“So where does that leave us?” I finally ask. “Now that all the cards are on the table?”

Caleb studies me for a long moment, his expression turning serious. “That depends on you.”

“On me?”

“Yes.” He shifts in his seat to face me more fully. “We’ve made our interest clear, I think. All four of us. The question is: what do you want, Leah?”

What do I want? It should be a simple question. I want to open my bakery. I want to prove Eric wrong about me being unable to succeed on my own. I want to finally stop worrying about being packless in a world that values pack bonds above almost everything else.

But do I want these four men? This intense, complicated pack that somehow makes me feel more myself than I’ve felt in years?

“I don’t know,” I admit softly. “This is all happening so fast.”

“It is,” he agrees. “But sometimes fast doesn’t mean wrong.”

“It doesn’t necessarily mean right, either.”

“No,” he concedes. “It doesn’t.”

Another silence stretches between us. Outside, a couple walks past, hand in hand, oblivious to the emotional turmoil happening in the parked car just feet away.

“I’ll walk you up,” Caleb says finally, moving to open his door.

“You don’t have to⁠—”

“I want to,” he interrupts, his tone brooking no argument.

I sigh, recognizing the stubborn set of his jaw. “Fine.”

The walk to my third-floor apartment is silent, each step feeling heavier than the last. I’m acutely aware of Caleb behind me, his presence both comforting and unsettling at the same time. What’s worse, his dark chocolate is wrapping around me, making it hard to think clearly.

At my door, I fumble with my keys, hyperaware of him standing so close I can feel the heat of his body. The key finally slides home, and I turn to face him.

“Thank you,” I say, not sure what exactly I’m thanking him for. The ride? The revelation? The night before?

“For what?” he asks, as if reading my thoughts.

“I don’t know,” I admit with a small laugh. “Everything? Nothing? I’m still processing.”

His lips quirk in that almost-smile that makes my heart do strange things. “Take your time.”

But as I turn to enter my apartment, his hand catches my wrist, gentle but firm. “Leah.”

I look back at him, caught by the intensity in his voice. “Yes?”

“I meant what I said before. Last night wasn’t just about sex for me. For any of us.”

His sincerity makes my chest tight. “Caleb⁠—”

“You don’t have to say anything,” he interrupts gently. “Just... think about it. About us.”

I nod, not trusting myself to speak.

His hand slides from my wrist to cup my face, his touch surprisingly tender for someone so intimidating. “May I?” he asks, his voice rough.

I know what he’s asking. I should say no. I should step back, close the door, and take the time I need to sort through this whirlwind of emotions.

Instead, I find myself nodding.

His lips meet mine in a kiss that’s nothing like the desperate, hungry ones we shared last night. This is soft, sweet, almost reverent. His thumb brushes my jaw as his mouth moves against mine, conveying without words all the things neither of us is ready to say.

For a moment, I let myself melt into it, my hands coming up to rest lightly on his chest. His heart thunders beneath my palm, strong and steady and reassuringly real.

But then reality crashes back in. This is too much, too fast, too overwhelming. I pull away abruptly, taking a step back.

“I can’t,” I whisper, hating the flash of hurt in his eyes. “I’m sorry, but I can’t do this right now.”

“I understand,” he says, though the tension in his jaw suggests otherwise.

“It’s not that I don’t...” I struggle to find the right words. “It’s just that I need time. To think.”

“Take all the time you need,” he says, voice still carefully neutral.

I nod, backing into my apartment. “I’ll... I’ll call you.”

“I’ll be waiting,” he promises, and the simple certainty in his voice makes my heart skip.

I close the door and lean against it, listening to his footsteps retreat down the hall. Only when I hear the distant sound of the building’s front door closing do I allow myself to exhale.

Sliding down until I’m sitting on the floor, I pull my knees to my chest.

Silence.

Not the comfortable kind I’m used to. The kind that wraps around me like a well-worn sweater. This silence feels...wrong. Too thin. Like the air after a storm, charged with something I can’t name.

I breathe in.

My apartment smells like yeast and sugar—like home. But underneath it, clinging stubbornly to my skin:

Dark chocolate and espresso (Caleb, his hands framing my face as he kissed me breathless)

Citrus and woodsmoke (Jude, his laugh vibrating against my neck)

Old books and rain (Liam’s quiet voice murmuring praise)

Sandalwood and crisp autumn air (Mason’s steady hands guiding me)

I peel off Mason’s borrowed shirt like it’s burning me and put on clothes of my own. My leggings and oversized sweater should feel comforting, but the fabric itches. Nothing fits right.

Fernando, my sourdough starter, bubbles happily in its jar by the kitchen window. At least something in my life is predictable.

“You’re overproofed,” I tell him. “Just like me.”

My phone buzzes in my clutch. Then again. And again. Four texts in rapid succession.

With a sigh, I look at the screen.

Jude

Miss your face already, doll. Also your ass. But mostly your face. Come back? I’ll make heart-shaped pancakes.

Real hearts, not those weird lumpy ones they advertise on the package.

Liam

Let me know if you have questions about brewery partnerships for your bakery. I'm here.

Mason

Hydrate. Eat something. Call if you need anything. No expectations.

And Caleb—just Caleb, in that way he has of carving space in my chest with the fewest possible words:

Caleb

You forgot your other shoe.

A laugh punches out of me. Then another. Then I’m crying—ugly, hiccuping sobs that make Fernando’s bubbles pop in sympathy.

What is wrong with me?

I should block their numbers. Change my name. Move to another country.

Instead, I reply to them all:

I’m keeping the shirt.

Three dots appear immediately on Jude’s end. Then Liam’s. Then⁠—

My phone rings. Caleb’s name flashes across the screen.

I stare at it until the call goes to voicemail. Then, with trembling fingers, I text the group:

I need a day.

The responses come fast:

Jude

Take ten. We’re not going anywhere.

Liam

Understood.

Mason

Sent a thumbs-up emoji

Caleb

Tomorrow. 8 AM. I’m bringing coffee.

I throw my phone onto the couch like it’s on fire.

A shower. That’s what I need. A long, hot shower to wash away the evidence of the past forty-eight hours and help me think straight.

But as I stand under the steaming water, as I scrub away their physical scents, I know I’m kidding myself.

Because while I might be physically back in my apartment, my thoughts—and perhaps my heart—are still in that house with the pack that’s turned my world upside down in just two days.

And the most terrifying part?

I’m not sure I want it right-side up again.

12

LEAH

Iwake up Monday morning with a pounding headache and a vague sense of impending doom.

Four times.

Jude’s stupid, smug voice echoes in my skull. “That’s what happens when you come that hard, doll.”

I groan into my pillow, trying to suffocate myself with memory foam. The wedding. The almost-mark. The pack. The sex. My thighs clench at the reminder, sore in the best possible way.

No. Bad omega.

I glance at the clock: 7:15 AM. Caleb’s text from last night flashes through my mind like a warning siren:

Caleb: Tomorrow. 8 AM. I’m bringing coffee.

I snort. Yeah, right. Like Mr. Tall-Dark-and-Intimidating actually meant that. Probably just a playful parting shot after a ridiculous weekend.

Rolling out of bed, I pull on my running gear. A good jog will clear my head, sweat out the lingering scents of the pack, and—most importantly—help me forget the way Caleb’s hands felt on my hips last night.

The morning air does nothing to clear my head.

Three miles later, I’m back at my apartment building, drenched in sweat and no less distracted than when I left. Every pounding footstep against pavement had only seemed to echo Caleb’s text in my skull: 8 AM. I’m bringing coffee.

As if.

The man probably sends those messages to all his one-night-stands. I yank open the lobby door too hard, still trying to convince myself that’s all this was.

I take the elevator up. The ride gives me exactly twelve seconds to regret not stretching properly, and approximately ten of those seconds are spent remembering how Jude’s tongue had felt working the tension from my g-spot.

Damn it.

I’m so busy scowling at my traitorous thoughts that I almost miss it. That rich, dark scent curling through the hallway the moment I step off the elevator. My sneakers squeak against the tile as I freeze.

No. No way.

But there’s no mistaking that particular blend of dark chocolate. My stomach does a slow, treacherous flip even as my pulse kicks into a sprint.

Peeking around the corner, I confirm my worst fear.

Shit.

There he is, leaning against my doorframe with the casual confidence of a man who owns the building. Two coffee cups in hand, looking entirely too at ease for someone who allegedly spent a night on a hard floor. His dark hair is slightly tousled, his jaw freshly shaved, and the soft shirt he’s wearing hugs his chest in a way that should be illegal before noon.

Way too good.

My traitorous omega biology makes me want to hum with appreciation. It sends a rush of warmth through my core that has absolutely nothing to do with the coffee he’s brought.

Nope. Abort, abort!

Before he can see me, I duck back around the corner, pressing myself against the wall, adrenaline surging through my veins. Think, Leah, think. I need somewhere to hide! But where!

My heart hammers hard in my chest and I feel like he’ll come down the corridor, turn the corner, and see me at any moment. That’s when it hits.

The basement laundry room! Perfect hiding spot.

I fumble for my phone, nearly dropping it twice before managing to speed-dial Zoe.

“He’s here,” I hiss-whisper the moment she picks up. “Caleb. With coffee.”

Zoe’s muffled laughter echoes through the phone. I couldn’t help it. I’d spilled everything to her last night after I spent several hours unable to sleep. I’d needed to tell someone. “He brought you coffee? Awwww, that’s so... alpha.”

“Alpha? He’s stalking me!”

“Stalking you with lattes? Honey, that’s a romantic, not a horror movie.” I can practically hear her rolling her eyes. “Just go up there and get your caffeine fix. And maybe his number while you’re at it.” Her voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper. “Though, if he tries anything funny, you know I’ve got that taser...”

“I already have his number,” I hiss, “which is part of the problem!”

“You’re being ridiculous,” Zoe says flatly. “Go get your hot alpha and your hot coffee. In that order.”

“You’re a terrible friend,” I inform her before ending the call.

I ignore Zoe’s terrible advice and tiptoe toward the stairwell, wincing at every creak and groan of the old building. Mrs. Finley’s door opens just as I’m passing, and I freeze like a startled deer. She’s a tiny woman, barely five feet tall, with steel-gray hair cut in a bob and eyes sharp enough to fillet a man at twenty paces.

She’s lived in this building even longer than I have and she helped me settle in those first few weeks. Always bringing me dinner with the excuse that she cooked too much. Pretty sure that was a lie.

“Oh! Leah, dear,” the elderly woman exclaims, eyeing my hunched posture and wild eyes. “Are you alright? You look... furtive.”

“Fine!” I chirp, voice three octaves too high. “Just... getting some exercise! Stairs! Great for the... glutes!”

She blinks at me for a long moment, then peers down the hallway. Her face lights up. “Is that handsome young man still looking for you? The tall drink of water by your door? I saw him when I came up earlier.”

Fuck, she saw Caleb?

“No! I mean, yes, but—” I lean in, lowering my voice. “I’m not home.”

Mrs. Finley’s eyebrows disappear into her hairline. “Clearly.”

“Please,” I beg. “If he asks, you haven’t seen me.”

She pats my arm, her eyes twinkling. “Your secret’s safe with me, dear. Though why you’re hiding from a man who looks like that is beyond me. In my day...”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Finley,” I grimace apologetically, already backing toward the stairwell. “Any other time I’d love to hear about your day, but I really have to run.” The door closes behind me with a merciful click, and I slump against the wall, exhaling shakily.

I make it to the basement, slip into the laundry room, and text Zoe:

Had to hide in the flipping basement. Send provisions (and possibly a hazmat suit. His scent is everywhere).

Zoe’s response is immediate:

Seriously?

You’re going full survivalist mode over a cup of coffee?

You’re missing out. Just sayin’.

Also, no hazmat suit. But I’m bringing wine. And maybe some rope. Just in case.

Followed by a string of emojis that I can’t even begin to decipher.

I silence my phone, my heart still pounding. The laundry room smells of detergent and fabric softener, but even that can’t mask the phantom scent of Caleb that seems to have imprinted itself on my brain. I sit on the dusty dryer, trying to catch my breath.

Dark chocolate and…espresso? I groan. There’s something deeper, too. Something that makes my skin tingle despite my best efforts to ignore it.

This is ridiculous. I’m a grown woman hiding in a laundry room to avoid a man bringing me coffee. A man I’ve seen naked. A man who’s seen me naked. A man who made me come so hard I nearly blacked out.

Don’t think about that.

I wait, listening for his footsteps on the stairs even though there’s no way he’d know I’m hiding down here. Minutes stretch into an hour. Still nothing.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, I cautiously open the laundry room door. The basement is empty, silent. I creep up the stairs, my senses on high alert, half expecting Caleb to jump out at every landing.

As I reach my floor, I catch a faint whiff of his scent lingering in the air. My door is undisturbed, but there’s something on the floor beside it. A small coffee cup sits there, a silent testament to his persistence. And maybe... his disappointment?

I approach it cautiously, as if it might bite. The cup is still warm, wisps of steam escaping from beneath the lid. There’s writing on the side.

For when you’re ready to stop hiding in the laundry room. -C

My cheeks burn. How did he know?

A strange mix of relief and something else—something that feels suspiciously like regret—washes over me. I pick up the cup, the warmth seeping into my fingers. The scent of perfectly brewed coffee wafts up, mingling with the darker notes of Caleb’s scent that cling to the cardboard.

A sigh leaves my shoulders as I step into my apartment and close the door. I stare at the cup as I head to my kitchen, mouth pressing into a thin line as I hold it over to my sink, ready to dump it.

But it would be a shame to waste perfectly good coffee.

With another sigh, I take a hesitant sip, then a longer one. It’s delicious—rich and sweet with just the right amount of spice. Before I know it, I’ve drained the entire cup, a soft, satisfied sound escaping my lips as I swallow the last drop.

It’s only then that I realize I’m still holding the empty cup to my face, inhaling deeply. His scent still lingers on it. I’m inhaling deeply again when I catch myself and toss the cup in the recycling bin in the kitchen.

It’s fine. I just need space. Time to think. Time to process without the distraction of his scent, his voice, his... everything.

Tuesday morning, I’m checking my mail, apartment door cracked open just enough to see the hallway. A thick manila envelope catches my eye, my name written in elegant script that’s somehow both precise and fussy.

From the desk of Liam Le Roux, PhD.

I flip it over with a mix of curiosity and wariness. The envelope is heavy—too heavy for a simple note—and sealed with what appears to be actual wax, complete with an embossed “L.”

Of course he has personalized wax seals. Why wouldn’t he?

I slide my finger under the flap, breaking the seal, and peek inside. A professionally bound document slides out, complete with color tabs and a cover page titled “Strategic Partnership Proposal: Le Roux Craft House & Sweet Omega Bakery.”

I blink, genuinely surprised. He’d been serious? When Liam had mentioned a potential partnership during our conversations at the wedding, I’d assumed it was just polite small talk. But this...

Flipping through the pages, I can’t help but be impressed by the thoroughness. There are detailed sections on “scent-pairing options” (color-coded by intensity and aroma profile), “omega-friendly atmosphere enhancements,” and—I nearly choke—“Your needs are our priority” printed in three different sample fonts for me to choose from.

There are actual business card mock-ups tucked into the appendix, each with a different logo design for our partnership. One of them combines my cupcake with omega sprinkles alongside their lion emblem.

The amount of work that went into this is staggering. He must have worked on this for hours.

I’m still staring at this masterpiece when the scent hits me.

Dark chocolate and espresso with that dangerous alpha edge that makes my knees weak. My head snaps up just as Caleb steps into view.

Our eyes lock.

He’s wearing a replica of that same damn shirt that clings to his shoulders like it was painted on. Morning stubble shadows his jaw, and his green eyes blaze with something that steals the breath from my lungs.

For one suspended heartbeat, we just stare at each other.

Then instinct takes over.

Panic flares like someone just lit a firework in my chest. I slam the door so hard the impact rattles my teeth. My back hits the wood as if I could physically hold it shut against six feet of determined alpha. I fumble with the lock, my fingers suddenly all thumbs. The lock clicks a second before his knuckles rap against the other side.

“Leah.” My name is a growl that vibrates through the door and straight down my spine. “Open up.”

My hands shake as I press them flat against the wood. I swear I can feel the heat of him through the barrier, smell his scent intensifying with frustration. Or is it amusement? With alphas, it’s always hard to tell.

Three more deliberate knocks. “I can see your shadow under the door, sweetheart.” A pause. “And I can smell your...” He inhales deeply, and I swear I feel it like he just licked a long line from my belly button to my throat. “Interesting reaction to seeing me.”

Fire floods my cheeks. Something inside me preens at his attention even as my brain screams retreat.

“Leah?”

Think, Leah, think!

My gaze lands on my open window.

Fire escape. It’s a long shot, but it’s the only option I have.

I scramble through my apartment like a burglar who just tripped the alarm, nearly face-planting over my own coffee table. My oversized emerald sweater—the one I specifically bought to look chic and unbothered—snags on a rogue nail as I fling open the window and I clamber onto the metal platform.

“Of course,” I mutter, wrestling with the fabric. “Because why wouldn’t there be a rusty death trap waiting for me right now?”

A thread of green yarn unravels behind me like a breadcrumb trail, marking my path of shame. Perfect. Now they’ll have evidence.

The metal groans ominously beneath my feet.

This is how horror movies start.

I take one step down.

The entire structure shudders.

This is also how horror movies end.

I look down. All that’s there is the giant dumpster and the little service entrance road that I’ll use to make my escape far far away from this place. I make it exactly one flight before the universe remembers it hates me. My foot slips on a loose rung, and suddenly, I’m airborne.

Time slows.

I have approximately 1.7 seconds to contemplate my life choices:

Why didn’t I just answer the door like a normal person?

Why did I wear my nice leggings today?

Is this how I die? With my body broken on asphalt?

Then—

THUD.

I land with a bone-jarring impact in something soft and warm and⁠—

Oh God.

Oh no.

The dumpster.

Just my luck.

“Let me get this straight,” Zoe says, lowering her phone after taking what must be the fiftieth photo of my misery. “You’re hiding from four hot, rich, devoted men because...?”

I groan from the depths of her bathtub, sinking deeper into the steaming water. The lingering scent of garbage clings stubbornly to my hair despite two rounds of shampoo.

“Because it’s insane, Zo! Three days ago, I was kneading dough. Now I’m questioning my life choices! And taking a bath in your bathroom because I landed in a dumpster trying to escape one of them!”

Zoe bursts out laughing again, snapping another photo. “Say ‘cheese.’ This face is going on your bakery’s ‘About Us’ page.”

“I hate you,” I inform her, sinking lower until the water reaches my chin.

“No, you don’t.” She perches on the toilet seat, scrolling through her photos with a satisfied smile. “What you hate is that you have four gorgeous men, a pack I might add, chasing you, and instead of enjoying it like any sane omega would, you’re hiding in dumpsters.”

“It’s not that simple,” I protest. “It’s... complicated.”

“What’s complicated? You like them. They like you. You’ve already had mind-blowing sex. The only complicated thing is why you’re fighting this so hard.”

I close my eyes, trying to articulate the swirl of emotions churning inside me. “It’s too much, too fast. I barely know them, Zo. And they barely know me. This isn’t some fairytale where everyone lives happily ever after after one magical night.”

“No,” Zoe agrees, her voice softening. “It’s real life, where sometimes good things happen, and you have to decide whether to grab them with both hands or run away like a coward.”

I peek at her through one eye. “Low blow.”

She shrugs, unrepentant. “You climbed out a fire escape and landed in literal garbage to avoid talking to a man who brought you coffee. I think we’ve moved beyond niceties.”

“It’s not just Caleb,” I sigh. “It’s all of them. Jude and his ridiculous humor, Liam with his gentle encouragement, Mason with his... silent intensity. It’s overwhelming.”

“What’s overwhelming is that you’re sitting in my bathtub smelling like yesterday’s tuna casserole because you couldn’t just say ‘I need space’ like a normal person.”

I splash water at her, which she dodges too easily.

“Fine,” I concede. “I’ll text them. Tell them I need more time to think.”

“Or,” Zoe suggests, her eyes gleaming with mischief, “you could invite them over. All of them. At once. Like a... pack interview.”

The mental image of all four of them crammed into my tiny apartment makes my stomach do a complicated flip.

“Absolutely not.”

“Your loss,” Zoe sighs dramatically. “Now, hurry up and finish decontaminating yourself. You still have a bakery to launch, and unlike your love life, your sourdough won’t wait forever.”

13

LEAH

The next two days pass in a blur of flour and avoidance tactics.

I keep my phone on silent.

I take the back entrance to my apartment.

I even—God help me—consider dyeing my hair, as if four males who can literally smell me from a block away would be fooled by blonde highlights.

Zoe watches my descent into madness with the glee of someone who’s already picked out her maid-of-honor dress.

“Still no texts?” she asks Friday morning, perched on my countertop swinging her legs like this is all some delightful sitcom and not my personal psychological thriller.

I brandish a rolling pin at her. “I’m focusing on my business. My independent, pack-free business.”

The lie tastes like burnt sugar on my tongue.

“You know it’s okay to miss them, right?” Zoe says gently, sliding off my counter. She gives my shoulder a squeeze. “I’ve got to head to the gallery before my boss has another meltdown over the new exhibit layout.” She checks her watch, then adds, “Call me if you need anything. Or if there are any... developments.” She wiggles her eyebrows suggestively before heading out, leaving me alone with my thoughts.

An hour later, I’m at the bakery, the morning quiet settling around me. Outside, Sweetwater’s main street is just beginning to wake up—the coffee shop a few doors down already has a line of bleary-eyed commuters, and the antique store owner is arranging a new display in her window. The farmer’s market vendors will be setting up their stalls in the town square soon, filling the air with the scent of fresh produce and local honey.

Inside my not-yet-open bakery, the empty space echoes in a way it never did before. I’ve been coming here for weeks, testing recipes and preparing for the grand opening, but today the silence feels different. There’s nothing disturbing my peace as I arrange my test kitchen and put the finishing touches on the menu board. It’s just me.

Just my recipe notebook.

Just the hollow thunk of my own heartbeat when my phone finally pings.

I’m in the middle of calculating ingredient costs for a large batch of apple pie filling when I hear it, and I freeze. Slowly, I set down my pencil and reach for my phone.

Caleb

Hope your day is going well. No pressure, just thinking of you.

The calculator I’m holding slips from my fingers and hits the floor with a clatter that sounds suspiciously like surrender.

Simple. Direct. No demands, no questions, just... presence.

I stare at the text for a long moment, my thumb hovering over the reply button. Before I can decide what to do, the bell above the door chimes.

My head snaps up, “Sorry, we’re not open for business ye—”, only to have my lungs forget how to work.

Mason stands in the doorway, backlit by morning sun like some kind of damn romance novel cover. His black t-shirt stretches across shoulders that somehow got broader in the time since I last saw him. The scent of sandalwood and crisp autumn air hits me, making my thighs press together behind the counter.

“Morning.” His voice is rougher than I remember, sleep-rough and delicious.

I choke on air. “What are you⁠—”

He sets a small paper bag on the counter with those precise, elegant fingers that had mapped every inch of me Sunday night. My mouth floods with saliva— and not just from the buttery, almond-scented steam rising from the bag.

“Marzipan croissants,” he says, watching my reaction with those dark, knowing eyes. “They say they’re good, though I’m sure the ones you make definitely put these to shame.”

My pulse thunders in my ears.

“I...” My voice comes out embarrassingly breathy. “You didn’t have to⁠—”

“I know.” He leans in just enough that his scent wraps around me, that clean-laundry-and-danger aroma making my needy omega self whimper.

The possessive edge in his voice sends a shockwave straight to my core. My fingers tremble as I reach for the bag, brushing against his. The contact lasts less than a second but burns like a brand.

When I look up, his gaze drops to my mouth. Lingers.

The air between us crackles.

What is he doing here?!

“I...” Words fail me. “Thank you.”

He nods once, then, to my surprise, he turns to leave.

Immediate disappointment, from somewhere deep inside me, springs up like a fountain.

“Wait!” The word escapes me before I can think better of it.

Mason pauses, looking back over his shoulder.

“How did you know I’d be here?”

A hint of a smile touches his lips. “We may have looked up your bakery’s website. You mentioned the grand opening is soon. It made sense you’d be here, preparing.”

“Oh.” I’m not sure if I should be flattered or alarmed by their thoroughness.

“For what it’s worth,” Mason adds, his hand on the door, “we understand your need for space. We’re not trying to pressure you. We just... care.”

With that, he’s gone, leaving me staring after him with the coffee growing cold in my hands.

They care.

The simple statement echoes in my mind as I sip the perfectly made latte. It’s not the grand declarations of love or possessiveness I might have expected from a pack. It’s quieter, more thoughtful.

And more dangerous.

That evening, when I get home, the building manager intercepts me in the lobby, his expression a mix of confusion and amusement. His stocky frame blocks my path to the elevator, his perpetually wrinkled uniform shirt suggesting he’s had a long day managing the building’s endless maintenance requests.

“Ms. Carter, there’s been a... delivery for you. I put it in your apartment. Didn’t think you’d want it sitting in the hallway.”

“A delivery?” I echo, immediately suspicious. “What kind of delivery?”

He scratches his head. “Hard to describe. You, uh, you’ll see.”

I take the elevator up, dread building with each floor. When I unlock my door, I’m greeted by the sight of...

Vegetables.

Not just a few vegetables. Twelve bouquets of them. Carrots, zucchini, eggplants... arranged in increasingly suggestive shapes. A card sits propped against the largest arrangement, which features a particularly well-endowed carrot surrounded by baby eggplants.

I know you eat all your veggies like a good girl. Thought I’d help your diet along. Call me when you’re hungry for something meatier. - J

Jude’s handiwork, without a doubt.

I’m still staring in horror at the vegetable pornography when my door bursts open.

“Hey, I saw your building manager downstairs, and he said you got a—HOLY SHIT!” Zoe stops dead in her tracks, eyes widening to comical proportions. “Is that a zucchini wearing a... crown?”

“I think it’s supposed to be a...” I trail off, gesturing vaguely. “You know.”

Zoe’s laughter fills the apartment, a full-bellied howl that threatens to bring the neighbors knocking. “This is the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen! Please tell me you’re going to marry this man immediately.”

“I’m going to murder this man immediately,” I correct her, though I can feel my lips twitching dangerously.

“You can’t ghost a pack that knows exactly where you live,” she manages between gasps of laughter, pulling out her phone to document the vegetable extravaganza. “And this proves it.”

“This proves they’re insane,” I argue. But the ridiculousness of the situation is starting to get to me, and a reluctant chuckle escapes before I can stop it.

“Insanely into you,” Zoe counters, circling what appears to be a radish harem surrounding a mighty cucumber. “So, what’s the plan? Are you going to call the cops, or call them over?”

“Neither,” I declare, grabbing the card and tucking it away before she can read it. “I’m going to focus on my bakery. That’s the plan. That’s always been the plan.”

Zoe’s expression softens. “Leah, honey, I know you’re scared. But hiding from them isn’t the answer.”

“I’m not scared,” I protest automatically. But even as the words leave my mouth, I know they’re a lie.

I’m terrified. Not of them, but of what they make me feel. Of how quickly they’ve insinuated themselves into my life, my thoughts, my desires.

“Sure, keep telling yourself that.” Zoe picks up a particularly suggestive carrot, waggling it at me. “Meanwhile, you’ve got three alphas and a beta who are clearly willing to go to ridiculous lengths to win you over. Most people would kill for that kind of attention.”

I sigh, sinking onto my couch. “I know. I just... I need to handle this my way.”

“And your way involves... what, exactly? More dumpster diving? Carrier pigeons? Smoke signals?”

“Very funny,” I mutter, though a reluctant smile tugs at my lips. “I just need to clear my head. Focus on the bakery for a bit. Then maybe... talk to them. Calmly. Rationally.”

“Uh-huh.” Zoe’s voice drips with skepticism. “And when is this calm, rational conversation happening? Before or after the heat death of the universe?”

I throw a decorative pillow at her head.

Thursday evening arrives with a vengeance. The bakery’s plumbing decided to revolt, flooding the back prep area and sending me into a panic spiral that ended with an emergency plumber, a hefty bill, and a newfound hatred for copper pipes.

I’m opening in just a few weeks! Everything needs to be perfect!

By the time I get home, I’m exhausted. Mentally and physically drained as I trudge up to my apartment. The vegetable bouquets have been dealt with—some tossed, some actually used in a surprisingly decent stir fry—and all I want is a hot shower and an early night.

As I fumble with my keys at my apartment door, the familiar scent of dark chocolate and espresso envelops me.

Before I can react, a warm hand closes around my wrist, spinning me around. My back hits the door with a soft thud as Caleb pins me there, his body pressed close, his green eyes burning into mine.

“Running from me, omega?” he asks, his voice a low rumble that makes my knees weak.

I swallow hard, my heart racing so fast I’m sure he can hear it. “I’m not running,” I manage, but my voice has come out embarrassingly breathy. “I’m just... busy.”

“Busy hiding in laundry rooms? Busy climbing out fire escapes?” His lips twitch, amusement dancing in his eyes. “Busy landing in dumpsters?”

My cheeks burn. “How did you⁠—”

“Your neighbor, Mrs. Finley, is quite the conversationalist.” His thumb traces circles on the inside of my wrist, sending shivers up my arm. And his eyes. Fuck. He’s looking at me as if he wants to take me inside and do some wicked things to me that I will definitely enjoy. No! Down girl! “She wanted to make sure I knew you were safe after your ‘accident.’”

“Traitor,” I mutter.

Caleb leans closer, his breath warm against my ear. “Because if you are running,” he adds, his voice dropping to a whisper that makes my core clench with want, “I’m very good at the chase.”

A whimper escapes me before I can stop it, and his scent deepens in response, heavy with alpha satisfaction.

“Caleb, I⁠—”

“I know,” he interrupts gently, pulling back just enough to meet my eyes. “You need space. Time. I understand.”

“Then why are you here?” I ask. Fuck. I hate how vulnerable I sound.

His expression softens. “Because I wanted to make sure you were okay. And because I…needed to see you.” His honesty disarms me. “Just once. Then I’ll go. I promise.”

The simplicity of it, the quiet certainty in his voice, makes my chest ache. I should push him away. I should stand firm. I should⁠—

My hands rise to his chest of their own accord, not to push him away but to feel the solid warmth of him beneath my palms. His heart thunders beneath my touch, strong and steady.

“One minute,” I whisper. “Then you go.”

His lips curve into that barely-there smile that does dangerous things to my insides. “Deal.”

We stand there, my back against the door, his body a warm wall in front of me, neither of us moving. Just... breathing each other in. His scent wraps around me like a blanket, familiar now despite the short time I’ve known him.

“Your minute’s almost up,” I murmur, but I make no move to push him away.

“I know.” His eyes drop to my lips, then back to meet my gaze. “May I?”

The question—so formal, so respectful despite the possessive press of his body against mine—nearly undoes me.

I should say no. I should stand firm on my need for space, for time.

Instead, I nod, a tiny, almost imperceptible movement.

His lips meet mine in a soft, restrained, gentle claim. His hands frame my face, thumbs brushing my cheekbones with a tenderness that makes my heart stutter.

I melt into him, my hands fisting in his shirt, pulling him closer despite all my earlier protests. He growls softly, the sound vibrating through both our bodies, and deepens the kiss just a fraction, waiting for me to take it.

And God help me, I want to.

The thought is like a bucket of cold water. I pull back abruptly, breaking the kiss, my breath coming in short gasps.

“Your minute’s up,” I whisper, unable to meet his eyes.

Caleb steps back immediately, his hands falling to his sides. “So it is.”

The sudden absence of his warmth makes me shiver, but I force myself to remain still, to not reach for him again.

“Leah.” His voice is gentle, but there’s a thread of steel running through it that makes me look up. “I meant what I said before. We’ll give you space. Time. Whatever you need.”

“Thank you,” I manage, my voice barely audible.

“But,” he continues, his eyes dark with promise, “when you’re ready—and you will be ready—we’ll be waiting.”

With that, he turns and walks away, his stride measured and confident. I watch him go, my body humming with a confused mix of relief and disappointment.

Only when the elevator doors close behind him do I allow myself to slump against my door, eyes closed, lips still tingling from his kiss.

Space. Time. That’s what I asked for. That’s what I need.

So why does it suddenly feel like the last thing I want?

14

JUDE

“Dustbuster duty,” Caleb had called it. “Punishment for the veggie bouquets.”

Technically, I was sentenced to clean the entire house, but since Mason already keeps his room spotless and Liam would rather die than let anyone touch his stuff, I’m stuck with Caleb’s lair. Which is fine by me.

I call it my weekly “deep clean” of his room. He calls it “Jude snooping for blackmail material.”

He’s not wrong.

I’m rifling through his dresser—purely to organize his socks, you understand—when I spot the edge of a suspiciously non-alpha-like magazine peeking out from under his mattress. Now we’re talking. Potential embarrassment gold mine.

As I wedge my arm between the mattress and headboard, my fingers brush against something silky.

I freeze.

No fucking way.

I pull out the scrap of fabric—emerald lace, delicate enough that it barely covers my palm—and my entire body goes still.

Leah’s.

From that night.

The scent hits me like a freight train at full speed. Vanilla and cinnamon, yes, but underneath it—holy hell—that unmistakable omega musk that makes my cock twitch instantly in my jeans. Before I can think better of it, I press the lace to my face and inhale deeply.

Catastrophic mistake.

Her arousal still clings to the fibers, sweet and heady and maddeningly potent. Suddenly I’m back in Caleb’s bed, watching her come apart under my mouth, her thighs trembling against my shoulders, her taste still on my tongue. My vision tunnels, pupils dilating as my grip tightens on the fabric. Something inside me roars to life, hungry and possessive.

“Sweet mother of mercy,” I mutter, my voice already rough enough to sand wood.

The door creaks open behind me.

“Jude, have you seen my—” Mason stops dead. “What are you—” His dark eyes drop to the lace in my hand, and his expression shifts from confusion to understanding in a heartbeat. “Oh.”

I grin, holding up my prize like I’ve discovered buried treasure. “Look what I found.”

Mason’s nose twitches—poor beta senses—but he takes one look at my face and sighs. “I can’t smell it from here, but your expression says everything.”

“Want a sniff?” I tease, waving the panties at him. “It’s like a trip down memory lane, but with less walking and more…smelling.”

He rolls his eyes, but I don’t miss how his gaze follows the movement of the lace. “Put those back before Caleb⁠—”

The bedroom door slams open with such force that the framed brewery award on the wall tilts sideways.

Caleb stands in the doorway, chest heaving like he’s run a marathon, green eyes burning with feral intensity. His nostrils flare once, twice—then his gaze locks onto the lace in my hand with laser-like precision.

Oh, shit.

“Give.” His voice is pure alpha command, rough with possession, the single syllable vibrating with enough authority to make even my rebellious instincts quiver. “Them. To. Me.”

I clutch the panties to my chest, backing up a step. “Finders keepers, big guy.”

Caleb moves faster than I can blink, slamming me against the wall with one hand braced by my head. His dark chocolate and espresso wraps around me, thick with warning. “Last chance, Jude.”

Mason sighs from behind us. “You two are like kindergarteners. Please⁠—”

I duck under Caleb’s arm and bolt for the door, cackling like a madman. “Catch me if you can, Cale!”

I make it approximately three steps into the hallway before 220 pounds of furious alpha tackles me to the ground with the precision of a professional linebacker.

“Mine,” Caleb growls in my ear, his forearm pressing between my shoulder blades as he reaches for the panties still clutched in my fist. His knee digs into my spine with bruising pressure.

“Fuck off—” I twist, trying to shove him away, but Caleb’s built like a goddamn brick wall. I manage to squirm onto my back, holding the panties aloft like the Olympic torch. “I found them fair and square!”

Mason appears in the doorway, arms crossed, looking like a disappointed parent. “This is undignified.”

“Help me, you traitorous beta!” I wheeze as Caleb attempts to pin both my wrists with one hand.

Mason considers this request for approximately half a second. Then, to my eternal betrayal, he crouches down and tickles my ribs.

“Motherf—” I shriek, bucking wildly as Caleb uses the distraction to try prying the lace from my fingers⁠—

—just as Liam rounds the corner, tie perfectly knotted, a stack of files tucked under one arm.

He stops dead, his mouth forming a perfect ‘O’ of shock. “What in the actual—” His reading glasses slide down his nose as he takes in the scene: Caleb straddling my hips, Mason sitting on my legs, and the now-stretched remains of Leah’s panties held above my head like the world’s most inappropriate trophy.

Liam’s eye twitches. “Is that her underwear?”

“Technically,” I gasp from my position pinned beneath two grown men, “they’re our underwear now. Community property. I’m just ensuring equal distribution.”

Liam makes a sound like a deflating balloon mixed with a dying whale.

“For God’s sake,” he hisses, dropping his files on a nearby table and marching over. “We are not cavemen fighting over⁠—”

His sentence cuts off abruptly as he gets close enough for his nose to catch what has Caleb and me in a frenzy. His pupils dilate instantly.

“Is that—” Liam swallows hard. “Give me those.”

And just like that, four grown men are engaged in a literal dogpile in the hallway, snarling over a scrap of lace.

“I FOUND IT FAIR AND SQUARE,” I yell as Caleb’s elbow connects with my ribs.

“We’re supposed to be giving her SPACE,” Liam grunts, somehow having lost both his glasses and his dignified persona in the scuffle.

“Technically, we are,” I point out, narrowly avoiding Mason’s attempt to pinch the pressure point in my wrist. “These are just her panties that she left here. She’s not even present.”

“That’s—” Caleb pants, “—not the point.”

The panties, caught in our collective grip, make an ominous ripping sound.

We all freeze.

“Now look what you’ve done,” I accuse, pointing at Mason.

“Me?” he sputters. “That was clearly Liam’s fault!”

“ENOUGH!” Caleb roars, his alpha command reverberating through the hallway with enough force to make the pictures rattle.

We all go still, the tattered remains of emerald lace divided between our hands like some perverse game of Capture the Flag.

Ten minutes later, we’re gathered around the kitchen table like some fucked-up tribunal. The panties—now stretched beyond recognition—sit in the center like a holy relic on a very inappropriate altar.

Liam, having retrieved his glasses and straightened his tie in a futile attempt to restore his dignity, massages his temples. “We agreed to give her space. We had a pact.”

I lean back in my chair, unable to keep from grinning. “So hypothetically... if someone may have sent Leah a gift of artistically arranged vegetables the other day⁠—”

Mason chokes on his coffee. “You what?”

Caleb’s head snaps up from where he’s been glaring at the ruined lace. “You contacted her?”

“They were tasteful,” I defend, crossing my arms. “Aesthetically arranged. Museum quality, even.”

Liam’s ballpoint pen snaps in half between his fingers. “Define ‘tasteful.’”

I stroke my chin thoughtfully. “Well, there may have been a zucchini wearing a crown. And possibly an eggplant harem. But the carrots were very respectfully positioned.”

Mason rubs his temples like he’s fighting off a migraine. “Christ on a cracker.”

Caleb’s jaw ticks, a vein pulsing in his forehead. “And you lectured me about boundaries.”

“The vegetables were a spontaneous inspiration,” I reply with a shrug. “I hadn’t even decided to violate her boundaries when I gave you that lecture.”

Mason clears his throat. “At least I was subtle.”

“Don’t even start,” I shoot back. “You brought her breakfast at her bakery.”

Liam’s head whips toward Mason, eyes wide with betrayal. “You did what?”

Mason shrugs, the picture of unrepentant beta calm. “She’s been working hard. It was a logical⁠—”

“Logical?” Liam’s voice cracks. “You stalked her bakery!”

“Coincidental timing,” Mason corrects, examining his nails. “I was in the neighborhood. With coffee. And pastries.”

Caleb snorts. “Like my ‘accidental’ visit to her apartment?”

The room goes silent. Three pairs of eyes swivel to stare at him.

Liam slowly, deliberately removes his glasses, folding them with precision. “Excuse me?”

Caleb at least has the decency to look mildly ashamed, running a hand through his chestnut hair. “She slammed the door in my face.”

“The first time. The second time you kissed her,” I add helpfully, enjoying the way Liam’s face transitions through several fascinating shades of red.

“You kissed her?” Mason’s usually unflappable composure cracks. “After we explicitly agreed⁠—”

“She kissed me back,” Caleb growls, green eyes flashing. “Until she remembered she’s still pretending to need space.”

Liam makes a noise like a boiling kettle before collapsing into a chair. “I’m the only one who respected her boundaries? Really?”

Mason side-eyes him over his coffee cup. “You sent her a twelve-page business proposal.”

“That was professional!” Liam splutters, his blush spreading to his ears.

“One page literally said ‘Your needs are our priority,’” I point out, mimicking his precise pronunciation. “And you included three different font choices for our combined logos. With sample business cards.”

“That’s just good business strategy!”

“You color-coded potential ‘scent-pairing options’ for the menu,” Mason adds flatly.

Liam’s face turns an impressive shade of scarlet. “That was... market research.”

“Sure it was, Shakespeare,” I pat his hand. “Just own it. We’re all pathetic.”

“Four alphas—” Mason clears his throat. “Three alphas and a beta,” he corrects, “reduced to fighting over underwear like teenagers.”

Caleb’s expression darkens. “What do we do with... these?” He gestures to the sad, stretched remains of Leah’s once-sexy panties.

“We could return them,” I suggest, waggling my eyebrows.

“Absolutely not,” Liam and Mason say in unison.

“We establish a rotation system,” I propose, earning three identical glares. “What? It’s democratic!”

“We are not implementing a panty rotation schedule,” Liam states, voice dripping with disdain. “We’re not animals.”

“Speak for yourself,” I mutter.

“I have a solution,” Liam announces, standing abruptly. He disappears down the hall, returning moments later with a small metal box. “My fireproof safe. Twelve-digit code, tamper-proof, and I’m changing the combination nightly.”

“That’s... excessive,” Mason observes.

“Is it?” Liam challenges. “Is it really?”

Given the last twenty minutes, none of us can argue.

The panties—what’s left of them—now reside in Liam’s fireproof safe, protected by a twelve-digit code and what I suspect is a prayer to whatever deity might listen to alphas with trust issues.

As we disperse for the night, I catch Caleb’s arm in the hallway. “Made copies,” I whisper, flashing him the photo I sneakily took on my phone—her delicate emerald lace stretched across my palm, captured in all its glory before the Great Panty War of Tuesday evening.

His eyes darken instantly, the green almost swallowed by his dilated pupils. “Delete that.”

“Make me,” I challenge, dancing backward.

He lunges for my phone with a growl. I sprint down the hall, cackling, Mason’s long-suffering sigh echoing behind us.

“Children,” Liam mutters from the kitchen. “I live with actual children.”

Halfway up the stairs, my thumb slips on the screen as Caleb grabs the back of my shirt. I glance down in horror as my photo app opens, my finger accidentally hitting “share” and then⁠—

Oh holy fuck.

My phone pings with a confirmation.

Image sent successfully to: Leah

I skid to a stop so fast that Caleb plows into my back, nearly sending us both tumbling down the stairs.

“What the—” he starts.

My phone pings again. All four of our phones chime simultaneously with an incoming message.

Leah red heart

Is that... are those... my underwear? WHAT THE HELL, JUDE?

The resulting silence is priceless.

Then—

“Jude.” Three voices snarl in unison, each syllable dripping with promised retribution.

My phone pings again.

Leah red heart

I cannot believe this. You four are UNBELIEVABLE. First the vegetables, then the ambush, and now THIS?

And again.

Leah red heart

You know what? I’ve had it. This is ridiculous. All of you. My apartment. Tomorrow. 7 pm. We’re settling this once and for all.

I slowly turn to face my packmates, their expressions ranging from murderous (Caleb) to mortified (Liam) to strangely calculating (Mason).

“Well,” I announce with a grin that’s only slightly terrified, “looks like we have a date.”

Caleb’s growl vibrates through the stairwell. “Worth it?” he demands through clenched teeth.

I consider our current situation: Leah furious, my packmates plotting my imminent demise, and the very real possibility that I’ve ruined everything.

Then I think about her message. All of you. My apartment. Tomorrow.

“Absolutely worth it,” I declare, dodging Caleb’s grab and sprinting for the safety of my room.

Because angry or not, Leah wants to see us. All of us. Tomorrow.

Mission fucking accomplished.

15

LEAH

My apartment has never felt smaller.

I shove my coffee table against the wall with my hip, nearly upending the vase of—oh God—Jude’s ridiculous vegetable bouquets. The plants have started to wilt, the zucchini looking less “suggestive” and more “medically concerning.” The eggplants have shriveled into something that should probably be examined by a doctor.

Three alphas and a beta. One tiny studio. What could possibly go wrong?

The answer, of course, is everything. Absolutely everything.

Zoe lounges on my counter, swirling a glass of Le Roux with the smugness of someone who gets to leave whenever she wants. “You know,” she muses, examining her reflection in my microwave door, “most omegas start with one alpha. Maybe two if they’re feeling adventurous. You went straight for the full pack combo meal with extra sauce.”

I brandish a wooden spoon at her. “Not helping.”

“What? I’m just saying what we’re all thinking.” She takes a deliberate sip, leaving a perfect lipstick mark on the glass. “Besides, it’s not like you accidentally slept with four random men. You’ve been pining over them for days.”

“I have not been pining,” I protest, aggressively fluffing a pillow. “I’ve been avoiding them. There’s a difference.”

“Right,” Zoe nods solemnly. “That’s why you sniffed Caleb’s stupid coffee cup for ten minutes before recycling it.”

My cheeks burn. “I shouldn’t have told you about that.”

She hops down from the counter and starts rearranging my silverware into what appears to be a pentagram. “For vibes,” she explains when I raise an eyebrow.

I spray another cloud of scent-neutralizer into the air, then immediately regret it. The chemical tang clings to my nose, mixing with the aroma of roasted garlic and anxiety.

“Now it smells like a crime scene,” I mutter, wrinkling my nose.

Zoe snorts. “Accurate, considering what you’re planning to do to these poor men.”

“I’m not planning to do anything! This is just a... discussion.”

“Uh-huh.” She adjusts a fork. “A ‘discussion’ that required you to wear that dress that makes your ass look like a Renaissance painting.”

I glance down at the little black dress—the same one I wore to Eric’s pre-wedding cocktail party, the one that started this whole mess. “It was the only clean thing I had,” I lie.

“Lies.” Zoe points her wine glass at me accusingly. “I saw you iron it. You never iron anything. Your cat wrinkles have become a signature style.”

“I don’t have a cat.”

“Your imaginary cat, then. The point is,” she continues, gesturing expansively, “you’re putting in effort. Which means you care.”

Before I can argue, the oven timer dings. I yank open the door. Oh no. My first batch of rolls has been charred beyond recognition.

Perfect.

“Nailed it,” Zoe observes cheerfully.

I toss the smoking tray into the sink with a clatter. “This is a disaster. I should cancel.”

“Absolutely not.” Zoe places her hands on my shoulders, her expression suddenly serious. “You invited them here to settle this mess, and that’s exactly what you’re going to do.”

“By serving them burnt bread?”

“They’re not here for the food, sweetie.”

The truth of her statement settles uncomfortably in my stomach. They’re here for me. All four of them. Because somehow, in the cosmic joke that has become my life, I’ve managed to attract an entire pack’s attention.

I take a deep breath, trying to steady my nerves. “Fine. But you’re staying.”

Zoe winces. “About that...”

“Zoe, no.”

“I have a date,” she admits, at least having the decency to look guilty. “With that bartender from downtown? The one with the...” She makes a vague gesture that somehow conveys both impressive musculature and questionable moral character.

“You’re abandoning me?” I hiss, panic rising. “With a pack of four alphas?”

“Three alphas and a beta,” she corrects. “And yes. Because you’re a grown woman who needs to face her problems instead of hiding in dumpsters.”

I flinch. “Low blow.”

The doorbell rings, and my heart lurches into my throat.

“Oh look,” Zoe says brightly, grabbing her purse. “Right on time. Remember: no fire alarms, no climbing out windows, and for the love of God, if you decide to sleep with them again, text me so I don’t come barging in tomorrow morning.”

“I’m not sleeping with them!” I hiss, my voice rising to a squeak.

“Not with that attitude, you’re not.” She kisses my cheek and slips past me to the door. “Break a leg, or whatever the saying is for confronting your potential pack-mates.”

“They’re not my⁠—”

She swings open the door with a flourish.

And there they are.

Standing shoulder-to-shoulder in my narrow hallway like some kind of alpha boy band, dressed in coordinating shades of blue and gray that can’t possibly be accidental. The air instantly thickens with their combined scents, wrapping around me like a possessive embrace despite the industrial-strength neutralizer I’ve been spraying all afternoon.

Oh, this was a mistake.

“Well, hello, gentlemen,” Zoe purrs, eyeing them like they’re an all-you-can-eat buffet. “Aren’t you all a sight for sore eyes?”

Jude grins, holding up a balloon bouquet that reads “Sorry We Stole Your Panties” in glittering cursive. Where the hell did he even buy that? “We come bearing gifts!”

Behind him, Caleb’s jaw flexes, his massive frame practically vibrating with restraint. He’s holding a slow-cooked lamb shank in a glass container, the meat so tender it looks like it will fall off the bone. “You mentioned liking Mediterranean,” he rumbles, and my stupid omega hindbrain purrs at the evidence that he remembered such a tiny detail.

Mason steps forward, his usual calm demeanor slightly strained. He offers a bottle of cinnamon-infused whiskey. “For dessert,” he says, then adds, quieter, “Or panic relief.” His dark eyes scan my face with an intensity that suggests he knows exactly how close I am to the latter.

Liam—sweet, gentle Liam—holds out a hand-carved wooden spoon, the cherrywood polished to a warm gleam. “For your bakery,” he mumbles, his ears turning pink. “I, uh. Made it.”

I blink. “You carved this?”

He nods, suddenly fascinated by my doormat.

“He has a whole woodworking setup back at the brewery,” Jude offers helpfully. “It’s very sexy. All those power tools. Very alpha.”

Liam’s blush deepens to alarming levels.

Before I can process this—Liam carves? Liam made me something with his hands?—Mrs. Finley’s door creaks open from wayyy down the hall. I hear her distinct shuffle as she heads our way, probably to visit another neighbor on my side of the apartment block.

“Well, well,” the elderly omega purrs, her eyes twinkling as she turns the corner and takes in the parade of males at my door. “Four strapping young men for dinner? Save some for the rest of us, dear.”

Jude winks at her. “We’ll bring you leftovers.”

I grab Caleb’s sleeve and yank them all inside before the building’s gossip mill explodes with speculation about the omega in 3B and her harem.

“Thanks for having us,” Mason says formally as he passes, as if this is a normal dinner party and not some kind of intervention for inappropriate underwear theft.

Zoe slips out behind them, mouthing “Call me later!” with an exaggerated wink that promises detailed interrogation.

The door closes with an ominous click.

My apartment shrinks by approximately three hundred percent the moment she leaves. What was a cozy studio for one suddenly feels like a sardine can stuffed with testosterone and dangerous pheromones.

Jude immediately claims a spot on my couch, his lanky frame somehow taking up twice the space a normal person would. CRACK. The wooden arm splinters under his weight.

“Whoops,” he says, sliding to the cushion with a grin that’s not nearly apologetic enough. “That was already loose, right?”

“Sure it was.” I huff a laugh through my nose. “Just like my sanity.”

“Hey, at least your sanity and I have something in common,” he quips, setting the ridiculous balloon bouquet on my side table.

My eyes slide to Mason, who is standing quietly, taking in the space with polite interest. He gives me a soft smile once we meet eyes.

“I like your place,” he offers simply. “It feels like you.”

As I nod in thanks, I notice Liam hasn’t ventured far from where he stood. He’s still holding the wooden spoon he carved, his fingers tracing the smooth handle.

“I wasn’t sure what kind of wood you’d prefer for baking,” he admits softly. “Cherry has a nice balance of hardness and flexibility.”

The unintentional double entendre hangs in the air for a moment before Jude snickers.

“The food smells delicious,” Mason redirects smoothly. “Can we help with anything?”

Caleb hasn’t moved from his position near the door. Hasn’t spoken since commenting on the lamb. He just looks at me, his green eyes tracking my every movement like I’m prey he’s afraid will bolt if he blinks.

The air between us crackles with something I refuse to focus on.

Zoe, the traitor, chose this exact moment to text:

Remember, no climbing out fire escapes! xoxo

I’ve been abandoned.

“Drink?” I offer, my voice higher than usual. “I have wine. And whiskey. And... more wine.”

“Wine would be lovely,” Liam says, at the exact same moment Caleb growls, “Whiskey.”

They exchange a look I can’t interpret. Caleb moves to set the lamb down on the counter.

“I’ll take whatever you’re having, doll,” Jude says, already making himself comfortable on my now-broken couch.

I retreat to the kitchen, grateful for a moment to breathe. My hands shake slightly as I pull down glasses. Four males. In my space. Watching my every move with varying degrees of intensity.

This was a terrible idea.

“Need help?” Mason materializes beside me, making me jump.

“Jesus!” I clutch my chest. “Make some noise when you move!”

“Sorry.” He doesn’t look sorry at all. “You seem tense.”

“Gee, I wonder why,” I mutter, shoving a bottle opener at him. “Open that while I check the lamb.”

He complies, his movements efficient and precise. “We can leave if this is too much,” he offers quietly. “We understand this is... unconventional.”

I snort. “Unconventional is using a bagel as your phone holder. This is—” I wave vaguely at the four of them, “—beyond unconventional.”

“Unprecedented?” he suggests, a hint of amusement in his voice.

Despite myself, I smile. “Something like that.”

Mason pours the wine with the expertise of someone who’s spent time in fine dining establishments. But then again, this is what they do for a living. “For what it’s worth,” he says, his voice low enough that only I can hear, “we didn’t plan for any of this.”

“You mean you didn’t set out to accidentally hire a fake escort, sleep with her, then steal her underwear?”

His lips twitch. “Not specifically, no.”

“Well, at least we’re all improvising,” I mutter, arranging salad onto plates with fingers that annoyingly tremble.

Dinner starts with the salad—and the tension breaks when Jude reaches across the table for the salt, knocking over Liam’s water glass in the process.

“Really?” Liam sighs, quickly lifting his napkin as water drips toward his lap.

“My bad.” Jude grimaces.

Mason moves to help, but his elbow catches the edge of the wine bottle, sending a splash of cabernet across the tablecloth like an abstract painting.

“Shit,” Mason mutters, grabbing for napkins as the red spreads dangerously close to Liam’s light-colored shirt.

Liam shifts back so quickly he nearly topples his chair. “Is this a coordinated attack?” he asks dryly.

Caleb exhales through his nose, his grip tightening on his fork until the metal actually bends.

It’s clear everyone’s tense. I’m not making it any better waiting before delving into why I called them here tonight. Taking a deep breath, I stab a piece of lamb. “So. You sent me a photo of my underwear.”

Jude beams, completely unrepentant. “To be fair, it was a tasteful photo. Excellent lighting. Composition. A real artistic statement about⁠—”

“Jude,” Mason warns.

“—the fragility of intimate garments in modern society?”

I narrow my eyes. “You were holding them. To your face.”

“That’s where noses are generally located, yes.”

Caleb sets down his fork with deliberate calm. “We’re idiots.”

Finally, something we can all agree on.

“Speak for yourself,” Jude protests. “I’m a genius. This dinner wouldn’t even be happening if I hadn’t accidentally sent that photo.”

“Accidentally,” Liam repeats skeptically.

“Completely accidental,” Jude insists. “A true technological mishap.”

“Like the ‘accidentally’ arranged vegetables?” I ask dryly.

Jude grins. “Those were intentional. And you loved them.”

“I did not⁠—”

“You kept them,” he points out, gesturing to the wilting arrangement. “That’s omega for ‘I’m secretly charmed.’”

“It is not!”

“Is too. Ask any alpha.” He looks around the table for support. “Back me up here, guys.”

Liam clears his throat. “Actually, data suggests that most omegas prefer more traditional courting gifts, like⁠—”

“No one asked for a peer-reviewed study, professor,” Jude interrupts.

“I’m just saying⁠—”

“You’re both missing the point,” Mason interjects calmly. “Which is that we’ve been behaving inappropriately, and Leah deserves an apology.”

“Thank you!” I throw my hands up. “Finally, someone with sense.”

Caleb, who has been unnervingly quiet throughout the meal, finally speaks. “You’re right.” His deep voice sends an involuntary shiver down my spine. “We’ve been acting like teenagers. It’s unbecoming.”

“Speak for yourself,” Jude mutters. “I’ve been acting like a horny twenty-something, at least.”

Before I can respond, the sound of glass shattering fills the room. All of us turn to find Caleb frozen, the stem of his wine glass broken between his fingers, deep red liquid spreading across my white tablecloth like blood.

“Shit,” he mutters, reaching for a napkin.

“Don’t,” I say quickly, grabbing his hand without thinking. “You’re bleeding.”

Sure enough, a thin line of crimson crosses his palm where the glass cut him.

“It’s nothing,” he insists, but I hold firm.

“Kitchen. Now.” I tug him up from the table, ignoring Jude’s whispered “Kinky” behind us.

In the kitchen—which is really just a slightly separated corner of my studio—I rummage for my first aid kit, hyperaware of Caleb’s massive presence behind me. His dark chocolate thickens with the injury, turning richer, more intense. My instincts flare, urging me to soothe, to care for him.

“Sit,” I command, pointing to a stool.

To my surprise, he complies without argument, extending his hand toward me palm up. The cut isn’t deep, but it runs across his lifeline, blood beading along its length.

“What happened?” I press, applying antibiotic ointment with more gentleness than the situation requires.

His jaw works. “This isn’t going how I planned.”

“What, dinner? Or the part where you all stole my underwear?”

The corner of his mouth twitches. “Both. Neither.” His eyes flick up to mine, so green and intense. “I don’t usually lose control like this.”

“Could have fooled me,” I murmur, carefully pressing a bandage over the cut.

“Would it matter?” he asks suddenly. “If I said I was sorry for all of it—the panties, the ambush at your door, this disaster of a dinner?”

Something about the vulnerability in his question makes my heart twist. “Yes,” I admit softly. “It would.”

From the dining area, I hear the others’ voices rising. I look up to see Liam and Jude in what appears to be a heated debate, with Mason attempting to mediate.

“We need a proper approach,” Liam insists, his fingers tracing a gentle pattern on the napkin. “Traditional courtship has meaningful stages for a reason. There’s beauty in doing things properly.”

“Traditional?” Jude scoffs. “That’s your solution to everything. We don’t need old-fashioned rituals, we need grand gestures!”

Mason pinches the bridge of his nose. “Neither of you is helping.”

I return to the table with Caleb following a step behind, his bandaged hand lingering at the small of my back in that way that sends warmth spreading through me.

“What’s going on?” I ask, though I’m afraid I already know.

“We’re discussing strategy,” Jude announces.

“For?” I raise an eyebrow.

“Winning you over, obviously.” He grins. “I vote for more vegetable sculptures. Liam wants to implement formal courtship with flowers, handwritten letters, and proper chaperoned dates.”

Liam’s ears go red. “It’s about showing respect⁠—”

“You literally just drew out the stages of traditional courtship,” Jude points at the napkin.

“Because there’s meaning in those traditions!” Liam defends, his voice passionate but gentle.

Mason sighs. “I suggested we simply ask Leah what she wants, but apparently that’s too revolutionary.”

“I don’t need asking,” Caleb growls from behind me. “She needs space. We’re crowding her.”

“Says the alpha who kissed her goodbye after promising to back off,” Jude counters.

“That was different,” Caleb snaps.

“How?” Liam demands.

“Because she wanted it,” Caleb insists, his scent spiking with something that smells like conviction.

“Did she, though?” Mason questions softly.

“Of course she did,” Jude jumps in. “She’s wanted all of us from day one. We just need to⁠—”

“I’m right here!” I interrupt, my voice rising with frustration. “Stop talking about me like I’m not in the room!”

Four sets of eyes turn to me.

“We should be giving her space,” Caleb insists, addressing his packmates but hovering protectively near me. “We’re a lot to handle.”

“Space doesn’t solve anything,” Jude argues. “Right, Leah? We need to be present, to show you⁠—”

“There’s value in taking things slowly,” Liam interjects, his voice soft but firm. “Courtship is about honor and intention. It’s how we show we’re serious.”

“What we need,” Mason cuts in, “is to respect her autonomy while still making our intentions clear.”

Their voices overlap, their scents intensifying with emotion—dark chocolate, citrus, rain-soaked pages, and sandalwood all swirling around me in a dizzying cacophony. The room seems to shrink, their bodies suddenly too close, too overwhelming.

Jude reaches for my hand. “Leah, tell them I’m right⁠—”

Liam stands, gesturing to his napkin sketch. “If you’ll allow us to court you properly⁠—”

“Everyone needs to calm down,” Mason orders, his usually low voice raised.

Caleb’s growl vibrates through the air. “Back off, all of you!”

My pulse pounds in my ears. Their scents are everywhere, their voices too loud, their attention too intense. It’s all too much—four different men, four different approaches, all focused on me with an intensity that makes it hard to breathe.

I slam my hands on the table, jostling glasses and plates. “That’s it! This is exactly why I didn’t want a pack!”

The words hang in the air, sharp as the broken glass still on the floor.

Caleb goes rigid, his entire body freezing mid-motion. Liam drops the napkin he’s holding, the paper floating slowly to the ground. Mason exhales sharply through his nose, the only evidence of his distress. Jude—for once—has nothing to say, his usual grin sliding off his face like melted wax.

Silence.

My voice, smaller now: “I just—I can’t do this. The chaos. The intensity. The... everything.”

No one moves. No one speaks. The only sound is the faint hiss of the ruined dessert cooling on the counter.

Caleb opens his mouth, then closes it, his expression shifting from shock to something harder, more controlled. His throat works as he swallows whatever he was about to say.

“I understand,” he finally manages, his voice a rough whisper. “We’ll go.”

Liam bends to retrieve his fallen spoon, setting it carefully on the table. “I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “For all of it.”

Jude’s usual grin is nowhere to be found. “The dinner was great,” he offers, gesturing weakly at the half-eaten meal. “Really. Best disaster I’ve been part of in ages.”

Mason straightens his blazer. “We’ll see ourselves out,” he says, his calm voice betrayed by the tightness around his eyes. “Thank you for having us.”

They file out one by one. Caleb first, his expression locked down tight, not meeting my eyes. Liam next, pausing at the door to look back once, his shoulders hunched. Mason follows, his hand lingering on the doorframe. Jude is last, his usual energy dimmed to nothing.

“For what it’s worth,” he says, uncharacteristically serious, “none of us meant to overwhelm you.”

The door clicks shut behind him.

I sink onto the floor, surrounded by the wreckage—burnt dessert, wine-stained tablecloth, broken couch, forgotten gifts, and the lingering scent of four males who’ve made my heart beat faster than it ever has in years.

Fuck.

My phone buzzes.

Zoe

So... how’s it going?

I reach for the whiskey bottle Mason brought.

Screw the glass.

I take a long pull directly from the bottle, the cinnamon burn matching the ache in my chest.

Another text arrives.

Zoe

That bad, huh?

I stare at the message, unsure how to explain that the dinner wasn’t a disaster because of them, but because of me. Because they tried, in their own chaotic, ridiculous ways, and I shut them down completely.

The spoon Liam carved still lies on the table, its polished surface gleaming in the dim light. I pick it up, running my fingers over the smooth wood, the careful detailing on the handle. How long did it take him to make this? How many hours did he spend thinking of me, creating something with his hands that he thought I’d like?

The lamb Caleb brought sits half-eaten, perfectly cooked, exactly the way I mentioned liking it once, off-handedly, during that ridiculous pre-wedding cocktail party.

Mason’s whiskey burns pleasantly in my throat, warming me from the inside out.

And even Jude’s ridiculous balloons, still floating by my ceiling, show a strange kind of thoughtfulness in their inappropriate humor.

Four different men. Four different approaches to showing they care.

And I just threw it all back in their faces.

A cramp twists low in my abdomen, sudden and sharp. I wince, pressing a hand to my stomach. Stress, probably. Or the whiskey.

My phone buzzes again.

Zoe

Want me to ditch this dude and come over?

I stare at the message, then at the wreckage around me—the shattered evening, the gifts left behind, the scents still clinging to the air.

With a sigh, I send:

No. I think I made a mistake.

Zoe

What kind of mistake?

Another cramp, deeper this time. Heat licks up my spine, familiar and insistent. I shift on the floor, suddenly restless.

No. No, no, no⁠—

But my body doesn’t lie. The flush isn’t just from alcohol. The ache isn’t just guilt. My scent shifts subtly, sweetening—vanilla and cinnamon giving way to something richer, needier.

Pre-heat.

And early.

I swallow hard. Of course, it would happen now. When I’ve just screamed at the only pack who’ve ever⁠—

The kind I need to fix myself.

But how? How do you apologize for pushing away the people who bring whiskey you like, who carve spoons for your bakery, who bring you lamb because you mentioned loving Mediterranean food once?

How do you explain that you’re terrified of how much you want them? That your ex’s voice still whispers you’re not pack material in your head, even as your body begs to prove him wrong?

Another pang, hotter this time. My thighs press together instinctively.

Fuck.

I’ve spent so long building walls to keep from being hurt that I didn’t realize I’d locked myself inside them.

And now, with pre-heat simmering under my skin and the pack’s scents still tangled in my apartment, I know one thing for certain:

If I don’t fix this—if I don’t try—I’ll regret it forever.

Even if it’s already too late.

16

LIAM

The pack house was silent when we returned last night.

No jokes from Jude. No dry commentary from Mason. Even Caleb’s usual brooding takes on a sharper edge, his scent bitter with something dangerously close to shame.

I sit at the kitchen table until three AM, running the entire dinner over and over in my head.

We fucked up.

Not just the panty incident, or the vegetable bouquets, or even the disastrous dinner, but the way we’d overwhelmed her from the start. Pushed when we should’ve waited. Assumed when we should’ve asked.

And now she thinks we’re exactly what her ex had claimed: alphas who see her as a conquest, not a person.

“Still up?” Mason’s quiet voice breaks the silence.

I don’t look up. “Can’t sleep.”

He slides into the chair across from me, his usual composed facade cracked around the edges. “None of us can.”

“We ruined it,” I say, the words sour on my tongue. “All of us.”

“Maybe,” Mason concedes, running a hand over his face. “Or maybe we just need to learn how to be patient.”

“Patient?” I laugh without humor. “We fought over her underwear like teenagers. We invaded her space. We argued over her like she wasn’t even in the room.” I groan. “Patience isn’t our problem. Respect is.”

Mason’s expression softens. “You’re right.”

“I know I’m right,” I mutter, massaging that spot at my temples. “I just don’t know how to fix it.”

The stairs creak, and we both look up to see Jude descending, hair disheveled, eyes without their usual sparkle. For once, his ever-present smirk is nowhere to be seen.

“Meeting of the ‘We Fucked Up’ club?” he asks, his voice lacking its usual verve.

“Charter members,” Mason confirms dryly.

Jude drops into a chair, looking uncharacteristically serious. “I took it too far with the underwear thing. And the vegetables. And probably everything else.”

“We all did,” I say. “In our own ways.”

“Not like me.” Jude pulls at a loose thread on his sleeve. “I’m always pushing boundaries. It’s what I do. But this time...”

“This time it mattered,” Mason finishes.

Jude nods, his usual bravado stripped away. “She matters.”

Heavy footsteps announce Caleb’s arrival. He stands in the doorway, shoulders tense, expression closed off. Even from here, I can smell the dark chocolate of his scent turned bitter with regret.

“Someone has to fix this,” he says without preamble.

“How?” Jude asks. “She made it pretty clear she wants nothing to do with us.”

Caleb’s jaw works. “We apologize. Properly. No gifts, no stunts, no expectations. Just the truth.”

“And then what?” I ask. “Pretend none of this happened? Go back to being strangers?”

“Then we respect whatever she decides,” Caleb says. His jaw tightens, the muscle ticking visibly beneath his skin. “Even if that means walking away.”

The four of us sit in silence, the weight of our mistakes pressing down. Finally, I stand, decision made.

“I’ll go,” I say. “Tomorrow.”

Jude raises an eyebrow. “Why you?”

“Because I didn’t send her pornographic vegetables, stalk her at her bakery, or force her to kiss me.”

Mason snorts softly. “Fair point.”

“I didn’t force her.” Caleb’s jaw tightens some more. Then he releases a breath. “You go just to apologize.” He meets my gaze. “Nothing more.”

I nod. “Nothing more.”

Her building smells of lemon cleaner and her elderly neighbor’s rose perfume when I arrive the next afternoon. I’ve rehearsed what to say at least twenty times on the drive over—a sincere apology, no excuses, no pressure.

Simple. Straightforward. Respectful.

My heart hammers against my ribs as I knock on her door, the sound sharp in the quiet hallway.

No answer.

I wait, counting to thirty in my head before knocking again, a little softer this time.

Still nothing.

Fuck.

She’s not home. Or she’s ignoring me. Both are valid, given how we behaved.

Goddamnit. What now?

I’m about to leave when I hear it—a shuffle of feet on the other side of the door. Then, softer, the hitch of a breath.

She’s there.

“Leah?” I call gently. “It’s Liam.”

Silence stretches between us, broken only by the soft sounds of movement behind the door.

“I’m not here to push,” I continue, keeping my voice low and even. “I just wanted to apologize for last night. For all of it.”

More silence.

“We behaved horribly,” I admit, resting my palm against the door frame. “All of us. Caleb trying to dictate what was best for you, Jude being... well, Jude. Mason and me arguing about the right approach.” I swallow hard. “None of us thought about what you wanted. We just... projected our own desires onto you. That wasn’t fair.”

A soft sound from inside—a sigh, maybe?

“We should have respected your boundaries from the beginning,” I continue. “Instead, we acted like... well, like exactly the kind of alphas you were trying to avoid.”

The lock clicks. The door opens just enough to reveal Leah’s face—or part of it, at least. One whiskey-brown eye peers out at me, a sliver of flushed cheek visible in the gap.

“You don’t have to apologize,” she says, her voice huskier than usual. “I overreacted.”

Relief floods my chest. “No, you didn’t. We were out of line.”

“It’s fine,” she insists, shifting restlessly behind the door. “Really.”

Something’s off. Her scent drifts through the crack in the door—vanilla and cinnamon, yes, but sweeter now, richer, like sugar caramelizing over an open flame. My mouth waters instinctively before my brain catches up with my biology.

Oh.

That’s not just her normal scent. That’s...

“Are you feeling alright?” I ask carefully, studying what little I can see of her. Her skin is flushed, a fine sheen of perspiration visible on her forehead. Her hair looks damp at the temples, like she’s been running a fever.

“I’m fine,” she says quickly—too quickly. “Just... I’ve been baking all morning. It’s hot in here.”

The lie hangs between us, transparent as glass. But it’s not my place to call her on it. Not after everything.

“Let us make it up to you,” I offer instead. “A do-over dinner, perhaps? We promise to behave like adults this time.”

“That would be... nice,” she admits, her grip tightening on the door. “But not right away. I’m going to be busy for a while.”

“How long is ‘a while’?” I ask, trying to keep my tone light.

“Two weeks,” she says firmly. “Maybe a bit more.”

Two weeks. The average length of an omega heat cycle plus recovery time.

I work to keep my expression neutral. “The bakery launch is coming up, isn’t it? If you need any help⁠—”

“I don’t,” she interrupts, shifting again. Is she... swaying slightly? “I have it under control.”

“Leah,” I say gently, “you don’t look well.”

She gives me a forced smile. “I’m fine. Truly.”

“Are you sure? Because if you need anything⁠—”

“I’m going to the omega center,” she blurts out, then immediately looks like she regrets it. “For... for a check-up. Routine stuff. Nothing to worry about.”

My stomach sinks. Omega centers are sterile, clinical places where unmated omegas can safely ride out their heats. They provide suppressants, toys, and medical supervision—but no personal connection, no comfort, no care.

“I see,” I manage, though the thought of her suffering through her heat in one of those cold, impersonal rooms makes my chest ache. “When?”

“Tomorrow,” she says, avoiding my gaze. “Early.”

Another lie? Her scent is potent. Will she even make it until tomorrow?

But it’s not my place to say that. Never was.

“Well,” I begin, searching for the right words, “if you change your mind, or if you need anything at all⁠—”

“I won’t,” she interrupts, but there’s a flash of something in her eyes—uncertainty? Fear? “But... thank you. And tell the others I’m not angry. We can try again. Just... after.”

The door starts to close, and I find myself wanting to stop it, to say something—anything—to change what’s about to happen. But I force myself to step back, to respect her choice, even if every instinct I have screams that it’s wrong.

“Take care of yourself, Leah,” I say softly.

The door clicks shut.

I stand there for a long moment, staring at the plain wood, my thoughts racing. Something’s wrong. The way she held herself, the flush on her skin, that scent—sweet and ripe and edging towards desperate...

She’s not going to an omega center. She’s already too close to full heat. And she’s planning to suffer through it alone.

I’m fucking sure of it.

My throat goes dry. I reach for my phone, my fingers trembling slightly as I dial Mason’s number.

“How did it go?” he asks immediately.

“She’s in pre-heat,” I say without preamble. “Advanced stages.”

A sharp inhale. “You’re sure?”

“Positive. She tried to hide it, said she’s going to a center tomorrow, but⁠—”

“She won’t make it until tomorrow,” he finishes, his voice grim.

“No.”

“Where are you now?”

“Still outside her apartment.” I glance at her door, torn between respecting her boundaries and protecting her from what’s coming. “She said she’s not angry with us. That we can try again after her heat.”

“That’s... something,” Mason says cautiously. “But it doesn’t solve the immediate problem.”

“Which is?”

“She lives in an apartment building. Pretty sure it’s not just omega residents there. Once her heat hits fully⁠—”

“They’ll smell her,” I finish, my stomach churning with dread.

“Exactly,” Mason confirms.

“What do we do?”

“I’m getting Caleb and Jude. We’ll be there in twenty minutes. In the meantime, don’t leave.”

“I won’t,” I promise, already settling in against the wall opposite her door. “But Mason—we can’t force our way in. That would destroy any chance we have of making this right.”

“I know,” he says quietly. “But we can’t leave her unprotected either.”

The call ends, and I sink down to sit on the floor, my back against the wall, eyes fixed on Leah’s door.

I pull out my phone again and open my browser. If we can’t help her directly, we can at least be prepared for what comes next.

“Heat care for unmated omegas,” I type, and begin to read as if my life depends on it.

Because hers might.

“You look like shit,” Jude announces when he arrives nineteen minutes later, Caleb and Mason flanking him like bodyguards with shopping bags in tow.

“Thanks,” I mutter, pushing myself to my feet. My legs have gone numb from sitting in one position too long. “Nice to see you too.”

Caleb’s nostrils flare as he scents the air, his pupils dilating instantly. “Fuck.”

“Exactly,” I agree, stepping between him and Leah’s door when he unconsciously moves toward it. “She’s further along than I initially thought.”

Mason frowns, concerned. “Has she made any noise? Called out?”

“Nothing,” I report. “But I heard the shower running for a while. And I think she might be nesting—there was a lot of movement at first, then quiet.”

Jude paces the hallway, his usual playful demeanor replaced with uncharacteristic focus. “This is bad. She can’t stay here unprotected.”

“We can’t force our way in either,” I remind him firmly.

“I know that,” he snaps, then immediately looks contrite. “Sorry. My instincts are... loud right now.”

“All of us,” Caleb agrees, his voice strained. He’s keeping his distance from the door, as if afraid his control might slip if he gets too close.

“So what’s the plan?” I ask, looking to Mason—always our voice of reason.

Mason runs a hand through his dark hair, thinking. “We take shifts. One of us stays in the hallway at all times. Not to intrude, but to keep other alphas away.”

“Is that enough?” Jude questions.

“It has to be,” I say firmly. “Until or unless she asks for more.”

Caleb nods, his expression grim. “I’ll take first watch.”

“No,” Mason and I say simultaneously.

Caleb’s eyes narrow. “Why not?”

“Because your control is already slipping,” Mason points out gently. “No offense, but your scent right now is... potent enough for me to catch.”

It’s true. The dark chocolate of Caleb’s scent has intensified to something richer, darker, heavy with alpha pheromones that would only exacerbate Leah’s condition if she sensed them.

“I’ll go first,” I volunteer. “Then Mason, then Jude. Caleb can take over once the worst has passed.”

Caleb looks like he wants to argue, but instead gives a curt nod. “Fine. But I’m staying close. In the building or nearby at least.”

“We all are,” Jude agrees. “I noticed a coffee shop across the street. Perfect surveillance spot.”

“This isn’t a military operation,” I sigh.

“It kind of is,” Mason points out with a small smile. “Operation: Protect Leah While Respecting Her Boundaries And Trying Not To Be Creepy About It.”

Despite the tension, I feel a laugh bubble up. “Not the catchiest code name.”

“I’ll work on it,” Jude promises, some of his usual humor returning.

Caleb hasn’t budged. His attention is fixed on Leah’s door, his posture rigid with restraint. “What if something goes wrong?” he asks quietly. “What if she needs help and can’t call for it?”

It’s the question we’re all avoiding. Omegas in heat can become disoriented, dehydrated, even dangerously feverish. Without a proper support system...

“I’ve been researching,” I say, pulling out my phone to show them the articles I’ve bookmarked. “Signs of heat distress, emergency interventions, proper hydration strategies.”

“Of course you have,” Jude murmurs, but there’s affection in his voice.

“We’ll know if something’s wrong,” I continue. “And if it does, we’ll deal with it then.”

“And in the meantime?” Caleb asks.

I settle back down against the wall. “In the meantime, we wait. We protect. We respect her choice.”

The elevator dings at the end of the hallway, and we all tense as heavy footsteps approach. A stocky man in his fifties rounds the corner, keys jangling at his belt, his expression darkening when he spots us.

“What’s going on here?” he demands, his voice carrying the authoritative edge of a beta who’s used to being in charge. The name badge on his jacket reads “Building Manager.”

“Just visiting a friend,” Jude offers with his most charming smile.

The manager’s nostrils flare—even with his dulled beta senses, he can probably detect the pheromones we’re all putting out. His eyes narrow. “All four of you? Camping in my hallway?”

“We’re concerned about our friend,” Mason explains smoothly, stepping forward. “She’s not feeling well.”

“Uh-huh.” The manager crosses his arms. “I’ve had three complaints about alphas loitering. You’re making the residents nervous.”

Caleb straightens to his full height, a low growl building in his chest. “We’re not leaving her.”

The manager doesn’t back down, which I have to grudgingly respect. “This isn’t a hotel lobby, gentlemen. You can’t just set up camp here.”

“You don’t understand,” I start, but he cuts me off.

“I understand plenty.” He taps his nose. “Been managing omega-friendly buildings for twenty years. I know what’s happening, and I know you boys think you’re helping, but this is still private property.”

Mason places a restraining hand on Caleb’s arm as his growl deepens. “We’re concerned for her safety,” Mason says, his tone reasonable. “The scent of an omega in heat can attract unwanted attention.”

“Which is why this building has scent-dampening technology in the ventilation system and security at the entrance,” the manager counters. “We’re equipped to handle this situation. What we’re not equipped for is four agitated alphas stinking up my hallway with territorial pheromones.”

“Beta,” Mason corrects mildly.

The manager waves a dismissive hand. “Three alphas and a beta, whatever. Point is, you need to clear out. You’re welcome to leave a note, or call her, or whatever modern courting rituals you kids do these days. But you can’t stay here.”

I glance at the others, seeing the conflict on their faces. We could refuse, could try to intimidate this man into letting us stay, but that would only make things worse, possibly bringing actual security or even police. The last thing Leah needs is that kind of drama outside her door.

“We understand,” I say finally, standing up. “But can we at least leave these supplies for her?” I gesture to the pile Jude assembled.

The manager’s expression softens slightly. “I’ll make sure she gets them.”

“And can we check on her?” Mason asks. “Just to be sure she’s okay?”

“One of you, once every few hours,” the manager concedes. “But no camping out. I’ll have to insist on that.”

Caleb looks like he’s about to argue, but a significant look from Mason silences him. “Fine,” he grits out.

“Thank you for understanding,” the manager says, his tone softening now that the confrontation has defused. “For what it’s worth, I do think it’s nice you boys care so much. Just try to care from a more appropriate distance, alright?”

We gather our things, leaving the supplies for Leah neatly stacked by her door.

“I don’t like this,” Caleb mutters as we head toward the elevator.

“Neither do I,” I admit. “But making a scene won’t help Leah.”

“So what’s the plan now?” Jude asks once we’re outside the building.

“We take shifts in the car,” Mason decides, practical as always. “One of us can check on her every few hours, like the manager said. The rest stay close, but not in the building.”

“I’ll take first car shift,” Caleb volunteers immediately.

“And I’ll take first check-in,” I add, already mentally calculating how to space out our rotations to provide maximum coverage without violating the manager’s rules.

“What if she needs us?” Jude asks, basically voicing all our concerns.

Mason pulls out his phone. “We call her. Text her. Let her know we’re nearby if she needs us, but respect her space if she doesn’t.”

“And if she doesn’t answer?” Caleb presses.

“Then we reassess,” Mason says firmly. “But we don’t panic, and we don’t break down her door unless we have genuine reason to believe she’s in danger.”

It’s a sensible plan, if not the one our instincts are screaming for. But that’s the thing about being in a pack—sometimes you have to override your individual desires for the greater good.

And right now, the greater good is respecting Leah’s choices, even if they terrify us.

Night falls. We establish a rotation: one in the building checking on Leah’s door, one in the car outside, two at the coffee shop across the street. Every two hours, we switch.

At 10 PM, during my second building check, I find the supplies gone from Leah’s doorstep. A good sign—she’s taken them in, which means she’s alert enough to recognize help when it’s offered.

I press my ear to the door, listening for any signs of distress, but hear only silence. After a moment’s hesitation, I slip a note under her door—just a simple message telling her we’re nearby if she needs anything.

“How is she?” Jude asks when I return to the car. It’s strange seeing him like this. His usual exuberance dampened by worry.

“Quiet,” I report. “She took the supplies in.”

He nods, relief flickering across his features. “That’s something.”

Midnight comes and goes. Mason returns from his check-in with nothing to report. Caleb paces outside the coffee shop until the manager threatens to call the police, at which point he relocates his brooding to the shadow of a nearby tree.

At 2 AM, it’s Jude’s turn.

“Bring her more water,” I suggest, handing him a fresh pack of bottles. “And maybe some of those protein bars from the gas station. Heat burns a lot of calories.”

“I know how heats work, professor,” he says, but takes the supplies without further complaint.

He returns fifteen minutes later, his expression troubled.

“What is it?” I ask immediately.

“Nothing,” he says, too quickly. “Everything’s fine.”

“Jude.”

He sighs, running a hand through his hair. “It’s just... her scent is really strong now. Like, really strong. And I thought I heard her moving around in there. But when I knocked, she didn’t answer.”

Caleb straightens from his slouch against the car. “We need to check on her.”

“We’ve been checking on her,” Mason points out.

“No, we need to check on her,” Caleb insists. “Actually see her. Make sure she’s alright.”

“We can’t just barge in,” I remind him. “That would violate her trust completely.”

“What about her neighbor?” Jude suggests suddenly. “The nosy old lady. She could check on Leah without it being... you know, invasive alpha behavior.”

It’s not a bad idea. Mrs. Finley seems to care about Leah, and as a fellow omega, her presence would be far less threatening during a heat.

“It’s two in the morning,” Mason points out.

“So? Old people don’t sleep,” Jude argues. “They just sit around waiting for opportunities to meddle in younger people’s lives.”

Despite the tension, I find myself smiling. “That’s a terrible generalization.”

“But accurate in this case,” Jude insists. “Trust me.”

After some debate, we decide it’s worth a try. Mason, as the least intimidating of us, volunteers to knock on Mrs. Finley’s door.

The rest of us wait in the car, tense with anticipation.

Twenty minutes later, Mason returns with a smug-looking Mrs. Finley in tow. She’s wearing a floral housecoat and slippers, her silver hair in curlers, but seems utterly delighted by the drama.

“Well, well,” she says, peering into the car window that Jude rolls down. “Quite the pack you boys have going.”

“Did you check on Leah?” Caleb demands, leaning across Jude.

Mrs. Finley’s eyes twinkle with mischief. “Such concern! I remember when my Harold would pace outside my building during my heats. Alpha instincts never change, do they?”

“Mrs. Finley,” I interject before Caleb can growl at her, “we’re just worried. Is Leah alright?”

The elderly omega’s expression softens. “She’s in pre-heat, dear. It’s not comfortable, but she’s managing. Has herself quite the nest set up in there.”

Some of the tension eases from my shoulders. “So she’s okay?”

“Physically, yes,” Mrs. Finley confirms. “Though she did seem agitated about something. Kept looking out her window at the street.”

My gaze snaps to Mason’s, a silent communication passing between us. Leah’s looking out her window—at us, most likely. She knows we’re here.

“Did she say anything?” Jude asks. “About us, maybe?”

Mrs. Finley’s smile turns sly. “Not in so many words. But I know a nesting omega when I see one, and that girl is preparing for something.”

“What does that mean?” Caleb demands.

“It means,” Mrs. Finley says with exaggerated patience, “that she’s gathering her strength. For what, only she knows.” She pats Jude’s cheek through the window. “Now, if you boys will excuse me, I need my beauty sleep. Do try not to growl at any other residents before morning.”

With that, she totters back toward the building, Mason escorting her to the entrance.

“Well, that was cryptic and unhelpful,” Jude mutters once she’s gone.

“Not entirely,” I disagree, my mind racing. “We know she’s physically okay, and we know she’s aware we’re outside.”

“And looking for us,” Caleb adds, his voice tight with something between hope and anxiety.

“Let’s not read too much into it,” Mason cautions, returning to the car. “She could just be checking that we’ve respected her wishes and left.”

We lapse into silence, each lost in our own thoughts. The night stretches on, punctuated only by our regular check-ins at Leah’s door.

Around 9 AM the next day, during my turn, I notice something odd. The scent outside her apartment has... shifted. It’s still unmistakably Leah, still heavy with heat pheromones, but there’s something different about it. Something I can’t quite place.

I press my ear to the door, listening intently, but hear nothing.

“Leah?” I call softly, not wanting to disturb her if she’s finally sleeping. “It’s Liam. Just checking that you’re okay.”

No response.

A tendril of unease winds through me. I knock again, a little louder this time. “Leah? Can you just let me know you’re alright?”

Still nothing.

I hesitate, torn between respecting her privacy and my growing concern. Finally, I pull out my phone and send her a text:

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.

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’m afraid of 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 after that night. I bury it under two more shirts because I’m not that 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.”

It cocks its head as if to say, Sure you have, crazy lady.

I flip it off because yes, I’m now the kind of person who argues with urban wildlife. Pre-heat is a hell of a drug.

The alley is mercifully empty. I stick to the shadows, scanning for any sign of the pack. Just because I can’t see them doesn’t mean they’re not there. Alphas are sneaky like that.

So far, so good.

I make it all the way around the building before realizing I’ve forgotten my wallet.

“Seriously?” I hiss to no one in particular. A businessman walking his dog gives me a wide berth.

I pat my pockets, hoping for a miracle, and discover two crumpled twenties stuffed in my hoodie. Divine intervention, or evidence that I desperately need to do laundry? Either way, I’ll take it.

The corner store’s fluorescent lights make my eyes throb even behind the sunglasses. I grab a basket and fill it with the bare essentials:

Electrolyte drinks (the neon kind that tastes like sweetened jet fuel)

Instant noodles (because cooking during heat is a fantasy)

A family-sized bag of chocolate (the cheap kind that tastes better than the expensive stuff when hormones are involved)

Another bottle of scent neutralizer (the industrial strength version labeled “MAXIMUM COVERAGE” in alarming red letters)

The cashier—a bored beta with a nose ring and the dead-eyed stare of someone who’s seen it all—blinks slowly at my haul.

“You good, miss?”

“Peachy,” I rasp, which comes out sounding like I’ve been gargling gravel.

He nods slowly, scanning the chocolate twice. “That’ll be eighteen fifty.”

I slap down my twenty, grab the bag, and mumble something that might be “keep the change” but probably sounds more like “mmrph.”

Outside, the world is too bright, too loud, too everything. A car horn makes me jump. The brush of fabric against my skin feels like sandpaper. A waft of alpha scent from a passing jogger sends a treacherous pulse of heat through my core.

Focus, Leah. Get the muffins. Get home. Die of embarrassment in private.

The café is just opening when I arrive, the barista flipping the sign from “Closed” to “Open” as I approach. She’s a perky beta with pink hair and a smile that’s far too cheerful for this hour.

“Good morning!” she chirps. “What can I get for—” Her nostrils flare. Her smile falters. “Oh. Oh.”

Shit.

The scent blocker is already failing. Stupid omega biology.

“Six blueberry muffins,” I blurt, slapping my remaining cash on the counter. “To go. Please.”

She glances at the door, then back at me, her expression shifting to something like concern. “They’re just coming out of the oven. Are you... Do you need to sit down? You look a little...”

“I’m fine,” I insist, though my hands are trembling and I can feel sweat beading at my hairline despite the air conditioning. “Just the muffins.”

She hesitates, then nods, moving toward the kitchen. “Five minutes.”

Five minutes. I can do this. I lean against the counter, trying to look casual and not like I’m about to spontaneously combust.

The bell above the door chimes. I don’t look up, focusing on counting tiles on the floor to distract myself from the growing ache in my lower abdomen.

“Leah?”

My spine stiffens. That voice—smooth, condescending, and achingly familiar.

No. No, no, no⁠—

I turn slowly.

Eric stands there, his trademark smirk firmly in place, flanked by two alphas I recognize from the wedding. His new pack, hovering behind him like designer-clad hyenas.

“I thought that was you,” he says, his gaze sliding over my disheveled appearance with undisguised amusement. “Though it was hard to tell under all those layers.”

My mouth goes dry. Of all the cafés in all the city, he had to walk into this one. At nine in the morning. During my pre-heat.

The universe has a sick sense of humor.

“Eric,” I manage, aiming for cool detachment and landing somewhere around “strangled frog.” “What a surprise.”

His nostrils flare. His smirk widens. “You’re... not well?”

He knows. Of course, he knows. He may be a jerk, but he’s not stupid.

“I’m fine,” I repeat, gripping the counter for support. “Just getting breakfast.”

“Alone?” he asks, with exaggerated concern. “Where’s your... pack?”

The way he says it, with that slight pause, makes it clear exactly what he thinks of my relationship status.

One of his alpha lackeys—Brad or Chad or something equally punchable—snickers.

“So you’re packless again,” Eric continues, loud enough for the few early customers to hear. “Shocking.”

The barista returns with a bag of muffins, her expression darkening as she takes in the situation. “Here you go,” she says pointedly. “Anything else?”

I shake my head, unable to form words past the lump in my throat. I grab the bag, prepared to make a dignified exit—or at least an exit that doesn’t involve crying or committing homicide.

Eric steps closer, blocking my path. “You know,” he says, nostrils flaring even as his voice drops to a dark whisper, “if you’re struggling, I could recommend a good omega center. They’re very... clinical about these things.”

My cheeks burn with humiliation. The bag crumples in my grip.

A chair screeches behind me.

The café‘s atmosphere cracks—shatters—under the weight of a scent so aggressively alpha that several people gasp.

Dark chocolate. Espresso. Fury.

Caleb’s growl vibrates through the air before I even see him. It’s a sound that raises the hair on the back of my neck and sends a treacherous pulse of heat through my core—primal, possessive, lethal.

“Step away from her,” he says, voice deceptively calm. “Now.”

Eric’s eyes widen. His packmates shift uneasily.

I turn slowly to find Caleb standing just feet away, his eyes burning with barely contained rage. He’s wearing the same clothes I spotted on him through the window yesterday, his hair disheveled, jaw dark with stubble. He looks like he hasn’t slept in days.

He came looking for me.

Not by accident. Not casually.

He tracked me here.

And he looks furious—not at me, but for me.

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. “I dare you.”

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 the entire pack filing through the door:

Jude, grinning, but the look in his eyes is deadly.

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? On me?”

“I used half a bottle!”

“And it was a valiant effort,” Jude says, sauntering closer with his usual lack of respect for personal space. “But you might as well have painted yourself with neon arrows.”

“We were worried,” Liam adds, his voice gentle. “When we realized you’d left⁠—”

“How did you…” My voice rises embarrassingly high. “You got into my apartment?”

“We were making sure you were safe,” Mason corrects. “From a respectful distance.”

“Until you decided to pull a Houdini,” Jude adds.

“Through a fire escape,” Liam says, with such genuine concern that I almost feel guilty. Almost.

“I needed muffins,” I say, which sounds ridiculous even to my own ears.

Four pairs of eyes drop to the bag clutched against my chest.

“Muffins,” Caleb repeats flatly.

“Yes, muffins,” I snap, heat rising to my cheeks that has nothing to do with my biology. “Some of us actually need to eat during pre-heat, and my cupboards were bare, and I was craving them, okay?” My voice wobbles on the last word. Traitorous stupid tears well in my eyes.

I force them back.

Something shifts in Caleb’s expression—a softening around the eyes.

“Oh, Leah. You risked a public confrontation with your ex... for muffins?”

“They’re really good muffins,” I mutter defensively.

A laugh escapes Jude, bright and unexpected. “Oh, doll. You are something else.”

My skin feels too tight, too hot. The scent of four amused males—all watching me with varying degrees of affection and exasperation—is making it hard to think straight.

“I need to go home,” I say, hating how breathless I sound.

“Alone?” Caleb asks, and the way he says it—not demanding, not assuming, just... asking—makes something twist painfully in my chest.

I should say yes. I should stand my ground, maintain my independence, prove that I don’t need them.

But God help me, I want them.

Not just for my heat, though my biology is certainly screaming for that. But for the way they came looking for me. For the way Caleb defended me without hesitation. For the comfort of knowing I wouldn’t have to face the next few days alone.

I grab Caleb’s arm, my nails digging into the solid muscle of his forearm. Another spasm comes, a cramp that almost makes me whimper. “Can you…get me out of here?” I whisper.

His pupils dilate, nostrils flaring as he catches the change in my scent. “Your place or ours?”

Jude snorts. “Ours has better snacks.”

Liam elbows him sharply. “This is not the time⁠—”

“Ours,” I hear myself say.

The pack freezes, as if they can’t quite believe what they’re hearing. Then something electric passes between them—a look, a shift in their collective energy.

Caleb moves first, sweeping me into his arms like I weigh nothing, his growl vibrating against my skin. “Move.”

And just like that, I surrender.

18

LEAH

The house is dark when they carry me inside, every curtain drawn, every light dimmed to a soft amber glow. The air is thick with their combined scents. Dark chocolate and espresso on my tongue. Citrus and woodsmoke in my nose. Old books and rain like a soothing blanket over my brain. And sandalwood and crisp autumn air along my skin. They’re layered so deep I can only soak them in.

My body thrums with heat, my nerves electric, my skin hypersensitive to every brush of fabric, every whisper of air. Slick pools between my thighs, the scent of my arousal mingling with their pheromones in a heady, intoxicating blend that makes my head spin.

Caleb doesn’t set me down. He carries me past the living room, past the kitchen, up the stairs and down a hallway I don’t recognize, his arms like steel bands around me. Each step jostles me against his hard chest, sending ripples of sensation through my oversensitive body.

“Where—?” My voice is hoarse, the word catching in my throat as another wave of heat pulses through me.

Jude grins, trailing a finger up my bare calf where my sweatpants have ridden up. Even that light touch sends electricity arcing through my system. “You’ll see.”

Mason moves ahead to open a door at the end of the hallway, Liam following close behind. The door swings open, and my breath catches.

It’s a nest.

A real one. Not the haphazard pile of blankets I’d started in my apartment. This is theirs.

The room is large, dominated by what appears to be a custom-built bed—wider than a king, sunken slightly into the floor, and piled high with blankets, pillows, and clothing that unmistakably belongs to each of them.

The walls are a soft pink, the carpet thick beneath Caleb’s feet. The blackout curtains are drawn, but subtle recessed lighting casts everything in a warm glow. In one corner, I spot a mini-fridge and what looks like a carefully organized supply station—water bottles, protein bars, and first aid supplies.

I stiffen in Caleb’s arms, suddenly aware of what I’m seeing. “Whose⁠—?”

“No one else,” Caleb growls, his arms tightening around me. “Just you.”

I want to preen at his words. My body arches toward the nest before my brain can catch up. A fresh wave of slick slides down my thighs, and I know they can smell it by the way they grunt in unison.

But my stubborn pride rebels, one last gasp of the independent omega who’s survived alone for so long.

“I—I can still go to a center⁠—”

Caleb lifts me higher, his lips brushing the shell of my ear. The brush of his breath sends a shiver down my spine, my nipples tightening to painful points against my shirt. “Try.”

The word holds no threat, just absolute certainty. He knows I won’t leave—can’t leave, now that my body has recognized what it needs. What it’s always needed.

This. Them.

A whimper escapes me, half resistance, half surrender. My heat scent spikes, filling the room with vanilla and cinnamon, turning sweeter, richer with every passing second. The alphas—all three of them—respond instantly, their own scents deepening, growing more potent, more possessive.

Even Mason, beta though he is, emanates a protective musk that wraps around me like a shield.

“Leah,” Liam says softly, stepping closer. His eyes are dark, his usual gentle demeanor cracking around the edges. “We won’t do anything you don’t want. If you truly wish to leave⁠—”

“She doesn’t,” Jude interrupts, his usual playfulness tempered by something heavier, more primal. “Look at her. Smell her. She’s ours.”

“Jude,” Mason warns, but there’s no real reprimand in his tone.

Caleb says nothing, but his arms tighten around me, his heartbeat thundering against my side. The thick outline of his erection presses against my hip, a promise of what’s to come.

My head falls back against his shoulder, my body surrendering even as my mind makes one last stand.

“I’ve never... with a pack,” I manage, the words thick in my throat.

“We know,” Caleb rumbles, the vibration of his chest against my back sending another pulse of heat through my core.

Jude’s smile turns wicked. “Don’t worry, little omega. We’ll take very good care of you.”

Liam steps forward, his hand brushing a damp strand of hair from my forehead. The simple touch makes me gasp, my skin so sensitive that even this gentle contact feels like being branded. “Your temperature is rising,” he notes. “We should get you more comfortable.”

My sweat-soaked clothes suddenly feel like torture devices, the multiple layers I piled on at the apartment now instruments of sheer agony as they cling to my overheated skin.

“Please,” I whisper, not able to word what I’m asking for.

They know.

Caleb carries me to the center of the nest, laying me down with a gentleness that belies the raw hunger in his eyes. The blankets are warm beneath me, already soaked with their combined scents. I can smell the items in the nest now.

Caleb’s blankets, tucked along the edges but smelling unmistakably of him. Jude’s ridiculous collection of throw pillows (one shaped like a taco, another with “Netflix and Chill?” stitched in bold letters, and a third that appears to be... an eggplant emoji).

Liam’s softest sweaters, arranged in a perfect circle, the cashmere and wool still holding the ghost of his scent.

Mason’s spare button-downs, laid out like an offering.

I writhe, my skin too tight, my core aching with emptiness.

Jude’s fingers find the hem of one of the shirts I’m wearing and tugs it upward. “Let’s get this off you, shall we? Though I must say—” his eyes dance with mischief, “—I like seeing you in Mason’s clothes.”

I swear Mason growls, his eyes fixed on the sliver of skin revealed as Jude peels the shirt upward. Liam appears at my head, his strong hands supporting me as they work the sweat-damp fabric over my head.

The cool air hits my overheated skin, bringing momentary relief before another wave of heat crashes through me. My back arches, a moan tearing from my throat as my body demands what it needs.

“Alpha,” I gasp, the word slipping from my lips.

Their eyes darken simultaneously.

Caleb moves first, his large hands making quick work of my sweatpants, dragging them down my legs along with the leggings underneath. My panties are soaked through, the fabric translucent with my arousal.

“Look at you,” Jude breathes, his usual jokes forgotten as he drinks in the sight of me. “You’re so wet for us.”

Liam’s hands shake slightly as he reaches for my panties, his controlled facade crumbling at the edges. “May I?”

The fact that he asks—that they’re all still seeking consent even as my body broadcasts desperate need—makes something warm and tender bloom in my chest, separate from the burning heat rising within me.

“Yes,” I whisper, lifting my hips to help.

The last barrier slides away, leaving me naked and trembling in their nest. My nipples peak in the cool air, my thighs slick with arousal, my pulse hammering so hard I can feel it in my throat.

Caleb’s inhale is sharp, his nostrils flaring as he takes in my scent. His hands—so large they span my entire ribcage—brush up my sides, leaving trails of fire in their wake.

“I won’t break,” I snap, arching into his touch, desperate for more pressure, more friction, more everything.

“I know,” he murmurs, leaning down to drag his teeth along my neck. The sensation sends a bolt of pure need through my system, my instincts howling for his bite, his claim. “But I will.”

His control is maddening—methodical where I need wild, measured where I need desperate. He takes his time undressing, each revealed inch of tanned skin and corded muscle making my mouth water. When he’s finally naked, his cock stands proud, thick and heavy, the tip already glistening with pre-cum.

Alpha. Every inch of him.

But instead of moving between my thighs like I expect, Caleb grips my hips and flips me onto my stomach with a growl that vibrates through my bones.

“Wha—”

His hands spread me open before I can finish the thought. Then his tongue is there, licking a hot stripe through my soaked folds, and I nearly come off the bed.

“Fuck!”

Caleb doesn’t just eat me out—he devours me. His tongue fucks into me, deep and filthy, curling just right to make me see stars. When he pulls back to suck my clit between his lips, I’m already shaking, my thighs trembling around his head.

Then—oh God—his thumb circles my asshole, pressing in just enough to make me whimper.

“Caleb!”

He growls against me, the vibration sending another shock of pleasure through my core. His tongue returns to my entrance, fucking in and out in time with the press of his thumb, until I’m writhing, my fingers twisting in the sheets.

“Please, please, please⁠—”

He adds a second finger, crooking them just right, and I come with a scream, my back arching, my vision whiting out as pleasure crashes through me.

Caleb doesn’t let up. He licks me through it, his tongue relentless, until I’m sobbing, oversensitive and shaking. Only then does he pull back, his lips glistening with my slick, his eyes dark with satisfaction.

“Now,” he growls, flipping me onto my back again.

His cock teases my entrance, gathering slick but not pushing in.

“Caleb,” I choke out, clawing at his shoulders. “Please.”

“Look at me,” he commands, his voice rough with restraint.

I meet his gaze, drowning in the green of his eyes, dark with hunger.

“This is real,” he stresses each word. “Not just heat. Not just biology. Remember that.”

And then he pushes in, one agonizing inch at a time, stretching me around his girth until I’m gasping, the pleasure-pain of it making my vision blur. He’s huge, filling me so completely that I can feel him in my soul.

“Fuck,” he growls, his arms trembling with the effort of holding back. “So tight. So perfect.”

When he’s fully seated, his hips flush against mine, he pauses, letting me adjust. My inner walls pulse around him, my body greedily taking what it needs. Another wave of slick gushes from me, easing the way as he begins to move.

He takes me slow, agonizingly thorough, his cock dragging against spots inside me I didn’t know existed. His control is incredible—every thrust measured, every kiss deliberate, his hips rolling in a rhythm that has me clawing at his back, leaving red welts in my desperation.

“More,” I demand, wrapping my legs around his waist, trying to force him deeper, faster.

“Patience,” he murmurs against my throat, his teeth scraping lightly over my pulse point. The threat—the promise—of his bite makes me clench around him, a moan tearing from my throat.

I’m dimly aware of the others watching, their scents heavy with arousal, their eyes tracking every movement, every expression. In any other circumstance, I might feel self-conscious. But in the throes of heat, with Caleb’s cock stretching me open, all I feel is a primal satisfaction at being witnessed, being wanted.

The next orgasm catches me by surprise, washing over me in a wave that makes me cry out, my back arching, my core clenching around Caleb’s length. He growls in response, his thrusts growing more forceful, his control slipping.

“Mmm,” he rumbles, his fingers digging into my hips, holding me steady as he pounds into me. “Take me, Leah. Take all of me.”

The base of his cock begins to swell—his knot, the part of him designed to lock us together, to ensure his seed takes root. My heat-addled brain screams for it, my body producing another flood of slick in preparation.

“Please,” I gasp, knowing exactly what I’m begging for and not even a little bit ashamed. I need it. Need to be filled. “Please, Caleb.”

His growl vibrates through me, his rhythm faltering as his release approaches.

“Oh fuck, Leah.” His teeth find my neck again, scraping but not breaking skin—not claiming, not yet, but the promise is there.

When he finally lets go, it’s with a snarl that seems to shake the room, his knot swelling to full size, locking us together as his release floods my core. The sensation triggers another orgasm, more intense than the first, making me scream his name, my nails carving half-moons into his back.

For long moments, we stay joined, his weight a comforting anchor as aftershocks ripple through me. His breathing is harsh against my neck, his body still trembling with the force of his release.

I’m boneless, sated, drifting in a pleasant haze of post-orgasmic bliss⁠—

“My turn.” Jude’s voice cuts through the fog, playful but edged with hunger. “Let me soothe her.”

Caleb’s knot has barely subsided enough for him to pull out when Jude’s hands are on me, turning me, arranging me how he wants me. His touch is different from Caleb’s—lighter, teasing, his fingers dancing over my oversensitive skin like he’s playing an instrument.

“Like my hands, omega?” he purrs, dragging them up my thighs, leaving goosebumps in their wake.

I try to glare up at him, trying to maintain some semblance of dignity despite being naked, flushed, and dripping with both my slick and Caleb’s release. “If you’re going to talk, make it worth my while.”

He laughs, the sound bright with genuine delight. “Oh, I do like you.”

Then his expression shifts, his playfulness giving way to something darker, more primal, as he catches a fresh wave of my heat scent. My body is already ramping up again, the brief respite after Caleb’s attentions fading as my heat demands more.

I whimper, the sound small and needy—and his control shatters.

“Leah—”

He doesn’t hold back. He can’t. His hips snap forward, his grip bruising, his mouth crashing into mine like he’s starving. His cock fills me in a single thrust, different from Caleb’s—slightly less thick but longer, reaching places inside me that make my toes curl.

Where Caleb was controlled, Jude is chaotic. Where Caleb was measured, Jude is wild. He fucks like he lives—with joyful abandon, his rhythm unpredictable, his hands everywhere at once.

And I love it.

“So fucking good,” he pants against my mouth, his citrus-and-woodsmoke scent wrapping around me like a second skin. “Knew you’d be perfect. Knew from the moment I saw you.”

His words, his touch, his scent—they all combine to push me toward another peak, this one building faster, higher, more intense than before. My fingers tangle in his hair, pulling him closer, demanding more.

When I come, it’s with a cry that he swallows with his kiss, his hips never slowing, driving me through the pleasure and straight into another orgasm that crashes over me like a tidal wave.

His knot swells, catching at my entrance, stretching me almost to the point of pain before pushing fully inside, locking us together as he follows me over the edge. When he finishes, it’s with my name on his lips, his forehead pressed to mine, his breath ragged against my face.

“Worth the wait,” he murmurs, his usual sass temporarily subdued by satisfaction.

Liam is already there when Jude’s knot subsides enough for him to pull out, a glass of water in hand and a damp cloth to clean the evidence of our combined pleasure from my thighs.

“Drink,” he murmurs, his voice steady even as his eyes darken with desire.

I drink gratefully, suddenly aware of how parched I am. The water soothes my throat, raw from crying out, and helps clear my head for a moment—though I know the reprieve is temporary. My heat is far from over, my body already warming again, preparing for more.

Liam’s hands shake slightly as he sets the glass aside, his usual composed demeanor fraying at the edges. His scent intensifies as he leans closer, his breath hitching when another wave of my pheromones hits him.

“Your turn?” I ask, my voice scratchy but teasing.

His smile is shy but hungry. “If you want me.”

“I want all of you,” I admit, the raw honesty surprising even me. “I have from the beginning.”

His pupils dilate, swallowing the warm brown of his irises. He watches me as he strips slowly, his throat working. His body is leaner than the others’, but no less powerful, his muscles defined and his cock impressively thick.

He’s methodical, worshipful—tracing every inch of me like I’m a recipe he’s determined to memorize. His touch is reverent, his gaze adoring as he explores me, finding spots that make me gasp, that make me arch, that make me beg.

His fingers lace with mine, pinning them gently above my head as he finally, finally sinks into me. The stretch is divine, my body welcoming him even after two alpha knots, slick easing his way.

“You’re perfect,” he breathes, and for the first time in my life, I believe it.

He takes his time, his movements slow, deep, reverent, until I’m shaking beneath him, my thighs trembling, my breath coming in short, desperate gasps. Where Caleb was controlled and Jude was chaotic, Liam is thorough—hitting every sensitive spot with precision, watching my reactions with focused intensity.

“Please,” I whimper, teetering on the edge of another orgasm, desperate for release. “Liam, please.”

His rhythm falters at the sound of his name from my lips, his composure slipping. “Say it again.”

“Liam,” I gasp, arching into him. “Liam, please, I⁠—”

His cock seems to harden even more. The pressure is exquisite, the fullness almost too much to bear. When he finally slams home, bottoming out and locking us together, the stretch sends me hurtling over the edge, my orgasm tearing through me with such force that tears spring to my eyes.

“Leah,” he groans, his release pulsing inside me, his body shuddering above mine. “My Leah.”

When I come back to myself, I’m cradled against Liam’s chest, his knot still tying us together, his hands gentle in my hair. The heat haze has receded slightly, giving me a moment of clarity amidst the biological storm.

Mason is waiting when Liam’s knot finally subsides enough for him to pull out, his dark eyes watching us with patient hunger. He hesitates, his instincts warring with the desire evident in every line of his body.

“Mason,” I murmur, reaching for him, surprised at how much I want this—want him—despite having taken three knots already.

“I’ve wanted this since day one,” he admits, voice rough as he sheds his clothes. “Since I saw you at that wedding and you pretended to be ours.”

His body is beautiful—broad shoulders, narrow waist, strong thighs, and a cock that makes my mouth water despite my exhaustion. Not as thick as the alphas’, with no knot to swell at the base, but perfect in its own right.

“I wasn’t pretending,” I confess, the words spilling out. “Not really. Part of me wanted it to be real from the moment Jude mistook me for your date.”

Something shifts in Mason’s expression—a softening, a deepening, his usual stoic facade cracking to reveal raw emotion beneath. He comes to me slowly, settling between my thighs with careful control, his hands tracing patterns on my skin that leave fire in their wake.

His touch is firmer than I expect, his control absolute as he enters me—until I arch into him, my nails scraping down his back, a fresh wave of heat-scent filling the room.

Then he breaks.

He buries his face in my neck, inhaling my scent like it’s oxygen, his hips snapping forward with enough force to make me cry out. His usual restraint shatters, his thrusts deep and powerful, each one sending sparks of pleasure coursing through my oversensitized system.

“Mine,” he growls against my throat—the first alpha word he’s ever spoken to me, though he’s not an alpha at all.

But in this moment, with my heat and their combined desire pushing us all beyond our usual boundaries, it doesn’t matter. He claims me as thoroughly as any alpha, his possessiveness matching theirs, his desire burning just as hot.

When he comes, his hips snap, burying him deep as his release adds to what’s already inside me. Without a knot to keep it there, some of our combined arousal spills out, soaking the blankets beneath us.

I should be satisfied. I should be exhausted beyond function. I’ve taken four males in succession, been filled and stretched and pleasured beyond anything I’ve ever experienced.

But my heat is just ramping up, my body burning hotter than before, my instincts howling for more. For everything.

My scent spikes, turning desperate, demanding—and all four of them respond instantly, their eyes darkening, their bodies tensing.

“Please,” I whimper, reaching for Caleb, but not rejecting the others. “More. I need—I need more—I need⁠—”

“Us, Leah?” Caleb asks, his voice a low rumble as he prowls toward me. “Tell us.”

“All of you,” I gasp, beyond shame, beyond hesitation. “Please. I need all of you.”

Caleb’s growl vibrates through the room, his eyes flaring with possessive hunger. “How do you want us?”

I’ve never done this. But my heat-drunk brain supplies images that make me blush and throb simultaneously. “Inside me. All of you.”

Jude’s sharp inhale is audible. “Fuck, Leah.”

Liam’s eyes widen, his cock already hardening again despite his recent release. “Are you sure? That’s... a lot.”

“I’m sure,” I say, and I am. My body craves fullness, craves their combined claim. “Please.”

They exchange looks, some silent communication passing between them before Caleb nods once.

“On your hands and knees,” he directs, his alpha command making me shiver with anticipation.

I move eagerly, my body obeying before my mind can catch up. The nest cushions my knees as I position myself, presenting my soaked cunt and puckered backside to him. My skin flushes hotter at the lewd display, and I preen at his approving rumble.

Caleb kneels behind me, his hands gripping my hips hard enough to leave marks. I feel the thick head of his cock nudge against my dripping entrance, teasing but not entering.

“Please,” I whimper, pushing back against him.

Instead of giving me what I want, he surprises me. One hand leaves my hip to trace higher, his thumb circling my other hole with deliberate pressure.

“Oh!” My surprised gasp turns to a moan as he works the tight ring of muscle, pressing just enough to make me clench around nothing.

“Here first,” he murmurs, his voice rough with restraint. “So we can all fit.”

I’ve never done this either, but my body is so primed with heat hormones that the idea sends a fresh wave of slick gushing down my thighs. “Yes.”

“Relax,” he whispers, his other hand moving to stroke my slit, gathering slick on his fingers. “I’ll take care of you.”

The dual sensations make my thighs tremble—his thumb teasing one entrance while his fingers glide through the wetness of the other. When he finally presses a slick finger inside my back passage at the same moment he thrusts two fingers into my pussy, I nearly collapse forward, my arms giving out as pleasure-pain shoots up my spine.

“That’s it, Leah,” Caleb praises, his voice rough with restraint.

The stretch burns deliciously as he works me open, his fingers moving in counter-rhythm until I’m writhing between them, my body strung tight with building pleasure.

“Now,” I beg, my voice breaking. “Please, now.”

Caleb’s answering growl shakes the room as he withdraws his fingers and lines up his cock. The thick head presses against my soaked entrance.

The pressure is intense as he pushes in, the stretch burning despite the preparation. But beneath the burn is a pleasure so sharp it makes me cry out, my back arching as he fills me inch by agonizing inch.

“Good girl,” he praises, his hands gentle on my hips even as his cock stretches me to my limits.

Once he’s fully seated, he pauses, letting me adjust to the intrusion. The fullness is overwhelming, but my body already craves more, my pussy empty and aching.

Mason positions himself beneath me, his back against the headboard, guiding me to straddle his lap. His cock slides into my soaked entrance, filling the emptiness and making me gasp at the double penetration.

“Okay?” he asks, his hands steady on my waist, his eyes searching mine for any sign of discomfort.

“More,” is all I can say, grinding down on him, feeling Caleb shift inside me with the movement.

Liam and Jude arrange themselves on either side of me, their cocks level with my mouth. Without prompting, I lean forward to take Liam first, my lips wrapping around his length as Jude’s hand tangles in my hair, guiding me.

The position makes my insides flutter. Filled from behind by Caleb, my cunt stretched around Mason, my mouth working Liam while Jude waits his turn. I’m surrounded by them, consumed by them, claimed by them in ways I never thought possible.

And I love it.

They move in tandem, finding a rhythm that allows each of them access without overwhelming me completely. Caleb’s thrusts are measured, careful even in his hunger. Mason meets each movement from below, his cock sliding against spots inside me that make me limp with pleasure.

Liam’s hand cups my cheek as I take him deeper, his restraint crumbling as I hollow my cheeks around him. Jude’s fingers tighten in my hair, not painful but possessive, guiding me from Liam to him and back again.

Their scents combine around me like a symphony of male arousal that makes me sing with satisfaction.

My heat peaks, and with it, my pleasure. The orgasm builds from somewhere deep inside, gathering force like a tsunami. When it crashes over me, it’s with an intensity that steals my breath, my vision whiting out, my body convulsing around the cocks inside me.

Caleb follows first, his knot swelling just outside my entrance—unable to push in due to the tight stretch, but pressing against the sensitive nerves there, prolonging my pleasure. His release floods me, hot and thick, his growl vibrating through my very bones.

“Mine,” he snarls, his teeth so close to my skin that I can feel his breath.

Mason comes next, his hips bucking up into me, his release mixing with my slick, making the glide of his cock even smoother as he works through his orgasm.

Liam pulls back from my mouth just in time, his release painting my breasts in thick stripes as he groans my name. Jude follows suit, adding to the mess, marking me with his scent in the most primal way possible.

I collapse forward onto Mason’s chest, trembling with aftershocks, utterly spent. Four sets of hands gentle me, stroking my hair, my back, my sides, murmuring praise and endearments that wash over me like a balm.

Jude laughs softly against my skin, his lips brushing my shoulder. “Ours,” he declares, amending Caleb’s earlier claim.

And for the first time in my life, I don’t argue. Don’t fight. Don’t run.

The next wave of heat is already building, my body preparing for more despite my exhaustion. But this time, I’m not afraid. Not alone.

This time, I have a pack.

19

MASON

The first hint of dawn wakes me, and my eyes flutter open. The room smells of sex, sweat, and satisfaction—all our scents tangled with Leah’s vanilla and cinnamon in a heady aroma that makes my head swim even hours after her heat has broken.

I’m always the first to wake. It’s a habit I’ve never been able to break—my body’s internal clock chiming at precisely 5:37 AM regardless of how late we’ve stayed up or how exhausting the night has been. And the last three nights were... something unprecedented.

I blink sleep from my eyes, careful not to disturb the tangle of limbs surrounding me. Despite having designed the nest room with a custom-sized bed, we’re all piled together in the center, drawn to each other’s warmth like magnets.

I take silent inventory:

Jude is face-down in a pile of his ridiculous throw pillows, one arm draped over the edge of the nest, fingers still curled around a bottle of water we’d pressed on him sometime around 3 AM. His usual manic energy is subdued in sleep, his face peaceful except for the small puddle of drool collecting on the taco-shaped pillow beneath his cheek.

Caleb is curled around Leah’s back, his hair mussed, his expression soft. His arm is locked around her waist, fingers splayed possessively across her stomach as if even in sleep, he’s afraid she might disappear. The marks along his shoulders where she’d dug her nails in are still visible, red crescents against his tanned skin.

Liam has somehow migrated to the foot of the bed, one hand resting lightly on Leah’s ankle.

And Leah...

Leah is awake.

I see the exact moment consciousness fully claims her. Her breathing changes first—the deep, even rhythm of sleep giving way to something quicker, more shallow. Her eyes flutter open, unfocused for a heartbeat before sharpening with sudden clarity. Her fingers twitch against the sheets, and her scent spikes with an emotion I can’t quite place. Confusion? Panic?… Regret?

Whatever it is, I recognize the intention that follows. Her muscles tense subtly, her gaze darting toward the door, calculating. She’s planning her escape.

I could pretend to still be asleep. Let her slip away without confrontation, without the awkwardness that will inevitably follow all we did in the last three days. It would be easier for everyone.

But I don’t.

Instead, I shift deliberately, the sheets rustling as I prop myself up on one elbow. Her head snaps toward me, eyes wide in the dim light, caught in the act before it’s even begun.

For a long moment, we just look at each other.

“Hi,” I whisper, careful not to wake the others.

She swallows, her throat working. “Hi.” Her voice is raw, scratchy from three days of demanding, pleading, crying out.

Another moment of silence stretches between us, less awkward than I expected but weighted with all the things neither of us seems to know how to say.

Finally, I nod toward the door. “Tea?”

Relief flickers across her features, so brief I almost miss it. She nods, then glances down at Caleb’s arm still locked around her waist, a small furrow appearing between her brows.

“Here,” I murmur, reaching over to gently lift his arm. It’s a testament to his exhaustion that he doesn’t immediately wake—typically, the slightest movement has him alert and ready for action. Instead, he merely grumbles something unintelligible and rolls onto his back, one arm flung dramatically across his face.

Leah slides out from under the covers with the careful movements of someone trying not to wake a sleeping bear. She pauses at the edge of the nest, obviously very aware of her nakedness, her scent flickering with embarrassment.

I avert my eyes, giving her privacy despite the fact I had her spread and panting beneath me just hours ago. “There’s a robe on the hook behind the door,” I say quietly. “And clean clothes in the dresser. Second drawer.”

She doesn’t thank me, but I hear the soft rustle of fabric as she retrieves the robe. When I look up again, she’s wrapped in dark blue silk, the material swallowing her small frame. It’s mine, I realize—purchased on a whim because it reminded me of the night sky. The same night sky I’ve stared at countless times while thinking of her. The irony isn’t lost on me.

I slip out of the nest, pulling on a pair of sweatpants before padding toward the door. Even though I’m dying to, I don’t look back to see if she follows. Instead, I listen and hear her soft footsteps behind me as we make our way down the hall.

The kitchen is quiet when we enter, the only sounds the soft hum of the refrigerator and the distant chirping of early morning birds outside. Sunlight slants through the windows, painting golden rectangles on the hardwood floor. It’s peaceful in a way that feels almost surreal after the intensity of the past seventy-two hours.

I move on autopilot—filling the kettle, measuring out tea leaves, setting two mugs on the counter. Earl Grey for her, green tea for me. The familiar ritual soothes my nerves, gives my hands something to do besides reach for her.

She leans heavily against the doorframe, her movements slow and slightly unsteady. Again, I have to squeeze my hands into fists to stop myself from reaching for her. Space. I need to give her space. Especially right now, after what just occurred in our nest. Let her come to us.

I focus on making the tea, but it doesn’t stop me from taking notes. The aftermath of a heat this intense is written across her body—the slight tremble in her hands, the way she winces when she shifts her weight, the unfocused quality to her gaze as if she’s still partly trapped in the fog of hormones.

Fuck, she shouldn’t even be standing.

“You always wake so early?” she asks finally, voice still rough with sleep and overuse, the words slightly slurred at the edges.

I glance over my shoulder. She’s still standing in the kitchen doorway, arms crossed over her chest, swamped in my robe. Her hair is a wild tangle around her face, and there’s a pattern of beard burn along her throat where Caleb had spent particular attention. She looks thoroughly claimed, unfairly beautiful, and completely drained.

“Force of habit,” I reply, turning back to the tea. “I’ve always been an early riser.”

“Even after...” she trails off, and I can practically feel her blush warming the air.

“Even after,” I confirm, my lips quirking into a small smile she can’t see.

She huffs a soft laugh that turns into a wince, her hand moving instinctively to her lower back. Post-heat muscle soreness, I realize with a flash of concern.

The kettle whistles, the sharp sound slicing through the quiet. She flinches at the noise, oversensitive in her post-heat state. I pour the water, watching the leaves unfurl and the liquid darken. When I turn to hand her the mug, she’s moved to perch on one of the bar stools at the counter, her legs tucked under her, looking like she belongs there despite the glassy quality to her eyes.

The thought catches me off guard, making my fingers tighten around the ceramic.

“Thanks,” she murmurs, her fingers trembling slightly as she takes the mug.

“Green for me,” I say, lifting my mug. “Earl Grey for you. I wasn’t sure how you take it, so I left it plain.”

She reaches for the sugar bowl, adding a spoonful and a splash of milk from the small pitcher I’ve set out. Her movements are clumsy, uncoordinated, and she nearly knocks over the sugar bowl before managing to stir her tea. My hand instinctively darts out to steady the bowl, my fingers brushing against hers briefly before I pull back, not wanting to overwhelm her. Her skin is still unnaturally warm, a lingering effect of the heat, no doubt.

“I didn’t realize you were so domestic,” she murmurs.

I hide a smile behind my mug. “There’s a lot we don’t know about each other yet.”

She stirs her tea thoughtfully, her eyes drifting closed for a moment before snapping open again, as if she’s fighting to stay present. When she sways slightly on the stool, I step closer, hand hovering near her elbow, ready to catch her if needed. She steadies herself with visible effort, and I let my hand drop, though I don’t step back.

“I suppose that’s true. We kind of... skipped a few steps,” she says.

“Several, actually,” I agree, the understatement making her lips quirk upward.

She takes a sip of her tea, her hands still shaking slightly. I resist the urge to steady them with my own, though every protective instinct in me screams to do so. “Do you always make breakfast for your... guests?” she asks, stumbling over the last word.

I consider this. “To be honest, we haven’t had many overnight guests. Not like this.”

Her eyebrows rise, the movement slow, as if her facial muscles are still catching up with her thoughts. When she shivers again, I instinctively move closer, my body heat providing a buffer against the morning chill. She doesn’t pull away.

“Really? Four attractive males, and I’m supposed to believe you don’t have omegas lining up around the block?”

“I didn’t say that,” I clarify, watching her carefully for signs of post-heat crash. The pallor beneath her flushed cheeks concerns me. “Just not here. Not in our den.”

Understanding dawns in her eyes, though it takes her longer than it might have if she weren’t fighting the post-heat daze. “This is your territory.”

“Yes.”

“And I’m in it.” She blinks slowly, processing this fact as if through layers of cotton. When she reaches to brush her hair from her face, her hand trembles so badly that she misses entirely. Without thinking, I reach up and tuck the strand behind her ear, my fingers lingering perhaps a second too long against her temple.

“Yes.” My voice comes out deeper than intended. Seeing her like this is conflicting. I want to cradle her in my arms…and I want to fuck her again. The instincts are fighting each other.

She takes another sip of her tea, watching me over the rim of her mug. The tremor in her hands has lessened slightly where my fingertips had touched her skin. “That’s significant…”

I meet her gaze steadily. “Very.”

She sets her mug down, fingers drumming lightly against the countertop in a rhythm that seems more unintentional than deliberate. When she shifts her weight, a wince flashes across her features, and I can smell the sudden spike of discomfort in her scent. My jaw tightens with the need to ease her pain.

“So... if this place is so sacred, why did you hire an omega to attend the wedding with you?” she asks, her voice wavering slightly. “I mean, if she had shown up instead of me, would she be sitting here now?”

The question comes out slightly disjointed, as if she’s piecing her thoughts together through fog. But the sharp curiosity in her eyes tells me her mind is working its way back to clarity, however slowly.

“That was... different.” I shift closer when she sways again, my arm reaching to brace her before I force myself to pull back. She doesn’t need to be crowded right now.

“How so?” She rubs at her temple and my fingers itch to replace hers, to massage away the tension I can see building there.

I sigh, setting my mug down. I can hardly focus on anything else except the fact I need to take her back to the nest. “The omega we hired was strictly professional. A plus-one service—not an escort,” I clarify quickly. “Just someone to attend as a buffer while we mingled.”

“And if she’d shown up instead of me?” Her words slur together slightly, her energy visibly flagging. She leans to one side, and this time I do reach out, my palm pressing gently against her back to keep her upright.

“She would have been paid, thanked, and sent home in a car service,” I say firmly, not removing my hand even after she’s steady. The warmth of her seeps through the thin silk of the robe. “This place, our den... we don’t bring casual acquaintances here.”

“But you brought me,” she points out, swaying slightly despite my steadying hand. Her head drops forward briefly before she jerks it back up, fighting against exhaustion.

“You aren’t casual,” I say before I can stop myself, my thumb unconsciously tracing a small circle against her spine. “Even that first night, at the pre-wedding party, there was something... different. About you.”

Her cheeks flush slightly, the color standing out against the paleness that comes with heat exhaustion. But she holds my gaze, though her eyes keep drifting slightly out of focus. “So I’m special because you all want to sleep with me?”

Fuck.

“No,” I correct gently, my hand still at her back, unwilling to break the contact now that I’ve allowed myself to touch her. “You’re special, and we all want to sleep with you. The order of those facts matters.”

The look Leah’s giving me tells me she clearly does not believe a word I’m saying but won’t argue with me about it. She blinks slowly, her eyelids looking heavy. Her head begins to droop again.

I notice the mug tilting dangerously in her grasp and reach out with my free hand to steady it before it can spill. “Maybe we should get you back to the nest. You’re still recovering.” My voice comes out a bit too rough, concern threading through each word.

“I’m fine,” she insists, but her body betrays her as she shivers violently, teeth chattering for a moment. I feel the tremors through my palm still pressed against her back.

Post-heat chills. I’ve seen them before, but never this intense. The need to warm her, to wrap her in my arms and chase away the cold with my body heat, is almost overwhelming.

I don’t comment, just reluctantly drop my hand from her back and set down my tea before walking to the hall closet. I pull out my soft gray cashmere sweater that I wear when I’m going over the books late into the night. It’s worn at the elbows, frayed from years of use, but it’s warm and it smells like me—a fact I’m acutely aware of as I hold it out to her.

She stares at it like I’ve offered her a live snake. “What?”

“Put it on,” I say, forcing my voice to gentle.

She hesitates, her fingers twitching. “I’m fine.”

“You’re shivering.” I step closer, still holding out the sweater, close enough to feel the chill emanating from her despite the lingering heat-fever.

“It’s not that cold.” But her body betrays her again with another violent shiver that nearly topples her from the stool. I move instantly, one hand catching her waist to steady her. Our faces are suddenly inches apart, and for a moment, I forget to breathe.

I don’t move, just stand there with the sweater dangling from my fingers, my other hand still at her waist, until she finally snatches the garment with an exaggerated eye-roll that doesn’t quite mask her discomfort.

“Fine. But only because this robe is basically fancy tissue paper.”

The moment she pulls it over her head, I know I’ve made a mistake.

It swallows her whole, the sleeves falling past her fingertips, the hem reaching mid-thigh. She looks so small in it. Soft. Vulnerable in a way that has nothing to do with heat hormones or biological imperative. She pushes the sleeves up to her elbows, revealing the delicate bones of her wrists, and something protective stirs in my chest.

Mine.

The thought is so visceral, so unexpected that I nearly drop my mug. I’ve never been the possessive one—that’s Caleb’s domain, with his growls and territorial marking. I’m the rational one, the planner, the one who keeps the peace and maintains balance.

But seeing her in my sweater, surrounded by my scent, looking like she belongs in our kitchen...

She catches my expression and stiffens. “What?”

“Nothing,” I lie, turning back to the counter to hide whatever my face might be revealing. “It suits you.”

She makes a noise that might be a laugh or a scoff. “It smells like you.”

I don’t answer, not trusting my voice. Instead, I move to the stove, pulling out a pan and the ingredients for pancakes. Blueberry, because I remember that’s what she went to buy at that cafe when she was weak from pre-heat.

The silence stretches as I measure flour, baking powder, sugar. I can feel her watching me, her gaze a physical weight between my shoulder blades as I crack eggs and pour milk. I’ve made this recipe hundreds of times, could do it blindfolded, yet somehow her presence makes me acutely aware of every movement.

“You’re overmixing it,” she says suddenly.

I pause, whisk suspended over the bowl. “What?”

“The batter.” She slides off the stool and approaches, peering into the bowl. “You’re overworking the gluten. It’ll make them tough.”

I blink, momentarily thrown by the professional critique. Of course—she’s a baker. This is her domain, not mine.

“Old habits,” I admit. “I tend to be... methodical.”

“I’ve noticed,” she says dryly, and there’s a hint of color in her cheeks that suggests she’s remembering exactly how methodical I can be.

She clears her throat, then gestures to the bowl. “Here. Let me show you.”

Before I can react, her hand covers mine on the whisk, guiding it in a gentler motion. Her fingers are warm against my skin, her body close enough that I can feel the heat radiating through the sweater. My sweater. On her.

“Like this,” she murmurs, demonstrating the proper technique. “Just until the dry ingredients are incorporated. A few lumps are fine—they’ll cook out.”

I swallow hard, hyperaware of the point where our skin touches. “Noted.”

She doesn’t pull away immediately. Just stands there, our hands still tangled together, her gaze fixed on the batter as if it holds the secrets of the universe. I can hear her heartbeat, slightly elevated, smell the subtle shift in her scent from sleepy contentment to something warmer, spicier.

“You fit here,” I say, the words escaping before I can stop them.

She freezes.

“In this kitchen,” I continue, my voice low. “With us.”

For a long moment, she doesn’t move. Then, carefully, she extracts her hand, taking a small step back. Not fleeing, but creating distance.

“That’s what scares me,” she whispers.

The admission hangs between us, raw and honest in a way that makes my chest ache. I want to reassure her, to tell her that what happened wasn’t just heat-induced madness, that what’s growing between us is real and rare and worth exploring. I want to promise her that we’d never cage her, never try to change the fierce independence that drew us to her in the first place.

But before I can find the right words, the moment shatters with the unmistakable sound of Jude stumbling into the kitchen, his bare feet slapping against the tile.

“Where is she? Is she—” He skids to a halt when he sees Leah at the counter, his hair standing in twelve different directions, wearing nothing but hastily pulled-on sweatpants. “You’re up? And... vertical?”

I suppress a sigh. “As you can see.”

Jude’s eyes scan Leah from head to toe, concern giving way to confusion, then approval as he takes in her sweater-clad form. “Aren’t you supposed to be, I don’t know, incapacitated? Most omegas can’t even walk after—” He catches my warning glare and clears his throat. “I mean, post-heat recovery usually requires at least twenty-four hours of horizontal time.”

Leah’s eyebrows rise. “I bake for a living, Jude. I’m used to being on my feet.”

“Not after taking three kn⁠—”

“Coffee?” I interrupt loudly, turning to the machine. “It’ll be ready in approximately three minutes, assuming you can survive that long without saying something that gets you murdered.”

“Doubtful,” Jude sighs dramatically, flopping into a chair at the kitchen table. “I’m operating on about twelve brain cells at the moment, and all of them are dedicated to replaying last night’s greatest hits.” He waggles his eyebrows at Leah. “Speaking of which, doll, that thing you did with your⁠—”

“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.”

“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 to maintain 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.

To my surprise, Leah laughs—a genuine sound that makes everyone in the kitchen pause momentarily. “I did the same thing at my bakery,” she admits. “Different colored bins for different flours. Labels everywhere.”

“See?” Liam says triumphantly. “A professional agrees with me.”

“God save us,” Jude groans. “Now there’s two of them.”

“I bet she doesn’t make actual diagrams to support her arguments though,” Caleb points out, his thumbs still working magic on Leah’s shoulders.

“They were schematics, not diagrams,” Liam corrects. I don’t know if he realizes how prim he sounds. “And they improved efficiency by twenty-seven percent.”

“You calculated the percentage?” Leah asks, sounding both horrified and impressed.

“Of course,” Liam says, as if this is perfectly normal behavior. “How else would I know it was working?”

Leah shakes her head, looking between the four of us with undisguised curiosity. “How did you all even find each other? You’re so... different.”

An unexpected question, but not an unwelcome one. The others glance at me, silently designating me as the pack historian.

“Caleb and I met in college,” I explain, flipping a pancake with ease. “Business program. We were paired for a project on sustainable startup models.”

“I thought he was an uptight ass,” Caleb adds, the corner of his mouth quirking up. “He thought I was a reckless hothead.”

“We were both right,” I acknowledge dryly.

“But you worked well together,” Leah guesses.

“Terrifyingly well,” I confirm. “Our project won the semester competition. By the time we graduated, we’d already drafted the business plan for the brewery.”

“Then came Liam,” Jude chimes in. “The genius brewing prodigy who couldn’t talk to humans without having a panic attack.”

Liam shoots him a withering look. “I’m socially selective, not anxious.”

“And Jude?” Leah asks, glancing at the most outrageous member of our pack.

“Jude came with the building,” I say with a straight face.

“Hey!” Jude protests.

“He’s not entirely wrong,” Caleb points out. “We found him squatting in what’s now the taproom, claiming it was his ‘creative space.’”

“I was between apartments,” Jude clarifies loftily. “And I had excellent taste in real estate.”

“He’d been using the space to host underground art shows,” Liam explains, his tone suggesting that ‘art’ is a generous description. “Very avant-garde. Very... nude.”

“Performance art,” Jude corrects, unashamed. “And those paintings sold for good money. Which I eventually invested in the brewery, making me a founding partner, thank you very much.”

“We kept him around because he knew everyone in the local art scene,” I explain to Leah. “Turned out to be our best marketing asset.”

“And now?” she asks, looking between us with genuine interest.

“Now we’re Le Roux Craft House,” Caleb says, a hint of pride in his voice. “I handle operations, Mason manages the business side, Liam creates the recipes, and Jude runs the taproom and events.”

“Four random guys who had no business working together,” Jude adds cheerfully, “but somehow created something that works.”

“Like a pack,” Leah says softly, almost to herself.

“Exactly like a pack,” I confirm, meeting her eyes. “Sometimes the right combination just... clicks.”

Something flickers in her expression—recognition, maybe, or understanding. She knows what we’re really saying. What none of us has the balls to say because, I know, none of us wants to spook her.

Baby steps.

Jude gives Leah a long-suffering look. “Now you know what we deal with. Still want to stick around?”

The question, though framed as a joke, carries weight. Leah seems to feel it too, her fingers tightening around her mug as four pairs of eyes turn to her with varying degrees of intensity.

“I haven’t decided yet,” she says finally, honest in a way that makes something in my chest twist. “This is all... a lot.”

“No pressure,” I say before anyone else can speak. “Take all the time you need.”

Breakfast comes together quickly after that—a stack of blueberry pancakes (not too tough, thanks to Leah’s intervention), crispy bacon, scrambled eggs with herbs, and a bowl of fresh fruit. Liam sets out plates and utensils while I arrange everything on the table.

“Sit,” I tell Leah, pulling out a chair for her. “Before it gets cold.”

She hesitates, her gaze darting between the table and the staircase leading back to the nest room. Something in her expression suggests she’s calculating, weighing options, making decisions I can’t quite read.

“Actually,” she says finally, “I think I’ll eat in the... other room.”

She doesn’t say “nest,” I notice. As if naming it would make this situation too real, too permanent.

“I can bring you a tray,” Liam offers, already reaching for one.

“No, I can manage,” she says quickly, filling a plate with pancakes and fruit. “Just... I need a minute. To think.”

The admission costs her—I can see it in the tight set of her shoulders, the way she won’t quite meet any of our eyes. She’s not running, not exactly, but she’s retreating. Creating space.

“Of course,” I say before anyone else can protest. “Take whatever time you need.”

Relief flickers across her features. “Thanks. For breakfast. And the... tea.”

“Do you need help getting back?” Caleb asks, his protective instincts clearly at war with his desire to respect her boundaries.

“I think I can manage to walk down a hallway without assistance,” she says dryly, but softens it with a small smile. “Though I appreciate the concern.”

And then she’s gone, padding down the hallway with her plate and mug, the too-long sleeves of my sweater falling over her hands, her gait just a touch more careful than usual—a subtle reminder of exactly how thoroughly we claimed her the last two nights.

Caleb watches her go, his expression unreadable. “She’s still here,” he says, as if reassuring himself. “She didn’t leave.”

“She’s processing,” I say, taking a seat at the table. “It’s a lot to take in. For anyone.”

“Especially after what we did to her,” Jude adds with a wicked grin. “I’m still not convinced she should be walking.”

“Omegas are remarkably resilient,” Liam informs us while serving himself. “Though I do agree that rest would be optimal for full recovery.”

“She’s not ‘our omega,’” I remind them, though the words feel strange in my mouth after last night. “Her heat broke. She’s under no biological imperative to stay.”

“But she is staying,” Caleb points out, finally taking his own seat. “For now.”

“And wearing Mason’s sweater,” Jude adds, stabbing a forkful of pancake. “Which is basically a declaration of intent in beta language.”

“It’s not—” I begin, then stop, because maybe it is. Maybe offering her my most prized possession was more significant than I’m ready to admit.

“For now,” I finally agree, though the temporary nature of her presence sits uneasily in my chest.

We eat in relative silence after that, each lost in our own thoughts. Jude, for once, doesn’t fill the quiet with chatter, and even Liam seems more contemplative than usual. Only Caleb appears genuinely calm, as if Leah’s continued presence in the house—even sequestered in another room—is all the reassurance he needs.

When we’ve finished, Liam and Jude clear the table while I wrap a plate for Leah in case she wants seconds later. Caleb disappears, presumably to shower, and I find myself with a moment to breathe, to process the surreal reality of the past forty-eight hours.

An omega in our home. In our nest. In our lives, possibly, if we don’t scare her away with our collective intensity.

I’m putting away the last of the leftovers when the sudden urge to check on her overtakes me. Not to crowd her or demand answers, just to... see her. Make sure she’s okay.

Despite her protests, heat recovery is no small thing, and the way she’d moved earlier suggested she was in more discomfort than she wanted to admit.

The hallway is quiet as I head toward the nest room, the door slightly ajar. I knock softly, not wanting to startle her.

“Leah? Just checking if you need anything else. Pain reliever, perhaps?”

No answer.

I push the door open a fraction wider, peering inside. The room is dim, the blackout curtains still drawn against the morning light. Pillows and blankets are scattered across the nest in a way that suggests someone had considered it, maybe even lingered for a moment... but it’s empty.

My chest tightens, unease creeping in. Did she leave?

I step back into the hallway, scanning the dim corridor, and that’s when I notice the faintest glow of light spilling out from Caleb’s room.

Frowning, I make my way toward it, my footsteps soft against the floor. The door is cracked open, and I nudge it gently, peering inside.

She’s there.

Leah is curled up on Caleb’s bed, her small frame nestled beneath his dark gray comforter. Her head rests on one of his pillows, and her breathing is slow and even, her body completely relaxed in sleep.

My pulse slows, the tightness in my chest easing slightly.

But my frown lingers.

The nest was meant to be a comfort, a safe space designed specifically for her. It carries all of our scents—intentionally layered, balanced, welcoming. And yet, she’s here instead, wrapped in Caleb’s scent alone.

Did she not like the nest? Was it too much? Too overwhelming? Or is this... something else?

I step inside quietly, my gaze sweeping the room, taking in the small details. The clothes she’d worn earlier are folded neatly on the chair in the corner. In their place, she’s wearing one of Caleb’s shirts—his black button-down, the sleeves rolled up several times, the hem brushing mid-thigh.

It swallows her whole, the fabric soft and loose around her body.

My jaw tightens slightly, but I push the thought aside. This isn’t about jealousy. Not yet, at least.

Instead, I remind myself that this is Leah. She’s independent, guarded, and fiercely private. Maybe the nest felt too intimate. Maybe Caleb’s room was just... easier.

Or maybe it’s because Caleb has this way of making people feel safe without trying.

I linger for a moment longer, watching the steady rise and fall of her chest, the way her hand curls loosely against the pillow. She looks calm now. Peaceful.

But her choice to sleep here instead of the nest nags at me, even as I step back into the hallway and pull the door shut softly behind me.

Whatever this is between us…it’s complicated. Messy. Unpredictable.

And far from over.

In fact, it may have only just begun.

20

LEAH

Two days post-heat, and I’ve finally achieved freedom of movement without being manhandled back into bed every five minutes.

Progress, I suppose.

I pad barefoot through the kitchen, enjoying the quiet morning solitude while the pack sleeps. My muscles ache pleasantly—a reminder of activities best not dwelled on before caffeine—as I reach for a mug from the cabinet. The one Mason always sets out for me, white ceramic with a tiny chip on the handle that somehow makes it perfect.

The house has become... not familiar, exactly, but less foreign. I know which floorboard creaks outside the bathroom, which cabinet holds Jude’s secret chocolate stash (not very secret when I can smell it from across the room), and exactly how many steps it takes to reach the coffee maker from any entrance to the kitchen.

Ridiculous, the things my brain has chosen to catalog about this place. This temporary place. This not-mine place.

I should have left yesterday. That was the plan—stay until I was strong enough to move without wincing, then retreat to my apartment and pretend the whole heat-induced madness never happened. I’d showered, brushed my hair, even made noises about calling a ride service. But somehow... I stayed.

The memory of Mason’s quiet “Stay another day, just to be sure” makes something flutter in my chest. The way Caleb had watched me from across the room, trying to look nonchalant but failing spectacularly. Jude’s dramatic declarations that I couldn’t possibly leave before the movie night he’d planned. Liam’s careful observation that post-heat recovery was “a complex physiological process not to be rushed.”

So I stayed. Another night in Caleb’s bedroom—a fact that still makes me squirm with discomfort. He’d insisted, absolutely refused to let me sleep on the couch. “Alpha instincts,” he’d muttered when I protested, like that explained everything.

And maybe it did. Maybe it explained why he slept on the couch instead, why none of them have returned to the nest room since... since my heat. The beautiful, carefully constructed nest sits untouched, layered in all their scents, a silent reminder of what happened there.

I couldn’t sleep in it. Wouldn’t. It’s a wonderful nest, perfect in every way, but it isn’t mine. It was a heat nest, built for a specific purpose that has now been fulfilled. Sleeping there now would mean something else entirely.

I pour coffee, breathing in the rich aroma that Mason meticulously grinds fresh each morning. The routine of it is soothing. One of the few constants in this new, bewildering reality where I wake up surrounded by males who look at me like I’m something precious. Something they want to keep.

The thought makes my stomach flutter in a way that has nothing to do with lingering heat hormones.

Two days.

Two days of Caleb’s possessive hovering, his hand always finding the small of my back when I move through a room, his scent wrapping around me like a shield.

I’m lost in thought when warm hands slide around my waist from behind, and I immediately recognize Caleb’s dark chocolate scent before he even speaks.

“You’re up early,” he murmurs against my neck, his lips brushing my skin in a way that sends shivers down my spine.

“Couldn’t sleep,” I admit, leaning back into his solid warmth despite my better judgment.

His arms tighten, pulling me more firmly against his chest. “Bad dreams?”

“No, just... thinking.”

“Dangerous hobby,” he says, pressing a kiss just below my ear. My breath catches as his teeth graze my skin, not hard enough to mark but with clear intent.

“Caleb...” I warn, though it comes out embarrassingly breathless.

He hums against my neck, the vibration traveling straight to my core. “Just making sure my scent is still on you.”

I roll my eyes even as I tilt my head to give him better access. “I’m literally wearing your shirt.”

“Not enough,” he growls softly, spinning me to face him. Before I can protest, his mouth is on mine, the kiss deep and possessive. My hands find their way to his shoulders, coffee forgotten as he lifts me effortlessly onto the counter.

When we break apart, both breathing heavily, I push against his chest. “The others will be up soon.”

“So?” There’s a challenge in his eyes, a hint of the alpha who held me through my heat.

I slip off the counter, putting some much-needed space between us. “So I need coffee before I deal with the full pack.”

He laughs, the sound rich and warm. “Fair enough.”

Two days of this—of stolen moments and heated kisses that leave me dizzy. Two days of Jude’s outrageous flirting, his winks and innuendos barely hiding the genuine concern beneath, the way he mysteriously appears with snacks whenever I’ve gone too long without eating.

Later that morning, I find myself in the living room with a book I’m not really reading when Jude flops dramatically onto the couch beside me.

“I’m bored,” he announces, laying his head in my lap without invitation.

I raise an eyebrow. “And this is my problem because...?”

“Because you’re the most interesting thing in this house,” he says, grinning up at me. “Entertain me.”

“I’m not here for your amusement,” I tell him, but my fingers still find their way to his hair, absently stroking through the soft strands.

He practically purrs, eyes closing in contentment. “Could have fooled me.”

We stay like that, comfortable in the silence, until his hand reaches up to capture mine, bringing my palm to his lips. “You smell like Caleb,” he murmurs against my skin.

“He ambushed me in the kitchen.”

Jude’s eyes darken slightly. “Without me? Rude.” He nips at my wrist, and the unexpected sensation makes me gasp. “Guess I’ll have to catch up.”

Before I can process what’s happening, he’s shifted, rising up to capture my lips in a kiss that’s playful but demanding. Jude kisses like he’s savoring a dessert—appreciative, indulgent, and with obvious enjoyment.

When he pulls back, he’s wearing that insufferable smirk. “There. Now you smell like me too.”

Two days of Liam’s quiet attentiveness, his careful distance so clearly calculated to give me space, though his eyes follow me with an intensity that makes me wonder what he’s looking for.

I find him in his room that afternoon, surrounded by books and looking unfairly attractive in reading glasses.

“Looking for something?” he asks without looking up.

“Just browsing,” I say, running my fingers along the spines of ancient-looking texts. “You have quite the collection.”

“Feel free to borrow anything that interests you,” he offers, finally meeting my gaze. Something in his expression shifts when he scents the air. “You’ve been with Caleb and Jude today.”

It’s not a question, but I nod anyway. “They’re not exactly subtle.”

“No,” he agrees, setting his book aside and removing his glasses. “They never have been.”

He stands, moving with that fluid grace all alphas seem to possess, closing the distance between us. Unlike the others, Liam never rushes, never pounces. He approaches like he’s giving me time to retreat if I want to.

I…don’t.

“And does their lack of subtlety bother you?” he asks, stopping just within my personal space.

I swallow, suddenly aware of how my heartbeat has accelerated. “Not exactly.”

His fingers brush a strand of hair behind my ear, the touch lingering. “What about my subtlety? Does that bother you?”

“Sometimes,” I admit. “It’s hard to know what you’re thinking.”

A small smile touches his lips. “I could show you.”

When he kisses me, I go weak. Liam kisses with precision and focus, like he’s conducting research—noting every response, adjusting his approach based on my reactions. His mouth moves against mine with such focused intention that I feel thoroughly analyzed and utterly consumed all at once. It’s not wild or impulsive like the others—it’s the calm, relentless perfection of someone who has mapped every sensitive spot and plans to exploit each one systematically until I’m trembling.

Two days of Mason’s steady presence, anticipating needs I didn’t know I had, filling the spaces between the alphas’ with practical comforts—clean towels, fresh sheets, tea steeped to perfection.

I find him in the kitchen before dinner, chopping vegetables with the skill of a sous chef.

“Need help?” I offer, leaning against the counter beside him.

His eyes flicker to me, a smile tugging at his lips. “You’ve been busy today.”

I feel my cheeks warm. “They found me, not the other way around.”

“I didn’t say I disapproved,” he says mildly, setting down his knife and turning to face me fully. “Though I do feel somewhat left out.”

Mason doesn’t reach for me immediately. He waits, patient as always, until I make the first move. When I step closer, his hands settle on my hips, gentle but sure.

“We can’t have that,” I murmur, surprising myself with my boldness as I rise on tiptoes.

Mason’s kiss is controlled yet somehow more intimate, like he’s memorizing me. His hands stay respectfully at my waist, but the intensity in his eyes when he pulls back makes me feel more exposed than if he’d touched me everywhere.

“Better?” I ask, slightly breathless.

“Much,” he says, thumb brushing my lower lip. “Though dinner might be delayed if we continue.”

I’ve adjusted, more or less. I steal Caleb’s sweaters because they’re warm and because it makes his pupils dilate in a deeply satisfying way. I tolerate Jude’s nonsense because sometimes he makes me laugh so hard my sides hurt. I find myself drawn to Liam’s passionate intellect, the way his hands gesture animatedly when he explains something he loves, and how he reads aloud to me in that rich voice that makes even technical passages sound like poetry. And I’ve almost stopped flinching when Mason just appears silently at my elbow with exactly what I need before I’ve voiced the thought.

But I’m still waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Because this, whatever this is, can’t possibly last. Four gorgeous, successful males with a thriving business and a pack bond most people would kill for don’t just... keep random omegas they meet at weddings. Even ones they’ve helped through an unexpected heat.

Especially not independent, prickly omegas with commitment issues and a bakery dream still in the planning stages.

By late evening, I find myself curled on the couch with Jude and Liam while Caleb and Mason handle dinner. Some action movie plays on the screen, but I’m barely watching, too aware of the weight of Liam’s arm casually draped across the back of the couch behind me, close enough that I can feel his warmth. Jude’s head rests in my lap while he makes sarcastic commentary about the film’s plot holes.

“So,” Jude says during a lull in the explosions, “are we going to talk about how you’re still sleeping in Caleb’s room but not in the nest?”

I nearly choke on my water. “Excuse me?”

Liam shoots Jude a warning look, but Jude just grins, as usual. “What? It’s a valid question. The nest is literally designed for you, doll. State-of-the-art omega comfort. And you’re choosing Caleb’s boring bedroom instead.”

“Jude,” Liam says, his voice soft but with that alpha edge that makes even Jude pause. “Boundaries.”

“I’m just saying,” Jude continues, though with slightly less bravado, “the nest is like the best room in the house. Specially designed. All the good pillows. Alpha scents.” He waggles his eyebrows. “Fun memories.”

My face burns. “I know what a nest is, Jude.”

“Then why⁠—”

“Because it’s not mine,” I snap, the words escaping before I can think better of them. “It’s a heat nest. Built for... for that. Not for...” I gesture vaguely, unable to articulate the complex tangle of emotions the nest room evokes.

Jude’s expression softens suddenly. “Ah.”

“It could be yours,” Liam says quietly, and something in his tone makes me look up at him. His eyes are serious, intent in a way that steals my breath. “If you wanted it to be.”

The implication hangs in the air between us, too weighty to dismiss, too fragile to acknowledge directly.

Before I can respond, Mason calls from the kitchen, “Dinner’s ready,” and the moment shatters.

We eat around the large dining table, the conversation carefully light, punctuated by Jude’s outrageous stories and Caleb’s occasional dry commentary. Normal. Easy. Safe.

But the undercurrent of something unsaid, something significant, runs beneath it all, making my skin prickle with awareness.

What do they want from me? What am I to them? The questions circle in my mind, growing louder with each passing hour, each gentle touch, each careful avoidance of anything too real.

By the time we finish clearing the dishes, I feel like I might crawl out of my skin if I don’t get a moment alone.

“I think I’m going to turn in early,” I announce, feigning a yawn. “Still recovering, you know.”

Four pairs of eyes turn to me with varying degrees of concern.

“Are you feeling alright?” Mason asks, his brow furrowing. “I can make you some tea.”

“I’m fine,” I insist, though with less edge than I might have used before. “Just tired.”

“I’ll walk you up,” Caleb says immediately, already rising from his chair.

Something in his eagerness—the constant attentiveness, the perfect care they’ve all shown—makes my chest tighten with a familiar anxiety. The memory of Eric’s voice slips into my mind: You’re not pack material, Leah. Too independent. Too stubborn. No alpha wants an omega who doesn’t know her place.

The words had gutted me and I still hear them when someone looks at me too closely, cares too much, tries too hard. Like now. With them. The Le Roux pack with their handsome perfection and caring touches.

“I can find my way,” I say, voice surprisingly steady. “It’s only been two days, but I’ve got the floor plan pretty well memorized.”

Caleb looks like he might argue, but Liam places a hand on his arm. “Let her go, Cale. She needs space.”

Thank God for Liam’s perceptiveness. Of all of them, he seems to understand a little. But the full extent of it…I don’t think he has a clue. That what terrifies me isn’t their lack of interest, but the possibility that their interest is temporary—that once they really see me, really understand how I struggle with the traditional omega role, they’ll pull away like everyone else has.

“Good night,” I say to all of them, offering a smile that feels vulnerable rather than brittle. “Thank you for dinner.”

I retreat upstairs, the weight of their gazes following me, making my shoulders tense with the unspoken expectations I can’t quite decipher.

Caleb’s bedroom, my temporary sanctuary, is neat and orderly, everything in its place. I consider changing into the pajamas I’ve been using (his t-shirt, because apparently I’m a masochist), but the thought of being wrapped in his scent right now makes something twist uncertainly in my chest.

Instead, I pull on the borrowed sweater Liam gave me yesterday when I complained about being cold—a soft, purple cashmere that probably cost more than my monthly rent—and curl up on the window seat, staring out at the street below.

What am I doing here? What do they want from me? What do I want from them?

The questions circle in my mind, each one tangled in my complicated history with relationships, with my independence, with my deep-seated fear of being seen as weak or needy.

I must doze off there, because I wake with a start sometime in the darkest part of the night, my neck stiff from the awkward position, my throat dry. The digital clock on the nightstand reads 3:17 AM.

Water, I decide. And maybe a chance to clear my head without four intensely attentive males watching my every move.

I slip out of the bedroom quietly, not wanting to wake anyone. The hallway is dark, but a faint glow comes from downstairs—someone has left a light on in the kitchen or living room. I move carefully down the stairs, avoiding the spots I know will creak.

As I reach the bottom, I hear voices. Low, masculine murmurs. I should ignore them, should get my water and return to bed. It’s none of my business what the pack discusses in the middle of the night.

But then I hear my name, and all noble intentions evaporate.

I creep closer to the partially open door, my heart pounding in my ears.

“We need to talk about Leah,” Mason says, his voice carrying a serious tone.

“What about her?” Caleb asks.

“Her heat’s over. She’s recovering well. Soon she’ll want to go back to her life,” Mason points out. “Her bakery. Her apartment.”

My chest tightens at the simple truth of it. I do have a life waiting for me. Responsibilities. Dreams that have nothing to do with these four males or their pack.

“She can run her bakery and still be with us,” Caleb argues. “Those things aren’t mutually exclusive.”

“Aren’t they?” Liam sounds thoughtful. “Traditional pack dynamics typically involve the omega centered in the home. Especially with multiple alphas. The protective instincts alone...”

“We can’t keep pretending this is just about her heat,” Jude interjects. “We all know what happened in that nest was more than just biological convenience.”

My heart gives a massive thump. What is he saying?

“We protect what’s ours,” Caleb says with that alpha certainty that simultaneously irritates and thrills me. “Whether she’s at the bakery or here.”

“But is she ours?” Mason challenges softly. “Really?”

The question hangs in the air, and I find myself holding my breath.

“She’s independent,” Liam says finally. “Self-sufficient. Used to handling everything on her own.”

The words aren’t a criticism, just a statement of fact. But they hit me like a punch in the gut nonetheless.

“You think she wants us hovering because we feel obligated after her heat?” Jude asks. “She’d hate that. She’s made it clear she doesn’t want to be anyone’s responsibility.”

My throat tightens. Is that what they think of my independence? That I’m rejecting their care?

“She needed us,” Mason says quietly. “That’s all that matters. But now she doesn’t. And we need to be prepared for that reality.”

“A normal omega would be nesting by now,” Liam observes. “Settling in. She’s still sleeping in Caleb’s room because she won’t even enter the nest we built.”

Normal. They don’t see me as normal. But that shouldn’t surprise me. I’m not normal. I know that. So why do his words hurt so bad?

“Because it’s not who she is,” Mason says with a sigh. “We need to accept that.”

You’re not pack material, Leah. You never will be.

“So what do we do?” Caleb sounds frustrated. “Just let her walk away?”

There’s a heavy silence, and I can almost feel the tension.

“I don’t know,” Jude admits finally. “I just know letting her leave feels wrong.”

“It’s not about what feels right to us,” Liam points out. “It’s about what’s best for Leah. For her goals. Her life.”

“And a pack of overprotective alphas might not be it,” Mason concludes.

The simple truth of it settles on me like a weight. They’re right. All of them. A traditional omega would be thrilled with the attention, the care, the protection these four offer. Would be happily nesting, settling in, finding her place in their established order.

Not running a business. Not guarding her independence. Not bristling at basic protective gestures.

Eric was right. I’m not pack material. Not because there’s anything wrong with me, but because what I want from life doesn’t align with what packs need from their omegas.

These four deserve someone who fits naturally into their world. Someone who doesn’t require them to change everything about how they operate. Someone who can give them what they need without fighting it every step of the way.

And I deserve to pursue my dreams, my independence, my bakery, without feeling like I’m constantly falling short of pack expectations.

My stomach drops, the cold reality washing over me like ice water. This connection between us, intense as it is, can’t last. Not without someone fundamentally changing who they are.

And I won’t ask that of them. Won’t disrupt the beautiful harmony they’ve built together. Won’t make them question their instincts every time I insist on doing something myself instead of letting them care for me.

I back away from the door, my bare feet silent on the hardwood. I need to go before this gets any more complicated. Before hearts get involved more than they already are. Before I start to believe I could be what they need, if only I tried hard enough.

The truth is simple and painful: no matter how much chemistry exists between us, some things just aren’t meant to be.

Dawn finds me dressed in the clothes I arrived in—now laundered and folded in the closet. I’ve been careful, quiet, listening for any sound of the pack stirring. But the house remains silent, the four males still asleep after their late-night conversation about the fundamental incompatibility between what they need and who I am.

I make my way downstairs, my heart a leaden weight in my chest.

In the kitchen, I pause, allowing myself one last look at the space that has, against all odds, begun to feel like home. The coffee maker Mason programs each night. The color-coded spice rack that made me laugh with Liam. The ridiculous novelty mugs Jude collects, each one more inappropriate than the last.

My eyes fall on the white ceramic mug Mason always sets out for me, the one with the tiny chip in the handle. Without overthinking it, I take it, wrapping it carefully in a napkin before tucking it to my chest. A small piece of this place to take with me. A reminder of what might have been, in some other life where I was different. Where I fit.

I’m about to leave when I pause, struck by the realization that I can’t just vanish without a word. Whatever else has happened between us, they’ve been kind to me. They deserve... something. Some acknowledgment.

But what can I possibly say? “Sorry, I’m not the omega you need”? “Thanks for trying to make it work with someone fundamentally incompatible with your lifestyle”?

In the end, I take Mason’s dark blue button-down—one I’ve been sleeping in—and fold it neatly on the counter. I leave Liam’s borrowed sweater beside it, perfectly folded the way he likes things. The gesture feels both like gratitude and acknowledgment of what can’t be.

I find a notepad by the phone and hesitate, pen hovering over the paper. What can I possibly write that won’t sound bitter or self-pitying?

Thanks for everything. You deserve an omega who fits.

Simple. Honest. A recognition that they’re not the problem. I am.

I place the note on top of the folded clothes and turn away before I can second-guess myself.

Outside, the air is cool and fresh, the first hints of dawn painting the sky in pale gold and pink. I walk briskly, putting distance between myself and the pack house with every step.

Back to reality. Back to being who I truly am.

It’s better this way, I tell myself. Better to acknowledge the truth before anyone gets hurt worse than they already will be. Before they try to change who they are to accommodate me. Before I try to become someone I’m not just to keep them.

I don’t look back. I can’t. If I do, I might give in to the irrational hope that somehow we could make it work. That I could be what they need without losing myself in the process.

But deep in my chest, where my omega instincts live, something howls in protest—a keening, mournful sound that follows me all the way home. Because even as my mind knows this is the right decision, my heart isn’t convinced.

Some part of me, the part I’ve spent years ignoring, wonders if maybe, just maybe, what they need isn’t a traditional omega at all.

Maybe what they need is me—exactly as I am.

But that’s a fantasy. And I’ve never been one to live in fantasy.

So I walk away from the only pack that’s ever made me feel like I might belong, carrying nothing but a chipped mug and the memory of four males who almost made me believe I could be enough.

21

JUDE

Iwake up to the sound of Caleb breaking something.

Not like, oh no, he dropped a coffee cup breaking something. More like oh shit, he just put his fist through a wall breaking something. The distinctive crack of drywall giving way under alpha knuckles is a sound I’ve become unfortunately familiar with over the years.

I roll out of bed, blinking sleep from my eyes and trying to make sense of the commotion. It’s barely 7 AM according to my phone, which means something catastrophic must have happened. None of us are morning people except Mason, who’s probably been up since dawn categorizing his sock drawer or whatever responsible betas do at ungodly hours.

I stumble into the hallway, nearly colliding with Liam, who’s already dressed in a crisp button-down and slacks, keys jingling in his hand. His reading glasses are slightly askew, which is how I know this is serious—Liam would never leave his room with crooked glasses under normal circumstances.

“Leah’s gone,” he says, his voice clipped and precise, like he’s delivering a medical diagnosis.

“Gone as in... getting coffee?” I ask hopefully, though the hole in the wall down the corridor and Caleb’s thunderous expression as he emerges from his bedroom answer that question before Liam can.

“Gone as in packed her things and left,” Mason explains, appearing from the direction of the nest room, a leather messenger bag slung over his shoulder. He’s methodically checking the contents of what I recognize as our emergency first-aid kit.

“She can’t have gone far,” I reason, running a hand through my hair. “Her heat just ended, and she was still moving like someone who’d been thoroughly⁠—”

“Don’t,” Caleb growls, the sound rumbling through the hallway with enough force to make the framed brewery blueprints on the wall rattle. “Don’t finish that sentence.”

I hold up my hands in surrender. “I’m just saying, she’s probably at her apartment. Or getting muffins. You know how she is about those blueberry muffins.”

“She left a note,” Mason says quietly, holding out a small piece of paper.

I take it, reading the neat, careful handwriting:

Thanks for everything. You deserve an omega who fits.

Well, fuck.

I pull out my phone, thumb flying across the screen:

Leah, where are you? Call me.

Send. Wait. No response.

“She must have heard us,” Liam says, adjusting his glasses. “Last night. The conversation in the living room.”

The memory hits me like a bucket of ice water. The four of us, sitting around the center table at some ungodly hour, discussing Leah and her future with us—Mason pointing out her independence and wondering if she’d go back to her life, Liam commenting on how traditional pack dynamics typically center omegas in the home, my question about whether she’d see herself as being pitied, the uncertainty about whether she’d even want to stay with us.

“She completely misunderstood,” I say, horrified as the realization dawns. “She only heard part of the conversation and thought we were saying she doesn’t fit with us.”

“When what we were actually saying is that we don’t want to force her into a traditional omega role,” Mason adds, his expression pained. “That we need to respect her independence.”

“She thinks we’re rejecting her for not being some docile, traditional omega,” Liam says, his normally composed face showing rare distress. “When that’s exactly what none of us wants.”

Caleb’s scent floods the hallway with fury and something that smells dangerously close to heartbreak. “She thinks we were comparing her to ‘normal’ omegas and finding her lacking.”

I run my hands through my hair, tugging at the strands in frustration. “We were talking about how much we want her exactly as she is! How we don’t want her to change! How we’re willing to adapt our pack dynamic for her!”

“But she didn’t hear that part,” Mason says quietly. “She probably heard us discussing traditional dynamics, questioning if she’s ‘ours,’ and me talking about accepting who she is.”

“And then she bolted,” I conclude, the sinking feeling in my gut growing heavier. “Thinking we want some mythical perfect omega who doesn’t exist instead of her.”

Caleb’s expression darkens to something truly dangerous. “Her ex—Eric—he told her she wasn’t ‘pack material.’ That fucking bastard.”

“And she thought she heard us confirming it,” Liam says, the pieces falling into horrible place.

I stare at the three of them, incredulous. “Are we seriously standing here psychoanalyzing her when she’s out there somewhere, thinking we rejected her? We need to find her!”

That spurs them into action. Caleb stalks toward the stairs, already pulling on his jacket. “Her apartment. Now.”

“I’ll drive,” Liam says, following close behind.

Mason holds out a protein bar to me as I pass him. “Eat. We might be at this a while.”

Thirty minutes later, we’re standing outside Leah’s apartment building, having broken several traffic laws to get here in record time. The morning air is still crisp, the sun barely clearing the horizon as we pile out of the SUV like a small army on a mission.

We burst into the lobby like we’re storming the Bastille. The elevator seems stuck on floor 6, not moving. We head toward the stairs as one unit.

“Let me,” I say, stopping Caleb before he can take the stairs three at a time. “If she is here, your alpha rage face is the last thing she needs to see first thing in the morning.”

He bristles, but steps back, recognizing the logic even if he hates it. “Fine. But if she doesn’t answer in thirty seconds, I’m breaking the door down.”

“That’s not going to be necessary,” Liam says calmly, though the tension around his eyes betrays his concern. “We’re going to handle this like rational adults.”

I snort. “Have you met us?”

We climb the three flights to Leah’s floor, Mason trailing slightly behind as he checks his phone for the hundredth time, as if she might have magically texted while we were in the stairwell. The hallway is quiet, most residents either still asleep or already gone for the day. It’s barely 8 AM, after all.

Leah’s apartment has a plain white door with a small brass peephole and a doormat that reads “Go Away.” Subtle, our omega.

I knock, keeping it light and friendly. “Leah? It’s Jude. And, uh, everyone else. We need to talk to you.”

Silence.

I try again, a bit louder. “Leah? Come on, doll. We just want to make sure you’re okay.”

Nothing.

Caleb steps forward, his patience clearly exhausted. His knock is more like a controlled battering ram. “Leah. Open the door. Now.”

Mason winces. “Maybe don’t lead with alpha commands?”

“She’s not responding to ‘please’ and ‘doll,’” Caleb growls. “Leah! We know you heard us last night. You misunderstood. Let us explain.”

Still nothing but silence from the other side of the door.

Liam, ever practical, leans in to press his ear against the wood. “I don’t hear any movement. No water running, no footsteps.”

“Could she be sleeping?” I suggest hopefully.

“With this racket?” Mason asks skeptically. “Unlikely.”

Caleb’s scent spikes with genuine alarm. “What if she’s hurt? What if she collapsed from post-heat exhaustion?”

The thought sends a chill through all of us. Omegas can experience severe fatigue and even medical complications after an intense heat, especially if they’re not properly cared for during recovery. And Leah, stubborn as she is, would absolutely push herself too hard rather than admit weakness.

“That’s it,” Caleb decides, stepping back to presumably kick the door down in the name of omega safety.

“Wait!” Liam grabs his arm. “Let me try the building manager first. Breaking down her door is only going to reinforce her belief that we don’t respect her independence.”

“I don’t care about her independence if she’s unconscious on the bathroom floor,” Caleb snarls, but he stands down, recognizing Liam’s point despite his instincts screaming at him to protect.

Liam pulls out his phone, scrolling through his contacts with efficient precision. “I have the building manager’s number from when we were here last time.”

“Of course you do,” I mutter. Leave it to Liam to collect potentially useful contact information at every opportunity.

He presses the phone to his ear, waiting through several rings before someone picks up. From his expression, whoever answered is not thrilled to be receiving a call at this hour.

“Mr. Reynolds? This is Dr. Liam Le Roux. We met a few days ago regarding Miss Carter in 3B.” He pauses, listening. “Yes, I understand it’s early... No, I wouldn’t call if it weren’t an emergency... Yes, I’m aware of tenant privacy laws, but this is a potential medical situation.”

I’m impressed by how smoothly the lies roll off Liam’s tongue. Our normally straight-laced, rule-following alpha can be surprisingly devious when the situation calls for it.

“Miss Carter was experiencing some post-heat complications when we last saw her, and she’s not responding to knocks or calls... Yes, I understand your position, but as her treating physician, I’m concerned about her welfare.”

He pauses again, listening, then covers the phone with his hand. “He’s coming, but he’s not happy about it.”

“Did you just impersonate a doctor?” I ask. Ha, this is a delightful unexpected development.

Liam shrugs. “I am a doctor. Just not of medicine.”

“Brewing science doesn’t count, and you know it,” I counter, but I’m grinning despite the tension of the situation. It’s rare to see Liam bend the rules, and I’m kind of loving it.

We wait in the hallway, Caleb pacing like a caged predator, Mason checking and rechecking the contents of his first-aid kit, and me leaning against the wall trying to appear casual while my stomach ties itself in knots.

After what feels like an eternity but is probably closer to fifteen minutes, we hear footsteps on the stairs. The building manager, wearing flannel pajama pants and a wrinkled polo shirt, appears at the end of the hallway, looking like he wants to strangle us with a tie. Or possibly with the key ring he’s clutching like a weapon.

“You again?” He rubs his temples, the keys jingling as he gestures in exasperation. “I swear, if this is about you and her heat again⁠—”

Liam steps forward, deploying what I privately call his “Politely Concerned Boyfriend” face. It’s a devastating combination of earnest worry and urbane charm that has gotten us out of more tight spots than I can count.

“We just need to check if she’s home,” Liam says, his voice pitched to the perfect note of concern without desperation. “We’re worried about her.”

The manager’s expression softens slightly. “Fine. But if she’s not there, you’re out. And I’m not letting you in again without her explicit permission.”

He completes the short distance to Leah’s door, fumbling with his massive ring of keys. Each jingle feels like it takes an eternity, and Caleb’s barely suppressed growl isn’t helping matters.

“Do you mind?” The manager glares at Caleb. “Your alpha posturing isn’t making these keys any easier to sort through.”

“Sorry,” Mason offers smoothly, stepping between them. “We’re just concerned.”

“Concerned,” the manager mutters, finally selecting a brass key. “That’s what they all say. First it’s concern, then it’s territorial marking, and next thing you know I’m repainting the hallways because some alpha decided to punch through a wall.” He shoots a pointed look at Caleb’s bruised knuckles.

I bite back a laugh despite the tension. The guy’s not wrong.

“You know,” the manager continues as he jiggles the key in the lock, “I could lose my job for this. Tenant privacy is a thing. A legal thing. With lawsuits and fines.”

“We appreciate the risk you’re taking,” Liam says with that perfect sincerity that makes people want to trust him. “If she’s unwell, your actions could be saving her life.”

“And if she’s just avoiding you lot?” The manager raises an eyebrow.

“Then we’ll leave immediately,” Mason promises, though Caleb’s growl suggests he might have different ideas.

The lock finally clicks, and the manager pushes the door open, holding it with obvious reluctance. “Five minutes. Then I’m calling the cops.”

“Generous,” I mutter, but Mason elbows me in the ribs before I can say anything that might get us thrown out.

We file into Leah’s apartment, and the moment the door swings fully open, I know something’s wrong. The air is stale, undisturbed, with none of the vibrant vanilla-cinnamon scent that follows Leah everywhere. In fact, her scent is so faint it might as well be a memory.

The living room is dim, curtains still drawn from whenever she last left. A thin layer of dust has settled on the coffee table, catching the morning light that filters through a gap in the drapes. There’s a mug on the side table, a dried ring at the bottom suggesting it’s been there for days.

“Leah?” Caleb calls, moving toward the bed with purpose, his voice tight with something close to panic. “Are you here?”

The bedroom area is just as still and undisturbed as the living room. The bed is half-made, with the beginnings of the nest that she never got to finish—a few scarves and pillows arranged in a loose circle, abandoned when her heat hit too fast for her to complete it. The sight makes my chest ache, remembering how desperate she’d been, how stubbornly she’d insisted she could handle it alone.

In the bathroom, the towels are dry and slightly stiff, the shower showing no signs of recent use. Even her toothbrush looks untouched, standing in its holder like a silent accusation.

“The kitchen,” Mason says, moving to check the small galley off the main living space.

The refrigerator holds a sad assortment of condiments, a half-empty carton of milk that’s definitely past its prime, and a withered apple. The sink is dry, dishes stacked neatly in the rack as if they haven’t been touched in days.

I turn to Liam, whose face has gone carefully blank in the way it does when he’s processing something unpleasant. “What do you think? Could she have gone somewhere else after leaving our place?”

Liam examines the apartment with methodical attention, his gaze lingering on the dust, the plants that are clearly desperate for water, the untouched mail piled near the door.

“It looks exactly as it did when she sneaked out to the café during her pre-heat,” he says finally, his voice carefully controlled. “The same dishes in the rack. The same half-finished nest on the bed.” His gaze shifts between us, the implication clear. “Which means she hasn’t returned here at all.”

Caleb’s scent spikes sharply with something between rage and heartbreak, the dark chocolate and espresso notes turning bitter.

“She’s not coming back here,” he says, his voice flat.

“Ever?” I ask, because surely this is an overreaction. She has to come home eventually. This is where she lives.

“Not while she thinks we rejected her,” Mason says quietly, running a finger through the dust on her kitchen counter. “She’s gone somewhere she feels safe.”

“But where?” Liam asks, already pulling out his phone. “Her bakery?”

“We should check,” Mason agrees. “But I doubt she’d go there if she’s trying to avoid us. It’s too obvious.”

The building manager, who’s been hovering awkwardly in the doorway, clears his throat. “If you’re looking for Miss Carter, you might try Mrs. Finley in 3C. They’re... friendly.”

All four of us turn to look at him with such sudden intensity that he takes a step back.

“Mrs. Finley?” I repeat. “The elderly lady?”

The manager nods, clearly regretting offering this information. “They have tea sometimes. Mrs. Finley checks on her often.”

“Thank you,” Liam says with such genuine gratitude that the manager actually blushes. “That’s incredibly helpful.”

“Just... don’t make me regret it,” he mutters, already retreating. “And someone fix her sink before you leave. It’s been dripping for weeks.”

Mason immediately makes a note in his phone. I roll my eyes. Of course fixing Leah’s sink is a priority while we’re in the middle of a missing omega crisis.

“Isn’t that literally your job?” I call after the retreating manager. “You know, managing the building? Including maintenance?”

He pauses, turning back with an expression that suggests I’ve just asked why the sky isn’t purple. “Have you seen the maintenance backlog for this place? One hundred and seven units, one part-time handyman who’s about a hundred and twelve years old. That sink’s been on my list for a month.”

“We’ll take care of it,” Mason says, shooting me a warning look. “Consider it handled.”

“Of course we will,” I mutter under my breath. “Because we don’t have anything more important to do, like finding our runaway omega.”

The manager shrugs, already halfway to the stairwell. “Your girlfriend, your problem. Anyway, good luck finding her. That one’s got a stubborn streak wider than the interstate.”

I can’t argue with that assessment. Leah’s stubborn streak is legendary—and one of the things we all find irresistible about her, though I’m not about to admit that to Mr. Dripping Sink.

I pull out my phone and send Leah another text:

We need to talk. You misunderstood everything. Please call us.

It joins the many others I’ve sent since dawn, all unread, all unanswered.

We head down the corridor to Mrs. Finley’s, where a brass knocker shaped like a cat adorns the door. Liam is about to use it when I stop him.

“Let me handle this,” I say. “Elderly ladies love me.”

Caleb snorts and crosses his arms over his chest in a pose that screams “agitated alpha about to commit property damage.” Not exactly the vibe we want to present to an ally.

I knock, plastering on my most charming smile.

Mrs. Finley answers the door in a floral robe, a mug of tea in one hand and a suspicious glare that suggests she’s been waiting for this confrontation.

“Oh dear,” she says, not sounding the least bit surprised. “She’s run off again, hasn’t she?”

I blink, momentarily thrown by her response. “Uh…yeah…”

She takes a deliberate sip of her tea. Her gaze travels over the four of us with undisguised judgment. “Four alphas. Good heavens. No wonder she’s spooked.”

“I’m a beta, actually,” Mason corrects automatically, because apparently, taxonomy is the priority here.

“Three alphas and a beta, then,” she amends with a dismissive wave. “Still too many cooks in the kitchen, if you ask me.”

I deploy my most winning smile, the one that’s gotten me free drinks at every bar in the city. “You wouldn’t happen to know where our lovely omega disappeared to? We’re worried about her.”

She sniffs. “Even if I did, I wouldn’t tell you lot. I tried to help you before and you scared her off!”

Mason steps forward, looking genuinely desperate in a way I’ve rarely seen from our usually composed beta. “Please. We just want to make sure she’s okay.”

“There’s been a terrible misunderstanding,” Liam adds, his voice tight with urgency. “She overheard part of a conversation and completely misinterpreted it.”

“She thinks we want her to be some traditional, submissive omega,” I explain, the words tumbling out in a rush. “When we were actually saying the exact opposite—that we love her independence and don’t want her to change.”

Something flickers in Mrs. Finley’s expression—interest, perhaps, or skepticism.

“She thinks we’re rejecting her,” Caleb says, speaking for the first time since she opened the door. His voice is rough with emotion. “But we’re not. We want her exactly as she is.”

Mrs. Finley studies him for a long moment, then shifts her gaze to each of us in turn. Whatever she sees in our faces must satisfy her, because her expression softens. Slightly.

“That girl has had enough people telling her she’s not omega enough,” she says finally. “Her ex did quite a number on her self-esteem.”

“We know,” Mason says quietly. “And we would never want her to be anything other than exactly who she is.”

Mrs. Finley takes another sip of her tea, clearly weighing her options. Then she sighs. “Haven’t seen her for a few days.” A pause. “Thought she was with you.”

I resist the urge to groan in frustration. “She was. She left.”

“Is there anyone else she might go to?” Liam asks. “A friend? Family member?”

Mrs. Finley considers this. “No family that I know of. Not close ones, anyway. Maybe her best friend, Zoe.”

Zoe.

The best friend we briefly met when we came over to Leah’s for that disastrous dinner.

The one who gave Caleb that assessing look, like she was mentally calculating how quickly she could take down all four of us if necessary.

“Do you have Zoe’s contact information?” Liam asks hopefully.

Mrs. Finley shakes her head. “I’m afraid not. Leah is quite private about her personal connections.”

“Thank you for your time,” Mason says politely, already pulling Caleb back from where he’s been silently looming like the world’s most attractive gargoyle. “If you hear from her, would you please let her know we’re concerned? And that we need to explain the misunderstanding?”

“I’ll pass along the message,” Mrs. Finley says, in a tone that suggests she will actually do it. “And gentlemen? For what it’s worth, I believe you. But whether Leah will is another matter entirely.”

With that parting shot, she closes the door firmly in our faces.

“Well,” I say after a moment of stunned silence. “That went better than expected.”

Caleb growls, the sound vibrating through the hallway. “We need to find this Zoe person.”

“How?” Mason asks practically. “We don’t even know her last name.”

We regroup outside the building, huddling on the sidewalk like the world’s most pathetic pack of alpha hounds who’ve lost their quarry. I immediately pull out my phone.

“Zoe,” I mutter, typing into the search bar. “That’s got to be enough to find someone in this city.”

Caleb glares. “That narrows it down to about 500 people.”

“476, according to this search,” I correct, holding up my phone to show the results. “But point taken.”

Mason exhales slowly, running a hand through his usually immaculate hair. “We’re screwed.”

“We barely even met her,” Liam points out. “Just that one time when we were arriving for dinner and she was leaving.”

“All I remember is that she seemed intrigued by our pack dynamic,” I say, scrolling through endless social media profiles of women named Zoe. “Kept looking between us like she was trying to figure out our hierarchy.”

“She wasn’t much taller than Leah,” Mason offers. “Brown hair in a short cut.”

“That describes approximately half the women in this city,” Liam says with a sigh. “We need more to go on.”

Caleb paces the sidewalk, his agitation evident in every step. Passersby give us a wide berth, no doubt sensing the frustrated alpha pheromones rolling off him in waves.

“Maybe the building manager knows Zoe’s last name,” I suggest, looking back at the building entrance. “Worth a shot, right?”

Liam nods, already turning back toward the doors. “It can’t hurt to ask. We’ve already woken him up and invaded his morning.”

“I’ll stay here,” Caleb growls, clearly not trusting himself to maintain civility at this point.

Mason and I follow Liam back into the building, the cool air of the lobby a stark contrast to the warming morning outside. The building manager is behind his desk now, sorting through mail in his small office with the resigned air of a man who’s given up on the possibility of a peaceful day.

He looks up when we enter, his expression instantly souring. “You again? I thought we were done here.”

Liam approaches with his most diplomatic smile. “Just one more quick question, and then we’ll be out of your hair. Do you happen to know Zoe’s last name? Leah’s friend?”

The manager stares at us like we’ve just asked him to solve advanced calculus. “You don’t even know her best friend’s last name?” he asks incredulously. “What kind of relationship is this exactly?”

“We’re working on it,” I say cheerfully. “Our relationship is still in the... early stages.”

“Early stages,” he repeats flatly. “You followed her through the city during her heat, spent three days holed up with her, and now you’re stalking her apartment building because she’s avoiding you. Those aren’t ‘early stages.’ That’s a restraining order waiting to happen.”

He slams the door in our faces before I can come up with a suitably witty retort.

“He has a point,” Mason says quietly as we retreat to the SUV. “This is bordering on stalking.”

“She thinks we rejected her,” Caleb says, his voice rough. “Because of a conversation she overheard without context. We need to find her and explain that we were saying the exact opposite of what she thought she heard.”

“Fine,” Liam says decisively. “But we need to be smart about this. Split up, cover more ground. She can’t have gone far.”

We divide and conquer, each taking a different part of the city where Leah might reasonably be found.

My Mission: Bribe every barista in a three-mile radius.

“Free beer for life if you’ve seen a gorgeous, grumpy omega with a sweet tooth,” I announce to the first café, sliding a business card for the brewery across the counter.

The barista, a beta with a nose ring and a sleeve of tattoos, blinks at me, then at the card. “You mean Leah?”

I nearly leap over the counter in excitement. “Yes! Leah! About this tall, has a bakery, looks like she might stab you but you’d thank her for it?”

“She was here an hour ago,” the barista confirms, looking slightly concerned at my intensity. “Bought a blueberry muffin and looked like she wanted to murder someone. More than usual, I mean.”

“Did she say where she was going? Was anyone with her? Did she seem okay?” The questions tumble out of me in a rush.

The barista takes a step back. “Dude, chill. She bought a muffin, not my life story. She didn’t say anything, but she took the bus that stops outside.”

I text the group immediately:

LEAD. BLUEBERRY MUFFIN SIGHTING AT COFFEE CORNER. TOOK BUS OUTSIDE.

Liam responds within seconds:

Bus #14 goes downtown from there. On it.

Mason sends a photo of her closed bakery, the “Sorry, We’re Closed” sign clearly visible in the window. No luck here.

Caleb doesn’t reply. Probably too busy terrorizing innocent civilians with his alpha scowl and waves of possessive pheromones.

I spend the next three hours visiting every café, bakery, and pastry shop in my designated sector of the city. I learn way more than I ever wanted to know about the difference between croissants and Danish pastries, collect seven phone numbers from interested baristas (which I immediately throw away, because contrary to popular belief, I do have some standards), and consume so much caffeine that I can practically feel colors.

But no more Leah sightings.

By late afternoon, my phone buzzes with a message from Mason:

Regrouping at that cafe she’d snuck off to the first time. 5 PM.

Ah. The site of our dramatic confrontation with Leah’s ex, the place where we found her during pre-heat, looking beautiful and stubborn and absolutely infuriating in her determination to handle everything alone.

The memory makes my chest hurt in a way I’m not entirely comfortable examining.

I arrive to find the others already there, expressions ranging from grim (Liam) to defeated (Mason) to murderous (Caleb). We claim a table in the corner, four males radiating enough frustrated alpha energy to make nearby patrons shift uncomfortably in their seats.

“Nothing?” I ask, though the answer is written clearly on their faces.

Liam shakes his head. “The bus took me downtown, but I didn’t spot her anywhere. Searched some shops, the mall, even just waited at the bus stop for a while.”

“The bakery doesn’t look like she’s been there,” Mason reports. “According to the beta who owns the shop beside it, she hasn’t stopped by. He hasn’t seen her.”

We all turn to Caleb, who’s been silent since we arrived. He’s staring out the window, his jaw clenched so tight I’m surprised his teeth haven’t shattered.

“Caleb?” Mason prompts gently.

“I went back to our place,” he says finally, his voice flat. “Thought maybe she’d return.”

“And?” I ask.

“She took the mug,” he says, so quietly I almost don’t hear him. “The one with the chip in the handle. Mason’s favorite.”

The significance of this isn’t lost on any of us. She’d left behind our clothes, our nest, but taken a small, imperfect piece of our home with her.

Liam has his phone out again, his brow furrowed as he types. “I’m telling her we’re at her apartment,” he says quietly. “That we’re worried. That she needs to let us know she’s safe.” The message shows as delivered, but like all our others, there’s no read receipt.

“She’s going to come back,” I insist, needing to believe it. “She has to. Her life is here—her bakery, her apartment.”

“What if she doesn’t?” Liam asks. The look in his eyes is downright heartbreaking. “What if she decides we’re not worth the trouble and skips town?”

“She’s stubborn, not stupid,” I argue. “And what we have—had—was more than just heat convenience. She felt it too. I know she did.”

“Then why did she leave?” Caleb asks, finally turning from the window to fix me with a gaze so intense it almost hurts to meet it.

“Because she thinks we want her to be something she’s not,” Mason answers quietly. “She thinks we want a ‘normal’ omega—someone who follows traditional dynamics, who lets us take care of her without question.”

“But we don’t,” I protest. “We want her. Exactly as she is—stubborn, independent, infuriating…perfect.”

“Did we tell her that?” Liam asks, thoughtful as always. “Or did we just assume she knew?”

The truth of this hits me like a freight train. For all our scenting and claiming and possessive behavior, we never actually told Leah what she’s come to mean to us. How we feel about her. That we want her. Just as she is.

Caleb pulls out his phone, typing with more force than necessary. His jaw works as he hits send. I catch a glimpse of the screen—a simple “Please.” The raw vulnerability of that single word makes my throat tight.

“We’re idiots,” I announce to the table at large.

“Speak for yourself,” Liam mutters, but there’s no real derision in it.

“No, he’s right,” Mason says with a sigh. “We’ve been so caught up in pack dynamics and omega care and heat protocols that we forgot the most basic element of any relationship.”

“Communication,” Caleb says, the word sounding like it’s been dragged out of him.

“Exactly!” I snap my fingers. “We need to tell her—explicitly, in actual words—that we want her exactly as she is. No changing, no traditional omega role, no giving up her independence. That when we were talking about accepting who she is, we meant we need to adapt to her, not the other way around.”

“We need to find her first,” Liam points out.

And that’s the crux of the problem, isn’t it? We’ve spent all day searching, and Leah’s trail has gone cold. She doesn’t want to be found.

Our phones buzz simultaneously—the pack group chat. For a heart-stopping moment, I think it might be Leah, but it’s just the brewery’s assistant manager asking about tomorrow’s schedule.

The realization that life goes on—that we have businesses to run, responsibilities to meet, a world that continues turning even while ours feels like it’s imploding—is sobering.

“We should head back,” Mason says reluctantly. “Regroup, make a plan. We can’t just wander the city aimlessly hoping to bump into her.”

“I’m not giving up,” Caleb insists, his tone brooking no argument.

“No one’s suggesting that,” Liam soothes. “But we need to be strategic. Maybe check social media, contact her vendors at the bakery.”

“I could hack her email,” I suggest. All three turn to look at me with varying degrees of horror. “What? I have skills beyond my devastatingly good looks, you know.”

“We are not hacking her email,” Mason says firmly. “That’s crossing a line.”

“But—”

“No,” all three say in unison.

“Fine,” I grumble. “But for the record, I could totally do it.”

We make our way back to the SUV, the weight of the day’s failures settling heavily on our shoulders. The sky has darkened to deep twilight, streetlights flicking on one by one as we walk in silence.

“It’s like she fucking vanished,” I mutter, kicking at a pebble on the sidewalk.

Liam checks his phone again—a gesture he’s repeated at least a hundred times today, always with the same result. No messages, no missed calls. “She doesn’t want to be found.”

Mason grips the strap of his messenger bag, the first-aid kit still nestled inside like a talisman against disaster. “We pushed too hard.”

Caleb says nothing. Just stares ahead, jaw clenched, the set of his shoulders radiating a tension that would be alarming if I didn’t know him so well. He’s not angry—not really. He’s afraid. We all are.

For the first time in our years together as a pack, we have no next move.

No trail to follow. No omega to chase.

Just the sinking, gut-punch truth:

She’s gone.

And we have no idea when—or if—she’s coming back.

22

LEAH

The morning air bites at my cheeks as I power-walk down the empty street, arms full of contraband and heart pounding like I’ve just robbed a bank instead of... well, technically robbing a house. A pack house. Full of alphas who could probably track me by scent alone if they wanted to.

Which they won’t.

Probably.

Mason’s mug is clutched to my chest like a stolen relic. The half-eaten chocolate bar from Jude’s “secret” stash is melting against my palm, leaving sticky trails between my fingers.

My dignity? Yeah, that got left behind somewhere between Caleb’s growl of “mine” and me crawling out of his bed while he slept on the couch, between Mason’s gentle “stay another day” and me stuffing my feet into shoes without socks.

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

My inner monologue has all the eloquence of a concussed pigeon right now.

Why did I think this time would be different?

The streets are nearly empty, the city still rubbing sleep from its eyes. A delivery truck rumbles past, the driver giving me a curious look—probably wondering why a disheveled omega is speed-walking through the pre-dawn gloom with a stolen mug and melting chocolate.

I pause at a crosswalk, waiting for the light to change even though there’s no traffic. Old habits. Following rules even when I’m breaking all the important ones.

A particularly judgmental stray cat watches me from atop a dumpster, its tail flicking in disapproval. I glare back. “What? Never seen an omega make terrible life choices before?”

The cat yawns, exposing tiny fangs that seem to say, “Amateur.”

This is what my life has come to—arguing with alley cats while fleeing from the first pack that’s made me feel something real in years.

“It’s not running away,” I tell the cat, who clearly doesn’t care. “It’s self-preservation. They want a traditional omega. I’m not that. Never will be.”

The cat starts grooming itself, utterly indifferent to my existential crisis.

“They’ll bend over backwards trying to accommodate me,” I continue, shifting the mug to my other hand. “And then they’ll resent me for it. Tale as old as time.”

But…their hands felt like home, the traitorous omega within me whispers.

I nearly trip over a crack in the sidewalk. “Shut up.”

A woman walking her dog gives me a wide berth, clearly concerned about the omega talking to herself while clutching stolen goods. I don’t blame her. I’m concerned about me too.

The scent of fresh croissants wafts from a bakery truck making its morning deliveries, the sweet buttery aroma curling around me like a temptation. My stomach growls loud enough to startle a pigeon. Traitorous body.

My phone buzzes again in my pocket. For the sixth time in twenty minutes. I don’t look. If I look, I’ll cave. If I cave, I’ll⁠—

Nope. Not thinking about that.

Not thinking about how Jude’s eyes crinkle when he laughs, the way his whole face transforms when he’s genuinely amused. Definitely not remembering how he’ll dramatically clutch his chest when I insult him, like I’ve fatally wounded him.

Not thinking about how Liam’s presence alone calms the storm in my chest. How his voice somehow untangles the knots in my stomach before I even realize they’re there.

Absolutely not recalling how Mason notices everything. How he quietly adjusts things to my preferences without comment.

And definitely not thinking about Caleb’s mouth on my neck, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin.

Almost. He’d almost bitten me.

And I’d almost let him.

The stolen mug burns against my skin and my thighs ache in a way that has nothing to do with walking and everything to do with Caleb’s possessive grip, the bruises from his fingers a secret map on my skin. The barely-there sting between my legs that pulses in time with my heartbeat.

I pick up my pace, as if I can outrun the memories of the past few days. As if I can pretend I didn’t hear them last night, discussing how I don’t fit the traditional omega mold they need. As if I didn’t lie awake in Caleb’s bed for hours afterward, their words echoing in my head like a cruel reminder of every failed relationship I’ve ever had.

“A normal omega would be nesting by now.”

“She’s independent. Self-sufficient.”

“She needed us. But now she doesn’t.”

Well, they’re right about one thing. I don’t need them. I don’t need anyone. I’ve been taking care of myself since I presented at fifteen, since my parents’ awkward “we love you but we don’t know what to do with an omega” phase that never quite ended. I built my bakery from nothing, survived Eric’s crushing rejection, lived through challenges that would have broken most people.

I don’t need a pack of alphas to complete me, no matter how right it felt to fall asleep surrounded by their scents, no matter how safe I felt with Liam’s steady presence or how seen I felt under Mason’s attentive gaze.

The city is waking up around me now. A street cleaner hums past, the driver nodding at me in solidarity—another early riser navigating the world before most have opened their eyes. A young couple, clearly heading home from a night out, stumble past me giggling. The woman—another omega, by her scent—has a claiming bite visible above her collar, still fresh and red.

My hand flies to my own neck, fingers tracing the unmarked skin there.

What would it have been like, if I’d stayed? If I’d pretended to be what they wanted—a “normal” omega who would nest happily, who wouldn’t bristle at protective gestures, who wouldn’t insist on running her own business and making her own decisions? Could I have made them happy, made myself fit?

No. I’ve tried that before, with Eric. Tried to be smaller, less ambitious, more “omega.” It had hollowed me out, left me a shadow of myself—and he still left in the end, claiming I “wasn’t pack material” even after all my compromises.

Better to leave on my own terms. Better to walk away before I start to believe I could be what they need if only I tried hard enough.

The bus stop comes into view. I wait there for a bit. The bus comes…and I end up not getting on. I head down the street instead. I need the physical exertion, need to feel the burn in my muscles to counteract the ache in my chest. Besides, I’m not going to my apartment. I can’t. They’ll look for me there first.

Zoe’s apartment building looms ahead like a sanctuary. Six stories of weathered brick with window boxes that will burst with flowers come spring. I take the stairs two at a time, my breath coming in short puffs by the time I reach the fourth floor. At her door—4C, with the peeling Rosie the Riveter sticker in the corner—I knock our old code: three sharp raps, pause, then two more.

Long seconds pass. I check my watch: 6:37 AM. She’s going to kill me.

The lock clicks, the door swings open, and there she is in all her sleep-deprived glory—ratty “I’m Not a Morning Person” t-shirt, bedhead that could stab someone, and a spatula in one hand like she’s prepared to either cook breakfast or commit murder. Maybe both.

Her eyes rake over me—disheveled hair, stolen goods, general aura of regret—and one eyebrow arches.

“Ah.” She steps aside. “You ran away.”

I squeeze past her into the apartment, making a beeline for the couch where I face-plant directly onto a cushion. “I’m an idiot.”

“No argument here,” Zoe says, but there’s no judgment in it. She tosses a blanket over me like she’s covering a particularly pathetic piece of furniture. “So. Did they fuck you or fight you?”

“Both,” I mumble into a throw pillow that smells suspiciously like popcorn and cheap wine.

“At the same time? Kinky.”

I turn my head just enough to glare at her. “Not what I meant.”

“You sure? Because you reek of satisfied omega and—” she sniffs the air dramatically, “—multiple alphas. Wait.” She leans closer, nostrils flaring. “Did you go into heat?”

I groan, burying my face back in the pillow.

“Oh my god!” She pokes me with the spatula. “You went into heat with them? All of them? The brewery guys?”

“It was a surprise,” I mumble defensively. “A short one. I didn’t expect it.”

“And they helped you through it.” It’s not a question. “All four of them?”

I nod weakly into the pillow.

“Holy shit, Leah.” Zoe sounds equal parts impressed and concerned. “That explains why you smell like you’ve been marinated in alpha pheromones.”

“And one beta,” I correct, finally turning over to face her. “Mason’s a beta.”

“Three alphas and a beta.” She waggles her eyebrows. “And here I thought getting you to use a dating app was ambitious.”

She pries the mug from my death grip, examining it with interest. “You stole a mug? Bold move, even for you.”

“It was an accident.”

“An accident,” she repeats, deadpan. “You accidentally packed up a specific mug belonging to one of your heat partners and carried it miles across town at dawn.”

“He’s not my—” I start, then stop, because what exactly is Mason to me? What are any of them? “And yes. Accident.”

Zoe snorts, then sniffs the half-melted chocolate in my other hand. “And this? Another ‘accident’?”

“It was... comfort chocolate.”

“Uh-huh.” She takes the candy and examines the wrapper. “Imported Belgian? Fancy. Which one does this belong to?”

“Jude,” I admit reluctantly. “He thinks no one knows about his stash, but it’s in the back of the pantry behind the protein powder.”

“Of course it is,” Zoe says, dropping into the armchair across from me. “You realize you’re basically a walking cliché, right? Omega steals alpha’s belongings post-heat? Textbook nesting behavior.”

I flip her off without lifting my face from the pillow.

“Oh, very mature,” she says, but I can hear the smile in her voice. “You wanna tell me what happened? I mean, I know I’ve been busy with work, but last I checked, you were determined to avoid all alphas until menopause. Now you’ve had a surprise heat with not one, but three of them, plus a bonus beta? That’s quite the escalation.”

I groan. “I hate how well you know me.”

“That’s what happens when you bail someone out of relationship jail this many times.” She gets up, heading to the kitchen. “I’m making coffee. And you’re telling me everything. Starting with how many of them you actually slept with.”

My face burns hot against the cushion. “All of them.”

“I’ll need more coffee for this,” she mutters.

The next hour devolves into what Zoe clinically refers to as “Leah’s Emotional Support Spiral.”

Phase One: Raid Zoe’s freezer for emergency ice cream. Eat directly from the tub with the kind of single-minded focus usually reserved for bomb defusal.

“So let me get this straight,” Zoe says, watching me excavate a pint of rocky road. “You decided you actually like them and might give them a chance. But then you went into unexpected heat, and they all helped you through it.”

“Mmhmm,” I confirm around a mouthful of chocolate and marshmallow.

“Then you stayed with them afterward⁠—”

“Just to recover,” I interject.

“Sure,” she says, rolling her eyes. “And during this ‘recovery period,’ you slept in their alpha’s bed—but not in their actual nest—and basically played house with them for three days.”

I stab my spoon into the ice cream with unnecessary force. “It wasn’t like that.”

“What was it like, then?”

What was it like? How do I explain what it felt like to wake up to Liam’s quiet smile, to have Mason remember exactly how I like my tea, to feel Jude’s infectious laughter loosen something tight in my chest? How do I explain Caleb’s protective hovering that somehow didn’t make me feel smothered?

“It was... nice,” I finally say, inadequately. “They were nice.”

“Nice,” Zoe repeats flatly. “You’re having an existential crisis over ‘nice.’”

“They’re not just nice,” I admit, setting down the ice cream. “They’re... they work together, Zo. Four males with their own business, their own pack dynamic. They fit. They don’t need some prickly, independent omega disrupting that.”

“Did they say that?”

I hesitate. “Not exactly. But I overheard them talking last night. About how I’m not like ‘normal’ omegas, how I don’t nest, how I’m too independent.” The words still sting, even in the retelling. “One of them literally said, ‘We need to accept that’s not who she is.’” My voice drops. “And I do nest…just…not obsessively.”

Zoe’s expression softens. “And what else did they say?”

“What?”

“What else? You heard part of a conversation, Leah. What was the context? What came before or after?”

I open my mouth, then close it again. The truth is, I don’t know. I heard enough—heard them comparing me to “normal” omegas, heard them discussing whether I was “theirs”—and then I’d backed away, unable to bear any more confirmation that I didn’t fit what they needed.

“That’s what I thought,” Zoe says, reading my expression. “You bolted before getting the full story. Classic Leah.”

“I don’t need the full story,” I insist. “I’ve heard it all before, remember? ‘You’re not pack material, Leah.’ ‘No alpha wants an omega who doesn’t know her place.’ Eric made it pretty clear.”

“Eric was an insecure knot who couldn’t handle dating someone more successful than him,” Zoe snaps. “His opinion is worth less than the gum on my shoe.”

She’s not wrong, but it doesn’t change the fact that the Le Roux pack deserves someone who fits naturally into their world. Someone who doesn’t require them to change everything about how they operate just to accommodate one stubborn omega.

I groan.

Phase Two: Queue up Pride & Prejudice, my go-to emotional support movie. “For research,” I tell Zoe when she raises an eyebrow.

“Research on what? How to misunderstand a man’s intentions due to your own prejudice?” she asks dryly. “Because that seems relevant to your current situation.”

I throw a pillow at her. “Shut up and press play.”

We make it to the hand-flexing scene—you know the one—before my phone buzzes again. I’ve been ignoring the steady stream of notifications, but this one comes with a distinctive tone. The special chime I set for bakery emergencies.

“Shit,” I mutter, diving for my phone. “I’m supposed to be at the bakery.”

The message is from my supplier, confirming a delivery of specialty flours for tomorrow morning.

Which means I need to be at the bakery early tomorrow. Which means I can’t hide at Zoe’s indefinitely.

Which means I’ll need to face reality eventually.

“Work crisis?” Zoe asks, pausing the movie.

“No, just a reminder that I have responsibilities.” I sigh, setting the phone down. “I can’t hide forever. I have a bakery to launch.”

“Debatable. I once hid from a date for three months by taking different routes to work.”

“That’s because he was a creep who called you ‘breedable,’” I point out. “These guys are...” I trail off, not sure how to finish that sentence.

“Hot? Successful? Clearly into you?” Zoe supplies helpfully. “Attentive enough that you stole their belongings to comfort yourself?”

I don’t respond, but my eyes drift to Mason’s mug sitting on the coffee table. I’ve been stealing glances at it all morning, drawn to its familiar shape and the lingering traces of their scent.

I sigh.

Phase Three: Secretly sniff the stolen mug when Zoe goes to the bathroom. Inhale the lingering scent of pack and comfort. Feel my stupid omega self preen at the memory of being surrounded by their scents, their care, their attention.

They chased me last time.

The thought slips in unwelcome. After I’d stayed at their house, had mind-blowing sex, and left quickly after realizing how fast I was falling.

This time they will again.

The certainty of it spreads through me like wildfire. What happened between us during my heat, the days after—it wasn’t just biological convenience or a casual fling. There were moments of connection, of understanding, of seeing and being seen.

They will look for me.

The knowledge should terrify me, but instead, it sends a traitorous thrill down my spine, my inner omega self preens.

Knock it off, I tell myself firmly. This isn’t some romance novel where being chased is sexy. This is your life, your independence at stake.

My phone buzzes on the coffee table. Then buzzes again. And again.

Zoe returns with two glasses of wine—because it’s never too early for poor decisions when you’re hiding from a pack of gorgeous men—and nods at my phone. “Aren’t you going to check that?”

“No.”

“Liar.” She grabs it before I can stop her, swiping to unlock it (because of course I told her my passcode during some drunken girls’ night). “Ooooh, we’ve got a full-court press here.”

I lunge for the phone. Zoe dodges with surprising agility for someone who describes her exercise routine as “aggressively avoiding exercise.”

“From Jude,” she reads aloud, adopting a dramatic announcer voice. “Doll, I will hand-feed you grapes like a Roman emperor. Please come back. Attached is a... is he wearing the grape stem like a mustache?”

I groan, picturing Jude’s ridiculousness perfectly. He would absolutely send a selfie with a grape stem mustache during an emotional crisis.

“Liam says: I carved you a mixing bowl.” She squints at the screen. “With a photo of it on his lap. That’s... weirdly hot? Is this some kind of alpha code I don’t understand?”

“Give me that!” I snatch the phone back just as another text comes in.

Mason

The house smells wrong without you.

My breath catches. That one hits different. Mason doesn’t do flowery words or grand gestures. He doesn’t waste time with dramatic declarations. If he says something smells wrong, he means it—and for a beta without a sensitive nose, that’s practically a declaration of... something. Something I’m not ready to name.

Then Caleb’s message pops up:

Talk to me.

Just three words. My fingers hover over the screen, the cursor blinking in the empty reply field.

What could I possibly say? “Sorry I ran out on you after eavesdropping on your private conversation”? “I can’t be what you want, but I took your mug as a consolation prize”? “I still feel the phantom pressure of your teeth on my neck when I close my eyes”?

Zoe watches me with knowing eyes, sipping her wine. “You’re going back, aren’t you?”

“No.”

“Liar,” she says again, softer this time. “I know that look. That’s your ‘I’m going to make a terrible decision, but I’m trying to convince myself otherwise’ face.”

“I’m not going back,” I insist, though my voice lacks conviction even to my own ears. “I heard them, Zo. They want a normal omega. Someone who fits into their pack, who nests naturally, who lets them take care of her without fighting it every step of the way.”

“Did they actually say they want someone other than you?”

I hesitate. “Not explicitly, but⁠—”

“But nothing,” she interrupts. “You heard part of a conversation, assumed the worst because that’s your pattern, and ran before getting clarity. Now four grown men are texting you increasingly desperate messages, and you’re sitting here sniffing a stolen coffee mug instead of having an adult conversation.”

Put like that, it does sound rather childish.

“They’re going to realize I’m not what they want eventually,” I say, voicing my deepest fear. “They’ll try to change to accommodate me, and they’ll end up resenting me for it. Or I’ll try to change to fit what they need, and I’ll lose myself in the process. Either way, it doesn’t work.”

“Or,” Zoe counters, “you could talk to them like an adult and see if there’s a middle ground. Novel concept, I know.”

I open my camera instead, letting Zoe snap a picture of me in all my glory—mascara smudged from emotional movie-watching, hair a disaster from aggressive pillow-burrowing, Mason’s mug clutched to my chest like a security blanket.

“Send it to them,” Zoe says. “Either they run screaming, or⁠—”

“Or what? They see what a mess I am and decide I’m worth the trouble?” I stare at the photo—the vulnerability in my eyes, the way my fingers curl possessively around the stolen mug. It’s too revealing, too honest.

I delete it.

Open a new message instead. Type: I need time. Don’t come after me.

My thumb hovers over send.

Time to do what, exactly? Hide at Zoe’s eating ice cream and watching period dramas until my heart decides to be sensible? Pretend I don’t miss them already, that I’m not instinctively reaching for Caleb’s steady presence or for Liam’s quiet reassurance since I’m doubting myself?

I lock the phone and toss it aside without sending the message.

Zoe sighs, handing me a glass of wine. “You’re hopeless.”

I take a long swallow. “I know.”

“For what it’s worth,” she says after a moment, “they sound different from Eric. He never would have texted about how the house smells wrong without you. He would have said the house smells better.”

The truth of that statement hits me hard. Eric had never seen my independence as anything but a problem to be fixed. He’d viewed my ambition, my dreams of opening a bakery, and my stubbornness as obstacles to overcome rather than parts of me to embrace.

But they…they’d listened. Seemed genuinely interested in my dream. Liam had even sent over a detailed business proposal for cross-promoting our businesses, with footnotes about how we could adjust it to my preferences.

It’s small…but it was a gesture of support rather than an attempt to change me.

My phone buzzes again—a different tone this time. I reach for it automatically, expecting another text from the pack.

Instead, it’s a notification from my bakery’s security system.

I sit up straight, suddenly alert. “Someone’s at the bakery.”

Zoe frowns. “Why? It’s not even open yet.”

“Exactly.” I open the app, pulling up the security feed. The camera shows the front of the bakery, the “GRAND OPENING SOON” sign clearly visible in the window. Standing on the sidewalk, looking like a man who’s just lost his most valuable possession, is Mason.

He’s alone, his normally impeccable appearance slightly disheveled, as he peers through the darkened windows of my future bakery. A messenger bag is slung over his shoulder, and he’s holding what looks like a takeout coffee cup—probably checking if I came here for refuge.

“Well, well, well,” Zoe says, peering over my shoulder at the screen. “Looks like someone dispatched the responsible one.”

“He shouldn’t be there,” I mutter, but I can’t tear my eyes away from the security feed. From the way Mason’s shoulders slump slightly when he confirms the place is empty. From the careful way he examines the building, as if ensuring its safety even in my absence.

“No,” Zoe agrees, “he should be here. Because that’s where you are.”

I watch as Mason takes out his phone, presumably to report back to the others that I’m not at the bakery. His expression is calm but his movements betray his concern—the slight fidget of his fingers against the screen, the way he keeps glancing back at the door as if I might materialize if he checks one more time.

“They’ve split up to look for you,” Zoe observes. “That’s... actually kind of sweet. In a slightly stalkerish way.”

“What am I supposed to do?” I ask, not really expecting an answer.

Zoe takes the phone from my hands, setting it face down on the coffee table. “First, finish your wine. Then take a shower—no offense, but you smell like a combination of alpha pheromones and emotional crisis. Then we’ll figure out your next move.”

I nod, grateful for the practical advice, for the way she doesn’t push me to make a decision right now.

“And Leah?” she adds as I stand to head for the bathroom. “For what it’s worth, I think they might actually care about you. The real you—not some idealized omega version of you.”

“How can you possibly know that?” I ask, pausing in the doorway.

She gestures to my phone, which is lighting up with yet another notification. “Because they’re still looking for you. And because you stole that mug for a reason.”

I don’t have a response to that. Because she’s right—I did take Mason’s mug for a reason. Not just because it reminded me of him, but because it reminded me of how I felt when he handed it to me each morning. Seen. Valued. Understood.

As I step into the shower, letting hot water wash away the physical traces of my hasty exit if not the emotional ones, I can’t help but wonder: What if they don’t want me to change? What if, when they said “We need to accept that’s not who she is,” they meant they needed to accept my independence rather than try to make me fit some traditional omega mold?

What if I’ve been running from the wrong thing all along?

The thought follows me as I wash my hair, as I borrow Zoe’s clean clothes, as I emerge from the bathroom feeling marginally more human. It clings to me as I check my phone again to find eight missed calls and sixteen new text messages.

And it’s still with me when I finally, reluctantly, type a response to Caleb’s simple Talk to me.

I stare at the blinking cursor for a long moment. Then I take a deep breath and type:

I’m safe. I’m at Zoe’s. I need some time to think.

I hit send before I can second-guess myself, then immediately follow it with Zoe’s address—because no matter how much I value my independence, making them search the city for me feels unnecessarily cruel.

Three dots appear immediately—Caleb typing a response. Then they disappear. Reappear. Disappear again.

Finally, a single message:

On our way.

“Well,” I say aloud to no one in particular, “I guess that settles that.”

I’m still not sure what I’m going to say when they arrive. I’m not sure what I want or what they want or if those things can possibly align.

But one thing I do know: I’m done running. At least for today.

I pick up Mason’s mug, running my finger along the familiar chip in the handle, and settle in to wait.

23

CALEB

The elevator doors slide open to reveal Zoe’s apartment building lobby, and I immediately regret letting Jude pick our transportation method. His “let’s all cram into one Uber like a pack of desperate alphas” suggestion seemed efficient at the time, but now the mirrored walls of the lobby reflect four very different expressions of barely restrained determination back at me:

Jude is vibrating with nervous energy, clutching a bakery box that smells like warm blueberries and butter as if his life depends on it. He’s been stress-eating crumbs from the corners since we picked them up, leaving a trail of evidence down the front of his shirt.

Liam stands perfectly straight, holding a bouquet of sunflowers so bright they look radioactive under the harsh fluorescent lighting. He chose them specifically because “sunflowers are honest flowers, Caleb. They don’t pretend to be delicate.” Whatever that means.

Mason is silent and still as a statue, except for the muscle twitching in his jaw. He’s brought tea. A coffee cup filled with fresh Earl Grey, steeped exactly four minutes with a splash of honey. The gesture is so painfully thoughtful I can’t look directly at it.

And me? I’m one deep breath away from putting my fist through another wall. My fingers twitch at my sides, alpha energy radiating off me in waves potent enough that an omega mother waiting for the elevator clutches her child closer and presses herself against the far wall to avoid our path.

“Remember the plan,” Liam murmurs as we approach Zoe’s door, apartment 4C at the end of the hallway.

Jude snorts. “What plan? Caleb’s going to do something dramatically alpha, Leah’s going to pretend she’s not moved by it, and I’m going to say something inappropriate that somehow makes everything better.”

“That’s not a plan,” Mason points out. “That’s a prediction of disaster.”

“Same difference where we’re concerned,” Jude shrugs.

I silence them both with a look that has made business competitors back down and rival alphas reconsider their life choices. Neither of them appears particularly impressed.

“I just think we should have a more structured approach,” Liam continues, shifting the flowers to avoid crushing them. “Perhaps I should speak first, since I’m the most diplomatic⁠—”

“Bullshit,” Jude coughs into his fist.

“—and then we can each take turns explaining our perspective on the misunderstanding.”

“Or,” I growl, “we could stop debating strategy in her friend’s hallway and actually talk to her.”

Before any of them can respond, I step forward and raise my hand to knock. The door swings open before my knuckles make contact.

Leah’s petite beta friend, with a pixie cut and eyes that miss absolutely nothing, leans against the doorframe, sipping from a coffee mug with “Male Tears” printed on the side. Zoe. Her expression is a masterful blend of amusement and skepticism. “Well, well,” she says, giving each of us a deliberate once-over. “The cavalry has arrived.”

The faint scent of whiskey-laced coffee wafts from her mug as she takes another sip, not bothering to hide her curiosity. “I was starting to wonder if you’d gotten lost. Or arrested for stalking.”

Behind her, I catch a glimpse of Leah freezing mid-step, arms crossed tight over her chest like she’s physically holding herself together. She’s wearing borrowed clothes. A loose sweater that hangs off one shoulder and leggings that are slightly too short for her. And her hair is damp, like she’s just showered. The scent of distressed omega hits me like a punch to the gut—vanilla and cinnamon laced with something sharp and wounded.

My knees hit the hardwood before I consciously decide to move.

The collective inhale from my pack is almost comical. Jude’s bakery box slips slightly in his grip, crumbs cascading down his shirt front. Liam’s flowers rustle as his hands twitch. Mason goes preternaturally still, the tea in the coffee cup sloshing dangerously close to the rim.

“We fucked up,” I say, the words scraping like gravel in my mouth. Alphas don’t apologize easily—it goes against every biological imperative encoded in our DNA—but for Leah, I’d cut out my own heart if she asked.

Her eyes widen, pupils dilating as her scent shifts from distress to something more complex—surprise, wariness, and beneath it all, a hint of hope so faint I nearly miss it.

“You’re not a project,” I continue, and my fingers curl into fists against my thighs to keep from reaching for her. “Not charity. Not an obligation.” Each word is an effort, but I force them out anyway. “You’re⁠—”

“—the reason we’ve collectively lost our minds,” Jude interrupts, shoving the bakery box forward like a peace offering. “We got your favorite muffins! The ones with the blueberries that make you do that little hum thing when you bite into them, which by the way is the sexiest sound I’ve ever⁠—”

Liam elbows him hard enough that Jude makes a soft “oof” sound. “What he means,” Liam says smoothly, “is that we’ve been very concerned.”

Leah’s gaze darts between us, her scent spiking with confusion and a trace of embarrassment. She takes a small step forward, then catches herself, arms tightening across her chest. “I heard you talking about me like I was some... obligation. Some abnormal omega you had to ‘accept’.”

“That’s not what we meant.” Mason speaks for the first time, his voice steady despite the slight tremor in his hands as he holds out the cup of tea. “When I said we needed to accept who you are, I meant we needed to accept that you value your independence. That we shouldn’t try to change that about you.”

“We were honored,” I add, the words raw with sincerity. “Honored that you trusted us with your heat. Honored that you stayed afterward. Honored every time you let us close without running.”

A soft snort comes from the doorway. “Laying it on a bit thick, aren’t we?” Zoe comments, but there’s less bite in her tone now.

Liam steps forward, offering the sunflowers. “These reminded me of you,” he says, his voice taking on that soft gentle tone that soothes. “Bright. Unapologetic. They turn to face the sun even on cloudy days.”

Leah blinks rapidly, her hands uncrossing to hover uncertainly at her sides. “I don’t...”

“You don’t have to say anything right now,” Liam assures her, still holding out the flowers. “Just know that when we were talking last night, it wasn’t about wanting you to be different. It was about us figuring out how to be what you need without suffocating you.”

The plastic crinkles as Jude opens the bakery box, revealing perfect golden muffins with dots of blueberries. “We may have bribed the café to make a fresh batch,” he admits. “And by ‘bribed,’ I mean I promised the baker a lifetime supply of our limited-edition bourbon barrel stout, which Mason is going to kill me for when he does the inventory, but totally worth it for the look on your face right now.”

I glance at Leah, and he’s right—her expression has softened, the tight line of her mouth relaxing into something that’s not quite a smile but no longer resembles the wounded grimace she wore when we arrived.

“You guys are ridiculous,” she says, but there’s a waver in her voice that betrays her.

Zoe whistles from her position by the door. “Damn. And here I thought grand gestures were dead.” She takes another sip from her mug, eyeing us with newfound interest. “If you don’t take them back, Leah, I will. That alpha kneeling thing is hot.”

Leah flushes, color blooming across her cheeks and down her neck. She doesn’t deny it, though, which sends a surge of possessive satisfaction through my chest. I’ll kneel for her every day of my life if it puts that look on her face.

“We misunderstood each other,” Mason says, still holding out the cup like an offering. “You heard us talking about accepting who you are and thought we were disappointed. But Leah, we were saying the exact opposite—that we need to respect your independence, not try to make you fit some traditional omega mold.”

“When I said ‘pity,’ I was saying you’d hate being pitied like a charity case or something,” Jude adds. “Not that you are one. Big difference.”

“And when I said a normal omega would be nesting,” Liam explains, “I was pointing out how our expectations needed to change, not you.”

Leah looks at each of us in turn, something vulnerable and raw in her expression. “That’s exactly what I’m afraid of,” she says quietly. “That you’ll all have to change who you are, how your pack works, just to accommodate me. That you’ll end up resenting me for it.”

“Is that why you ran?” Mason asks gently.

She nods, arms tightening around herself. “I’ve seen it happen before. Someone bends over backward trying to make a relationship work, and eventually, they get tired of bending.”

“Leah,” I say, her name almost a growl in my throat. “We’re not bending. We’re growing.”

Her eyes snap to mine, surprise and skepticism warring in her expression.

“He’s right,” Liam says. “What kind of pack would we be if we couldn’t adapt? If we couldn’t expand to include someone who challenges us in all the best ways?”

“Boring as hell, that’s what,” Jude interjects. “Personally, I think we were getting pretty stale before you showed up. Now Mason’s actually smiling more than he frowns, Liam’s researching omega-friendly brewery policies like they’re going to be on some final exam, and Caleb’s actually using his words instead of just growling at everything.”

“Improvement all around,” Mason adds dryly.

“The point is,” I say, standing slowly, my knees protesting the hardwood imprint they’ve acquired, “we’re not changing who we are. We’re becoming better versions of ourselves because of you.”

Leah’s eyes track the movement, her pupils dilating slightly as I rise to my full height. “You can’t know that,” she argues, but there’s less conviction in her voice now. “You can’t promise you won’t wake up one day and wish I was more like a traditional omega.”

“We can promise exactly that,” Liam says firmly. “Because none of us wants a traditional omega. We want you.”

“With all your stubbornness,” Jude adds, lopsided grin in place.

“Your independence,” Mason continues.

“Your strength,” I finish.

“Come home,” I say simply, pouring every ounce of sincerity into the words.

They hang between us, thick with unspoken promise. I see the calculation in her eyes, the weighing of risk against reward, the battle between self-preservation and desire.

“If you’re worried about losing your independence,” Mason adds quietly, “don’t be. We know who you are, Leah. We don’t want to change that.”

“We just want to be part of it,” Liam finishes.

For a long moment, no one speaks. I can hear Zoe’s soft breathing from the doorway, the faint rustle of Liam’s flowers, the rhythmic tap of Jude’s foot against the floor.

Then—

“Does this mean we get to have make-up sex?” Jude blurts out, waggling his eyebrows suggestively. “Because I have ideas. Many, many ideas. Some involving that honey we keep in the pantry and⁠—”

Three voices cut him off: “NO.”

Leah laughs, the sound bright and sudden and genuine, and something in my chest cracks open at the joy in it. A smile spreads across her face—the real one, the one that makes her eyes crinkle at the corners and shows the tiny dimple in her right cheek.

“You’re all ridiculous,” she says again, but this time there’s unmistakable fondness in the words.

She takes the flowers from Liam, inhaling their scent with a soft hum of appreciation. She plucks a muffin from Jude’s box, her fingers deliberately brushing his in a gesture that makes his scent spike with pleasure. She accepts the cup from Mason, her fingers curling around it in a way that looks possessive rather than merely practical.

Then she turns to me, stepping close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating from her body. Her scent wraps around me—vanilla and cinnamon and something new, something that smells like resolution.

“I’m still mad at you,” she says, but her eyes are soft.

“I know.”

“I’m not giving up my bakery.”

“I wouldn’t dream of asking you to.”

“Or my apartment.”

I hesitate at that, alpha instincts warring with the logical part of my brain that knows pushing her will end badly. “For now,” I concede.

She raises an eyebrow, challenge written in every line of her face. “For as long as I want.”

“For as long as you want,” I agree, though it costs me.

A small smile plays at the corner of her mouth. “And I’m taking the mug.”

This startles a laugh out of me. “You can have the whole damn cabinet.”

She brushes past me with deliberate closeness, her shoulder bumping against my chest in a way that feels like forgiveness. Her scent lingers, wrapping around me like an embrace.

“Coming?” she tosses over her shoulder, already halfway to the door.

Jude practically bounces after her, chattering about breakfast plans and how we should stop for donuts on the way home. Liam follows at a more measured pace, pausing to thank Zoe with formal politeness that makes her roll her eyes with a grin.

Mason waits for me, one eyebrow raised in silent question. Okay?

I nod, something tight in my chest finally loosening. Not fixed, not completely, but a start. A foundation we can build on.

Zoe raises her whiskey coffee in salute as we file out of her apartment. “Try not to break her heart this time,” she calls after us. “And Leah? You owe me a new pint of Rocky Road for the emotional support services.”

“Put it on my tab,” Leah calls back, but she’s smiling as she says it.

The elevator arrives with a soft ding, and we all pile in—a tangle of limbs and scents and cautious optimism. It’s a tight fit for five people, especially with Jude’s expansive gestures as he outlines his plans for a “reconciliation brunch that will make angels weep.”

Leah finds herself pressed between Mason and me, her smaller frame dwarfed by our larger ones. But instead of pulling away or asserting her space, she leans into my side, her warmth seeping through my shirt. When my fingers find her hip in a light, possessive grip, she doesn’t pull away. If anything, she leans in further.

The doors close, sealing us in the mirrored box. In the reflection, I catch Mason’s eye over Leah’s head. The beta’s mouth quirks in a small, private smile—the kind I haven’t seen since before this whole mess started.

Jude is still talking, something about pancakes and champagne and “the perfect blend of breakfast debauchery,” while Liam nods with the patient expression of someone who has long since learned to filter Jude’s enthusiasm into manageable portions.

And Leah...

Leah is watching me in the mirrored wall, her eyes meeting mine with a directness that makes my pulse quicken. There’s still wariness there, still uncertainty, but beneath it is something warm and promising.

“Stop looking so smug,” she murmurs. “It’s not like I’m going to let you scent-mark my bakery or something.”

Oh, I love that idea. I lean down, my lips brushing the shell of her ear. “We’ll see about that.”

Her shiver is slight, but unmistakable. Victory.

Mason presses the lobby button, and the elevator begins its descent. Leah’s scent twines with ours in the enclosed space—vanilla and cinnamon mixing with my dark chocolate, Jude’s citrus, Liam’s old books, and Mason’s sandalwood.

And just like that—we’re whole again.

24

LIAM

The building manager’s expression when we step into the lobby is nothing short of exhausted resignation. His eyes flick from Caleb’s stormy glare to Jude’s disheveled shirt (still dusted with muffin crumbs) before landing on Leah tucked between us, her fingers laced with Mason’s.

“Let me guess,” he sighs, rubbing his temples. “Heat emergency?”

The question hangs in the air like an unwelcome odor. I feel every muscle in Leah’s body tense beside me, her scent spiking with embarrassment and indignation. Caleb’s chest expands with a barely suppressed growl.

“No!” Leah’s cheeks flush crimson as she straightens her spine. “We’re just⁠—”

The manager’s gaze shifts to Leah, softening with concern. “Miss Carter, are you okay? Do you need me to call someone for you?” He pauses. “The police perhaps?”

Caleb’s growl becomes audible, making a passing resident quicken her pace toward the mailboxes.

Leah’s flush deepens. “That won’t be necessary…”

“We’re reconvening,” I interject smoothly. “Temporarily.”

The manager’s eyebrows rise toward his receding hairline. “Reconvening,” he repeats flatly. “Is that what they’re calling it these days?”

Jude, seizing on the manager’s skepticism, flashes his most salacious grin. “We prefer ‘pack bonding activities.’ Very important for group cohesion.”

I step on his foot—hard.

“Ow! What the⁠—”

“Thank you for your concern,” I say to the manager, drowning out Jude’s protest. “We’ll be on our way.”

The manager throws his hands up in surrender, the very picture of a man who has reached his limit. “Whatever. I’m done asking questions I don’t want answers to. Just keep it down. I’ve already been dealing with reports of alphas making ‘animal sounds’ near your apartment.”

Jude perks up. “Which kind of animal? Because if it was a⁠—”

Mason, bless him, claps a hand over Jude’s mouth. “We’ll be mindful of the noise level,” he assures the manager, his voice a calm, reasonable tone.

The elevator doors open with a cheerful ding that feels wildly inappropriate given the circumstances. As we turn to enter, Mrs. Finley materializes in the lobby with uncanny timing, her sharp eyes taking in Leah’s rumpled clothes and the possessive way Caleb’s hand rests at the small of her back.

“Well, well,” she says, her voice carrying across the lobby with remarkable projection for someone her size. “Leah, you’ve returned. And with your entire... collection.” Her gaze sweeps over all four of us with an undisguised twinkle in her eye.

“Hello, Mrs. Finley,” Leah manages, her voice strained. “Just heading upstairs.”

“Mmm-hmm.” Mrs. Finley nods sagely. “I’ll bring by muffins in the morning,” she declares, as if this explains everything. “Blueberry. For stamina.”

Leah makes a strangled noise somewhere between a laugh and a whimper.

“That’s... very thoughtful,” I say, desperately trying to maintain some semblance of dignity as Jude struggles against Mason’s hand, clearly bursting to add some inappropriate comment.

“Been married fifty-three years,” Mrs. Finley continues, her voice carrying across the lobby. “I know what it takes to keep multiple partners satisfied.” She winks at Leah. “Carbohydrates, dear. And proper hydration.”

The building manager looks like he’s contemplating a career change, possibly to something that involves complete isolation from other human beings.

“Noted,” Leah squeaks as Caleb follows her into the elevator, the rest of us piling in behind them.

“Coconut water!” Mrs. Finley calls as the doors begin to close. “Excellent for replacing electrolytes after⁠—”

The doors mercifully cut off the remainder of her advice.

For a moment, we all stand in stunned silence, the elevator’s soft hum the only sound as we ascend.

Then Jude lets out a whoop of laughter. “Mrs. Finley is my new hero! ‘Stamina muffins’—I’m putting that on the brewery’s brunch menu.”

“You will do no such thing,” Mason mutters, though I catch the twitch of a smile at the corner of his mouth.

Leah drops her forehead against my chest with a groan. “Kill me now.”

“Not after all the effort we just put into getting you back,” I say lightly, my free arm wrapping around her shoulders in a comforting squeeze.

The elevator stops at the third floor, and we file out, Leah leading the way to her apartment. The hallway feels narrower with all five of us crowded into it, our combined scents creating a potent mixture that has a passing beta neighbor quickening her steps with widened eyes.

Leah fumbles with her keys, the slight tremor in her fingers betraying her nervousness despite the brave front she’s putting on. Mason gently takes them from her hand, locating the correct key and unlocking the door in one smooth motion.

“Show-off,” Jude mutters.

Leah’s studio apartment smells like the fading traces of our combined scents from our previous visit. The familiarity of our scents in her space settles something restless in my chest that I hadn’t even realized was there.

“So,” Jude says, breaking the awkward silence as we all hover uncertainly just inside the doorway. “Dinner? I’m thinking takeout, because I don’t know about you guys, but I’m starving after all that emotional reconciliation. Maybe Thai? Or that Indian place on 4th that does the⁠—”

Leah hands me the flowers, turns, and kisses him.

It’s not gentle. It’s all a crushing of lips and desperation, Jude’s surprised grunt muffled against her mouth as she backs him against the wall. My fingers tighten around the flower stems, the cellophane wrapper crinkling loudly in the suddenly charged atmosphere.

Jude recovers from his shock quickly, his hands finding Leah’s waist as he returns the kiss with equal fervor. The scent of aroused alpha and omega fills the small apartment like a flash flood, drowning out everything else.

Caleb’s growl vibrates through the room, deep and possessive. His eyes flash with something dangerous, but I recognize the heat in them—not anger, but fierce desire.

Leah pulls back from Jude just enough to smirk at Caleb over Jude’s shoulder, her lips swollen and eyes bright with challenge. “Problem?” she asks, voice husky.

Mason exhales loudly through his nose, his usual calm demeanor cracking slightly at the edges. “Leah,” he says, his voice holding a warning—though whether it’s for her or for himself, I’m not entirely sure.

She releases Jude, who looks dazed and delighted, and turns to face the rest of us. The air between us practically crackles with tension as she takes a deliberate step toward Mason.

“I thought about you,” she says, her voice low and intimate. “All of you. While I was gone.”

Mason swallows visibly. “Did you?”

She nods, reaching out to trace a finger down the center of his chest. “I thought about how you always know exactly what I need before I ask for it.” Her finger stops at his waistband. “How your hands feel when you⁠—”

“Leah,” I interject, my voice tighter than I intended. “Perhaps we should discuss⁠—”

“I don’t want to discuss anything.” She cuts me off, turning to face me with an expression that knocks the breath from my lungs. “I’ve done enough thinking, enough talking, enough running. Haven’t you?”

The question hangs between us, heavy with implication. The sunflowers are still clutched in my hand, their brightness almost absurd in the tension-filled room.

“What do you want?” Caleb asks, his voice rough with restraint. “I mean…What do you need right now?”

Leah’s gaze shifts to him, her pupils dilating as she takes in his powerful frame, the tension visible in every line of his body. “I want to stop overthinking everything,” she says. “I want to stop being afraid of what I feel. I want—” She takes a deep breath. “I want all of you.”

The apartment goes so quiet I can hear the faint ticking of the clock on her wall, the distant hum of traffic outside, the collective intake of breath from four males who have been balanced on a knife’s edge of wanting and restraint.

“Right now? Are you sure?” Mason asks, ever the level-headed one.

Leah’s answer is to reach for the hem of her borrowed sweater and pull it over her head in one fluid motion, revealing a simple cotton bra beneath. “Does this look unsure to you?”

The room temperature seems to spike about twenty degrees.

“Fuck,” Jude breathes eloquently from his position against the wall.

I set the sunflowers down very carefully on the nearest surface, adjusting my shirt in what I hope appears to be a calm gesture rather than the stalling tactic it is. “Leah, we should establish some rules⁠—”

“Rules?” She laughs, the sound both amused and slightly wild. “I’ve spent my entire life living within parameters, Liam. Being careful. Making sure I don’t ask for too much or take up too much space.” She steps closer to me, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from her skin. “For once, I don’t want rules. I just want to feel.”

And then she’s kissing me, and all my careful plans and logical processes short-circuit at once.

The world narrows to simply sensation—Leah pulling me toward her bed, shoving Jude back onto the mattress with a forcefulness that makes his eyes widen with delight. Her lips rip from mine as she climbs astride him with predatory intent, her hands making quick work of his belt buckle. “Less talking,” she orders, the command in her voice making my blood run hot despite being directed at someone else.

“Yes, ma’am,” Jude agrees readily, his usual quips silenced by the determined look in her eyes.

I stand transfixed, watching as she claims Jude’s mouth in another searing kiss, her hips rolling against his in a rhythm that has him groaning against her lips. The scent of aroused omega fills the room like an intoxicant, mingling with the sharper notes of alpha pheromones in a heady cocktail that makes my cock throb painfully against my zipper.

Caleb moves to the edge of the bed, his hand finding Leah’s hair and tugging—not gently—to pull her mouth from Jude’s. She looks up at him, eyes dilated and lips parted, a thin string of saliva still connecting her to Jude’s mouth in a way that’s shockingly erotic.

“Mine,” Caleb growls, the single word loaded with possessive intent.

She doesn’t drop her gaze or bare her throat as a typical omega might. Instead, she meets his stare with equal intensity. “Prove it,” she challenges.

Caleb’s answering smile is all teeth. He yanks her off Jude with strength that would be alarming if not for the way Leah’s scent spikes with arousal at the manhandling. In one fluid motion, he turns her to face the bed, bends her over it, and tears the borrowed leggings down her thighs. The ripping sound of fabric fills the small apartment, followed by Leah’s startled gasp of pleasure.

“Fuck,” Mason mutters beside me, his usual composure nowhere to be found. His hands are clenched at his sides, knuckles white with restraint.

I understand his struggle. The sight of Leah bent over the edge of the bed, her ruined leggings around her knees and her ass exposed, is enough to make any male lose control—regardless of designation. When Caleb brings his hand down on her right cheek with a resounding smack, leaving a perfect handprint on her pale skin, I very nearly come in my pants like a teenager.

Leah’s moan is desperate and hungry. “More,” she demands, pushing back into Caleb’s touch.

Jude scrambles to his knees on the bed, positioning himself so he’s facing Leah. His pants are already down and his fingers tangle in her hair, guiding her mouth to his cock with surprising gentleness given the raw energy filling the room. “Open for me, doll,” he murmurs, his usual playfulness replaced by something darker, needier.

Leah complies eagerly, taking him into her mouth with a hunger that has Jude throwing his head back with a groan. The wet, obscene sounds of her sucking him fill the apartment, punctuated by the rhythmic slaps of Caleb’s hand against her ass and thighs.

I can’t take it anymore—can’t just watch while every instinct in my body screams to join, to claim, to mark. I move behind Leah, dropping to my knees. From this vantage point, I have an unobstructed view of her cunt, already slick and swollen with arousal. The scent of her is intoxicating this close, sweet and spicy and unmistakably omega.

“You’re dripping,” I observe, my voice sounding strange even to my own ears. “Is this all for us, Leah? All this slick just for us?”

Her moan around Jude’s cock is answer enough. I trace my fingers up her inner thighs, mapping the sensitive skin with deliberate care until she trembles. When I finally part her folds with my thumbs, revealing the glistening pink of her entrance, I can’t resist leaning forward to taste.

The first lick draws a muffled scream from her, the vibrations making Jude swear colorfully above us. I take my time, using my tongue to explore her with concentrated thoroughness—long, flat strokes along her slit, pointed jabs at her entrance, careful circles around her clit. I catalog each response: how she pushes back against my face when I suck gently on her clit, how her thighs tremble when I trace her entrance with just the tip of my tongue, how her scent spikes when I press two fingers inside her while continuing to lick.

“Fuck, she’s close,” Jude announces, his voice strained. “Her mouth—Christ, I can feel her moaning around my cock.”

Caleb grunts in acknowledgment, his hand coming down in another sharp slap that leaves Leah’s scent spiking with renewed arousal. “Not yet,” he orders. “She comes on my knot or not at all.”

The possessive command sends a fresh wave of slick flooding over my tongue. I groan against her flesh, addicted to the taste of her, to the way she writhes between the three of us.

Mason appears at my shoulder, his presence almost startling after being so lost in Leah’s pleasure. His usual calm is nowhere to be found, replaced by an intensity I’ve rarely seen from our beta. He leans down, one hand moving to cup Leah’s breast through her bra, while the other slides into her hair alongside Jude’s.

“Such a good omega,” he murmurs, his voice hoarse. “Taking us so well. Is this what you needed, Leah? All of us using you, claiming you?”

Her answering moan vibrates through all of us, a chain reaction of pleasure that makes my cock throb painfully against my zipper. I redouble my efforts with my tongue, determined to bring her to the edge Caleb has forbidden her to cross.

“Enough,” Caleb growls after several minutes of this exquisite torture. He hauls Leah up by her hips, positioning her on all fours on the bed. Jude scrambles out of the way, his cock glistening with her saliva as he moves to the side.

Caleb tears off his clothes, his cock springing free—thick and flushed and already leaking at the tip. The sight of it makes Leah’s mouth fall open, such need in her eyes that makes me throb even harder. He positions himself behind Leah, one large hand splayed across her lower back, pushing her down until her chest is pressed to the mattress and her ass is raised in perfect presentation.

“Mine,” Caleb snarls again as he notches the head of his cock against her entrance. Without further warning, he slams into her with enough force to rock the entire bed frame.

Leah’s scream is a thing of beauty—raw and primal and uninhibited. Her fingers clutch at the sheets, knuckles white from the force of her grip. Caleb sets a punishing pace immediately, each thrust making obscene wet sounds as he pistons into her.

“God, that’s hot,” Jude murmurs, stroking himself slowly as he watches. “Look at her take it. Fucking made for us.”

“Language,” Mason chides automatically, though the reminder lacks its usual force given that he’s palming himself through his pants while watching Caleb claim our omega.

I can’t look away from the point where their bodies join—the place where Caleb’s thick cock disappears into Leah’s sexy pussy with each powerful thrust, her slick coating him, making the slide easier despite his considerable size. The base of his cock is already swelling, the beginnings of his knot forming as his instincts drive him to breed, to claim, to mark.

“Liam,” Leah gasps, turning her face toward me. Her eyes are glazed with pleasure, her lips swollen and red from Jude’s attentions. “Come here.”

I move without conscious thought, positioning myself near her head. She reaches for my belt with trembling fingers, and I help her, unbuckling it and freeing my cock from the confines of my pants. The relief is immediate and overwhelming.

“In my mouth,” she pleads, licking her lips. “Now.”

The “now” undoes me. I guide the head of my cock to her parted lips, groaning as she takes me in with eager hunger. The wet heat of her mouth is a revelation, her tongue swirling around the head with precision that suggests she’s mapped my preferences as carefully as I’ve mapped hers.

Caleb’s thrusts drive her forward onto my cock, creating a rhythm that has my eyes rolling back in my head with pleasure. I tangle my fingers in her hair, grounding myself in the sensation of her taking me so perfectly.

“Gonna knot you, sweetheart,” Caleb growls, his pace becoming erratic as his control slips. “Gonna fill you up, mark you so everyone knows who you belong to.”

Leah moans around my cock at his words, the vibrations sending electric pulses of pleasure up my spine. I feel her begin to tremble, her body tensing as she approaches climax.

“That’s it,” Mason encourages, moving closer to stroke her back in soothing motions. “Let go for us, Leah. Show us how good we make you feel.”

Jude positions himself at her side, his hand moving to where she and Caleb are joined. His fingers find her clit, circling it with practiced skill. “Come on, doll,” he urges. “Come on our alpha’s knot like the perfect omega you are.”

Leah’s orgasm hits like a tidal wave—her entire body seizing, inner muscles clamping down on Caleb’s cock with enough force to make him shout. Her cry is muffled by my cock in her mouth, but I feel it—feel her pleasure in the way she shudders, in the way her scent explodes with satisfaction, in the way her eyes roll back.

Caleb follows immediately, his knot swelling to full size as he locks himself inside her. “Mine,” he roars, teeth finding her nape in a bite that stops just short of breaking skin.

The sight of them locked together, Caleb’s teeth at her throat and Leah coming apart beneath him, pushes me over the edge. I pull back, not wanting to choke her, and spill my release across her lips and cheek with a groan that comes from the very core of me.

Jude follows suit seconds later, his hand working his own cock to completion as he adds his mark to Leah’s face and neck alongside mine. The territorial display should be crude, but in this moment it feels right—necessary, even.

Mason is the last to join, his usual restraint finally breaking as he watches Leah claimed and marked by all of us. He frees himself from his pants, strokes himself to completion with efficient movements, and adds his release to the mixture on Leah’s skin with a quiet groan that somehow sounds louder than Caleb’s roar.

The aftermath is a tangle of limbs and heavy breathing, Caleb and Leah locked together by his knot while the rest of us arrange ourselves around them. Someone—Mason, probably—finds tissues to gently clean Leah’s face, though none of us suggest washing away our scents completely. The mingled smell of pack and sex and satisfaction fills the small apartment like the most potent perfume ever created.

“Holy shit,” Jude says after several minutes of contented silence. He’s sprawled on his back beside Leah, staring up dazed at her ceiling. “That was...”

“Mmm,” Leah agrees, sounding thoroughly fucked out and pleased about it. She’s draped across Caleb’s chest now, his knot still securing them together as he holds her tight.

“Are you alright?” I ask her, reaching out to brush damp hair from her face. “We were rather... intense.”

She turns her head to look at me, a lazy smile spreading across her face. “More than alright,” she assures me. Her expression turns thoughtful. “I didn’t expect... I mean, I didn’t think it would be like that.”

“Like what?” Mason asks, ever attentive to nuance.

“Like…so right,” she admits softly.

The simple honesty of her words settles something in my chest.

“It is,” I whisper, pressing a kiss to her temple. “For all of us.”

When Caleb’s knot finally subsides, Leah stretches languidly between us, her body marked with evidence of our collective passion—light bruises from Caleb’s grip on her hips, the slight redness around her mouth from Jude’s enthusiasm, the lingering imprints of my fingers on her thighs, and the bruise on her neck from where Caleb branded her.

“Water,” Mason announces, and returns with glasses for everyone. I watch as Leah drinks, her throat working, a droplet escaping to trail down her neck, over her collarbone, and between her breasts. Mason’s eyes follow the same path, his usual composure fraying at the edges.

She notices. She sets down the glass and reaches for him, fingers curling around his wrist. “I want you,” she says, voice husky with need, eyes holding his with unmistakable intent.

Mason’s eyebrows rise. “You should rest.”

She tugs him closer, her other hand sliding up his thigh with determined purpose. “Do I look like I want to rest?”

The scent of her renewed arousal hits my nostrils—sharp, sweet, demanding. Mason inhales deeply, his pupils dilating as he surrenders to her pull. She guides him onto the bed, pushing him onto his back with surprising strength, then straddles him in one fluid motion.

“Fuck,” Jude whispers reverently from beside me, his hand moving to his cock, which is already hardening again at the sight before us.

I can’t look away as Leah positions herself over Mason, her slick pussy hovering just above his straining cock. Mason’s hands grip her hips, holding on as she teases them both, brushing her wet heat against his tip.

“Please,” he grits out, the single word shattering his usual calm.

Leah smiles, a wicked curve of lips that makes my own cock throb in response. Then she sinks down, taking him inside her in one long, slow slide that has both of them groaning. The visual is searing—her stretching around his thickness, her thighs trembling with the effort of restraint, Mason’s eyes rolling back as she seats herself fully.

“Don’t just watch.” She looks over her shoulder, reaching for me with one hand and Jude with the other. “I want all of you.”

We need no further invitation. Jude moves to kneel in front of her, his mouth finding her breast, tongue swirling around her nipple until she gasps. I take her other breast, marveling at how her body responds to our combined attention, her skin flushing pink with arousal. Caleb positions himself at her side, one large hand tangling in her hair to tilt her face toward him for a deep, possessive kiss.

Leah moves on Mason with a rhythm that makes my throat go dry. The way her body arches, sweat-slick and golden in the dim light, is nothing short of breathtaking. Caleb’s mouth works down her throat, leaving marks that won’t fade for days, while Jude’s hands roam her curves with a reverence that belies his usual brashness.

She’s vanilla and cinnamon and want, her scent intertwining with ours until the air is thick with it. I catalog every detail like a man starved: the way Mason’s fingers dig into her hips as he fucks her, the flush spreading across her chest, the desperate little sounds she makes when Jude’s tongue flicks against her clit.

“Fuck, that’s hot,” Jude groans, his breath ghosting over her slick folds.

Leah’s response is immediate—her hips jerk, her back arches, and Mason’s usually impeccable control shatters completely. The wet slap of skin against skin fills the room, underscored by Leah’s ragged breathing and the creak of the bedframe.

Caleb moves like a man possessed, one broad hand replacing my mouth on her breast while the other joins Jude between her thighs. “That’s it,” he rumbles, the vibration traveling through all of us. “Take what you need, omega.”

The possessive edge in his voice should chafe, but right now, with Leah spread out before us like a feast, it just feels right.

I press closer, drawn to her like a moth to flame. My tongue traces the salt-damp curve of her shoulder as my hand skates down her spine. “Beautiful,” I murmur against her skin.

She turns her head, eyes glassy with pleasure, and reaches for me. “Liam⁠—”

I move closer, unsure of her intent until she guides my cock to her mouth. The moment her lips wrap around me, the world narrows to white-hot sensation. The heat of her mouth, the way her tongue presses just there, the vibrations of her moans—it’s all I can do not to spill down her throat immediately.

The sight we make is obscene in its perfection: Leah stretched between us, taking and giving pleasure with equal abandon. Mason beneath her, his usual stoicism replaced by raw need. Jude between her thighs, grinning like the cat who got the cream. Caleb at her breast, watching her with dark, possessive eyes.

When she comes, it’s with a cry that shakes the walls. Her body convulses around Mason, her mouth tightening around me, and suddenly we’re all unraveling—Mason first, his release spilling into her with a groan that sounds like a prayer. Caleb follows, painting her stomach in thick stripes. I barely manage to pull free before adding my own mark to her flushed skin.

For long moments after, we’re just a tangle of limbs and labored breathing. Jude collapses onto Leah’s thigh with a contented sigh. “Holy fuck.”

Leah’s answering laugh is hoarse and satisfied. She’s sprawled across Mason’s chest, Caleb curled against her side, my arm trapped somewhere beneath them all.

Mason’s the first to speak, though he makes no move to disentangle himself. “We should clean up.”

“Five more minutes,” Jude mumbles, nuzzling into Leah’s hip.

Those five minutes stretch into twenty before we finally stagger to the shower—all five of us cramming into Leah’s tiny bathroom in a tangle of limbs and laughter. The water’s barely warm when Jude crowds her against the tile, his hands roaming possessively over her hips.

“Turn around, doll,” he murmurs, and Leah goes willingly, bracing herself with palms flat against the wall.

Caleb drops to his knees with a splash, wedging himself between Leah and the wall. The sound she makes when his tongue finds her clit echoes off the tiles.

The water sluices over Leah’s curves, and Mason and I watch from the periphery, our cocks filling again at the sight.

The shower rod rattles when Jude thrusts into her, pushing her harder against Caleb’s mouth. Caleb growls against her skin, the vibration drawing another broken moan from Leah’s lips.

By the time we stumble out, we’re cleaner but no less sated. The dining table becomes our next conquest. Leah bends over it with a challenge in her eyes.

“Think this will hold us?”

The table creaks ominously but holds as Jude takes her from behind. Caleb sprawls across it, offering himself to her mouth, while Mason and I stand sentinel on either side. Her hands find us, stroking in time with Jude’s thrusts.

When we finally move to the kitchen counter, I can’t hold back any longer. I guide Leah onto the cool surface, her legs wrapping around my waist as I press into her.

The moment stretches—her heat, her tightness, the way her breath hitches as I fill her completely.

“Liam,” she gasps, her fingers digging into my shoulders.

I don’t move at first, just savor the feel of her around me, the way her body adjusts, the flutter of her inner walls as she takes me deeper.

Jude crowds behind her, his cock sliding against her ass as he mouths at her shoulder. “Fuck, look at you,” he murmurs. “Taking him so well.”

Caleb’s hand joins mine on her hip, his thumb stroking the sensitive skin there. “Perfect,” he rumbles.

Mason watches from the edge of the counter, his gaze dark with want, his fingers trailing down her spine.

I start slow, savoring every inch of her, every gasp, every clench of her body around me. But Leah—stubborn, demanding, perfect Leah—arches into me, urging me deeper, faster.

“More,” she demands, her nails scoring my back.

I give it to her.

Jude’s hands roam her body, teasing her nipples, her clit, anywhere he can reach. Caleb’s mouth finds hers, swallowing her moans as I drive into her. Mason’s fingers trace the curve of her spine, his touch featherlight but grounding.

When she comes, it’s with a cry that shakes the room, her body tightening around me like a vise. I follow her over the edge, my release spilling into her with a groan that feels torn from my chest.

Jude isn’t far behind, his release painting her stomach in thick stripes as he murmurs filth against her skin.

Dawn finds us sprawled across Leah’s bed in a heap of exhausted limbs. I wake to sunlight streaming through the curtains and two distinct realizations:

First, Jude is exclaiming loudly from the bathroom about mysterious bite marks on his shoulder, his voice echoing slightly against the tile. “This one is definitely teeth,” he announces, poking his head out of the doorway with wide eyes and a barely suppressed grin. “And it’s way too small to be Caleb’s prehistoric chompers.” His eyes light up. “Do you think Leah bit me?” The hopeful pride in his voice is almost comical.

Second, and most significantly, Leah is curled against my chest, one hand splayed against me like she’s afraid I’ll disappear if she lets go. Her face in sleep is peaceful, the worry lines that had creased her forehead when we found her at Zoe’s completely smoothed away. Her scent is content, soft, without the bitter notes of anxiety or fear.

“You bit me!” Jude emerges from the bathroom with a towel wrapped around his waist, pointing dramatically at a crescent-shaped mark just below his collarbone. He’s practically preening, tilting his neck to display the mark like it’s a medal of honor.

Leah blinks sleepily, lifting her head from my chest to squint at him. “I don’t remember that.”

“That’s not how this works!” Jude protests, bouncing on his toes with theatrical indignation while fighting a smile. “You can’t just go around leaving territorial marks on people and then conveniently forget about it. There’s a system, a protocol—I should at least get to brag about how it happened!”

“There really isn’t,” Mason interjects from where he’s methodically arranging muffins on a plate he’s found in Leah’s kitchen. He’s already dressed, though his hair is still damp from the shower.

“Quiet,” Caleb grunts from where he’s sprawled across the foot of the bed, one arm flung over his eyes to block out the morning light. “Too early for this shit.”

“It’s nearly ten,” Mason informs him mildly.

“Like I said. Too early.”

Mason passes out muffins without further comment. His efficiency in taking care of the pack’s basic needs, even in unfamiliar surroundings, never ceases to impress me.

Leah accepts a muffin, her fingers brushing mine as she shifts to sit up properly. For the first time in days, her scent is completely calm. She takes a bite, humming with pleasure at the taste, and I find myself captivated by the simple joy of watching her enjoy something so ordinary after the emotional turmoil of the past days.

“These are good,” she says, surprise evident in her voice. “Really good.”

“Don’t sound so shocked,” Jude says around a mouthful of his own muffin, apparently momentarily distracted from his bite mark grievances. “Mrs. Finley strikes me as a woman who doesn’t half-ass anything, including baked goods.”

“Speaking of asses,” Caleb mutters, finally sitting up and rubbing a hand over his face, “someone kicked me in their sleep last night.”

Three pairs of eyes turn automatically to Jude, who adopts an expression of exaggerated innocence. “Why does everyone always assume it’s me?”

“Because it’s always you,” Mason, Caleb, and I respond in perfect unison.

Leah’s laugh is bright and unexpected, her shoulders shaking with genuine mirth. “God, you four are ridiculous,” she says, but the fondness in her voice is unmistakable.

“Yet here you are,” I point out, unable to resist reaching out to brush a strand of hair from her face. “Willingly surrounded by our collective ridiculousness.”

She catches my hand, her expression turning serious for a moment. “Here I am,” she agrees quietly. Her gaze travels around the room, taking in each of us in turn—Caleb, still rumpled and half-awake; Jude, animated even in the early morning; Mason, methodically arranging the remaining muffins; me, watching her with probably embarrassing intensity.

“No more running?” Jude asks, attempting to sound casual but not quite hiding the vulnerability beneath the question.

Leah shakes her head. “No more running,” she confirms. “But no more assumptions either. If we’re going to make this work—whatever this is—I need…we need to talk to each other. Actually talk, not just assume we know what the other person is thinking.”

“Agreed,” Mason says immediately. “Clear communication is essential for any functional relationship.”

“What he said, but with less management consultant vocabulary,” Jude adds, flopping back onto the bed dramatically. “Also, I vote we install a suggestion box at the brewery for pack issues. My first suggestion: Caleb stops hogging the blankets.”

“My first suggestion: Jude stops talking before noon,” Caleb retorts. He reaches for Leah, his large hand gentle as it settles on her ankle beneath the sheets. “You’re sure about this? About us? It won’t be easy.”

Leah looks down at his hand, then back up to his face. “I’m not interested in easy,” she says. “I’m interested in worth it.”

Something in my chest expands at her words, a warmth that has everything to do with the certainty in her voice.

25

LEAH

I’m gazing at the four men in my little apartment, hardly believing they’re mine, when my phone emits an aggressive chime that has me bolting upright in bed, my knee connecting with what feels like Caleb’s ribcage as I scramble for it.

“Fuck—delivery!” I gasp, suddenly remembering. “The flour—specialty order—thirty minutes—fuck!”

“What?” Liam’s already alert, his eyes scanning his phone screen with that intense focus I’ve come to appreciate.

I almost fall on my face in my effort to get off the bed. “Specialty flour from Lyon. Non-refundable upon rejection.”

The pack moves immediately in a way that would be impressive if I wasn’t too busy panicking about potentially losing thousands of dollars in imported ingredients:

Caleb rolls out of bed, somehow already dressed. It’s alpha witchcraft how he manages to look put-together within seconds of consciousness while I probably resemble something dragged backward through a hedge.

Jude attempts to leap into action but faceplants spectacularly trying to put on pants backward, hopping on one foot while cursing in what might be Italian but is more likely just creative gibberish. “Why does anyone need flour so early in the morning?” he wails. “Isn’t that against the Geneva Convention?”

Mason produces a mug of coffee from seemingly nowhere and offers it to me. I accept it gratefully, the warmth of the mug grounding me slightly as I frantically try to button my shirt, only to realize three buttons in that I’ve got it inside out and backward.

Liam calculates optimal routes while I struggle with my clothing. “Uber arriving in three minutes,” he announces, watching his phone screen. “There’s construction on Main Street so we should request rerouting via Cedar Avenue. We’ll get there in seventeen minutes if traffic remains constant.”

“Seventeen minutes?” My voice rises to a pitch that makes Caleb wince. “The delivery’s in thirty! I need to unlock, turn off the alarm system, make space for all those bags—” Oh god. This is terrible. I don’t have enough time!

“Breathe,” Caleb orders, his alpha command cutting through my spiral with startling effectiveness. He’s already gathering my jacket and bag, movements quick. “We’ve got this.”

Jude hops into view, one foot now correctly placed in pants, the other still searching for its proper home. “We’re like the A-Team but with better hair and more sexual tension,” he declares. “No flour left behind!”

I’m torn between strangling him with his own pants or kissing him for the absurd tension-breaker.

“I’ll help with moving the bags,” Liam offers calmly.

“We all will,” Mason adds.

I pause mid-panic, suddenly struck by the scene before me: four males in various states of dishevelment, all mobilizing for my bakery crisis without question or complaint. None of them asking why I didn’t plan better, why the delivery is scheduled so early, why this matters so much. They’re just... helping.

“You guys are...” I start, but can’t find the right words to encompass what I’m feeling. “Your shirt’s on inside out,” I tell Jude instead, but I hope my scent conveys the gratitude I can’t articulate.

We make it to the Uber in record time, piling in like we’re auditioning for a clown car routine. I’m painfully aware that my hair resembles a bird’s nest that survived a hurricane, and I haven’t even brushed my teeth. But the way Caleb’s looking at me…the way Liam is…the way Mason and Jude are…you’d think I’m the prettiest girl in the room.

“Could you possibly go any faster?” Jude asks our driver, leaning forward between the seats. “We’re having a flour emergency.”

The driver—a middle-aged beta who looks like she’s seen it all—flicks her eyes to the rearview mirror. “A what emergency?”

“Flour,” I repeat, feeling increasingly frazzled. “For my bakery. There’s a delivery and if we’re not there⁠—”

“Say no more,” the driver says, hitting the gas with newfound purpose. “My sister-in-law’s an omega with a catering business. I respect the hustle.”

I watch our ETA drop by three minutes as she executes a particularly creative interpretation of traffic laws, and make a mental note to leave her five stars and a massive tip.

Caleb’s hand finds mine, his larger fingers enveloping mine in a gesture that’s both possessive and steadying. “Deep breaths,” he murmurs, pitched low enough that only I can hear it clearly. “We’ll make it.”

And we do—barely. The Uber screeches to a halt outside my bakery, and I tumble out with keys already in hand. The sight of my storefront—“SWEET OMEGA” painted in elegant script on the glass—sends a fresh wave of panic through me. This is real. This is happening. This is mine.

The delivery truck is already here. Early. A bored-looking beta in a company uniform checks his watch with aggressive impatience.

“You’re late,” he announces as I rush toward him, keys clutched in my sweaty palm.

Before I can respond, Caleb steps forward, shoulders squaring and scent spiking with protective alpha rage that makes the air around him practically shimmer with menace. “Try again,” he suggests, voice pitched low in a way that makes even my omega instincts stand at attention.

The beta pales, taking an instinctive step back. “You’re... fashionably early?” he offers weakly.

“Much better,” Caleb agrees pleasantly, all teeth.

I push past both of them with the single-minded focus of a baker on a mission. I have flour to rescue. “Where do I sign? And please tell me everything survived the trip from Lyon.” I’m already opening the service entrance, Liam right behind me.

The delivery beta switches to professional autopilot, clearly preferring to interact with me rather than the growling alpha currently staring holes through his skull. “Six specialty flour varieties, two cases of imported butter, and the vanilla beans from Madagascar,” he recites, offering a digital signature pad. “All accounted for, temperature controlled during transit.”

I sign quickly and help swing open the rear service door to my bakery—my bakery—while Liam disarms the security system once I tell him the code. The space is still in transition, caught between what it was (a former boutique clothing store) and what it will be (Sweet Omega, the bakery I’ve dreamed of since I was sixteen). Sheets of plastic still cover some of the new fixtures, dust cloths draped over equipment waiting to be properly arranged.

Mason moves in behind me, taking the delivery advice from the beta and frowning down at it. “Start with the refrigerated items,” he directs, taking charge of the delivery logistics with calm authority.

“Jude, stop poking the butter and help carry,” he adds, and I turn to see Jude indeed prodding at a case of imported French butter like it might perform tricks.

“So much fuss over ground wheat,” Jude mutters, but he hefts a bag of specialty flour over his shoulder with surprising care, following Caleb who’s already loaded himself with what looks like half the delivery.

As we begin unloading the delivery items, I feel a flutter of nervousness having them in my bakery in this vulnerable, unfinished state. The front of the shop is nearly complete—gleaming display cases, freshly painted walls in warm cream, the elegant “SWEET OMEGA” signage. But the kitchen space is still a work in progress, with tools and equipment waiting to find their permanent homes.

“This is impressive,” Liam comments, his eyes taking in the layout I’ve designed.

“Really?” My heart does a little flutter in my chest.

“Yeah, and the lighting is perfect,” Jude adds, surprising me with his observant eye. “Natural light in the front, but these fixtures over the work stations?” He gestures to the specialized lighting I’d splurged on. “You can actually see what color your dough is. Genius.”

My chest warms with their approval. Once the delivery guy has departed (with noticeable relief), I close the door and turn to face them all properly.

“Welcome to Sweet Omega.” I can feel the blush creeping up my neck. “It’s not finished yet, but...”

“It’s perfect,” Caleb states, with the authoritative certainty only an alpha can muster. His eyes move over everything, territorial and approving in equal measure.

“Show us everything,” Mason encourages, his dark eyes warm with interest. “We want the full tour.”

I lead them through the space, pointing out features as the tingle of nervousness in my chest slowly fades. I show them the specialized proofing cabinet I hunted down from a retiring baker in Vermont. The marble slabs for pastry work, salvaged from an old hotel’s kitchen renovation. The coffee station where I’ll partner with a local roaster. The vintage display cases I restored myself over countless weekends.

“And this,” I say, approaching the crown jewel with reverence, “is the oven.”

It’s a gleaming behemoth, all stainless steel and digital displays. I saved for years for this specific model—commercial-grade with stone baking decks and steam injection capabilities that will give my breads the perfect crust.

“I haven’t actually used it yet,” I admit, running my fingers along its pristine surface. “Today will be its maiden voyage.”

“You’re christening it with us here?” Jude clutches his chest dramatically. “I’m honored. Truly.”

I roll my eyes at his theatrics, but there’s truth in his words. Having them here for this moment feels significant in ways I hadn’t anticipated. This isn’t just the first bake in my new space—it’s the first time I’m sharing my craft, my passion, with people who seem to genuinely care.

“I thought we could make croissants,” I suggest, moving toward the refrigerator. “First official bake in Sweet Omega’s kitchen.”

“From scratch?” Jude looks momentarily alarmed. “Doesn’t that take like twelve hours or something?”

“It can,” I admit, already pulling out butter—the French butter they just helped unload—and placing it on the marble countertop. “But I know a few shortcuts. It’ll still take a few hours though, so if you need to go⁠—”

“We don’t,” Caleb says simply, his deep voice brooking no argument.

“Show us,” Mason adds quietly, his steady presence already calming my sudden nervousness about sharing this process.

Liam steps closer to the counter, a gentle smile softening his features. “I’d love to learn how it’s done properly.”

Their interest warms me more than the oven ever could.

“Okay then.” I pin my hair back, suddenly energized. “Gather ‘round for Croissants 101.”

The process begins with ingredients. Flour, salt, yeast… the building blocks of happiness. I pour the ingredients into the bowl, my hands moving with ease. This is where I belong. Not at a stuffy wedding, not playing pretend with a pack that’s not mine, but here, in my kitchen, surrounded by the scents and sounds of creation. I glance at Caleb, catching his eye, and can’t help the smile that spreads across my face.

“The dough needs structure but tenderness.” I continue kneading. “Too much working and it gets tough, too little and it won’t hold the layers.”

“Like relationships,” Jude says, leaning his elbows on the counter. When we all turn to look at him, he shrugs. “What? I have depths.”

When my arms tire from kneading, Liam steps in without being asked, his hands working the dough with surprising skill. His touch is gentle but confident, just like the way he touches me, and I find myself watching the movement of his fingers fascinated.

“You’ve done this before,” I comment, surprised by his deft handling of the dough.

He shrugs. “My grandmother practically raised me in her bakery. Sundays were for cinnamon rolls and guilt trips about not eating enough.”

I grin. “Guilt trips are a key ingredient in every good baker’s arsenal.”

Mason, watching intently, picks up a piece of the chilled butter. “So, the temperature matters that much?” he asks, turning it over in his hands.

“Everything in baking is about balance,” I explain, oddly touched by his interest. “Too cold and the butter cracks, too warm and it melts into the dough instead of creating layers.”

He nods, absorbing this information even though it shouldn’t really be of interest to him. When our hands briefly touch as I pass him the dough scraper, the contact sends a small jolt through me, his skin warm against mine.

The crucial process of encasing the butter in dough draws them all closer, crowding around the marble counter.

“Watch,” I say, placing the butter block in the center of the rolled-out dough. The butter gleams slightly in the light, pale yellow and perfectly rectangular after I’ve beaten and folded it into shape. “This is where the magic happens.”

I fold the dough over the butter, sealing it with careful pinches. The weight of their attention should be uncomfortable, but instead it feels like a spotlight I’ve been unknowingly craving—appreciation for the craft I’ve spent years perfecting.

“Now we roll,” I explain, positioning the rolling pin at the top of the dough packet. “This creates the layers. Dough, butter, dough, butter—repeated dozens of times through folding and rolling.”

Caleb steps closer, his chest nearly touching my back. “Show me,” he says, and it’s not quite a command, but close enough that my omega instincts stir in response.

I hand him the rolling pin, our fingers brushing in a way that sends warmth cascading through me. “Gentle but firm pressure,” I instruct, my voice embarrassingly breathy as I guide his hands. “Even thickness throughout.”

He nods, expression intent as he follows my direction. His arms bracket me as he works the dough, his body radiating heat that I feel even without direct contact. When he leans forward slightly to inspect his work, his chest presses against my back, and I inhale audibly.

His nostrils flare slightly at the sound, but he doesn’t comment, doesn’t push the advantage. Instead, he simply continues rolling with careful concentration, though I don’t miss how he maintains the contact between us.

Between each series of folds and the necessary resting periods, I find myself gravitating between them in a pattern that feels natural but is anything but accidental.

I brush past Mason to reach the refrigerator though there’s plenty of room to go around, my arm sliding against his. His sharp intake of breath is nearly imperceptible, but the warmth that flickers in his normally composed expression tells me everything I need to know.

With Liam, I demonstrate the technique for checking dough elasticity, guiding his hands with mine. His touch is warm and steady, and he maintains the contact a moment longer than necessary, his eyes meeting mine with quiet intensity that makes my pulse quicken.

Jude receives less subtlety. When he makes a particularly terrible pun about “rising to the occasion,” I flick flour at him, laughing at his exaggerated outrage. He retaliates by dabbing a spot of dough on my nose, his fingers lingering a fraction too long against my skin.

“Missed a spot,” he murmurs, voice lower than his usual jovial tone, and wipes it away with his thumb. The simple touch sends a delightful skitter through me.

As I demonstrate the final fold technique, I position myself so that Caleb must stand directly behind me again, his chest pressing my back.

“See how the layers form?” I ask, looking over my shoulder at him. He leans in and our faces are inches apart, close enough that I can see the ring of amber around his pupils.

“I see,” he responds, but he’s not looking at the dough.

By the time we’re ready to shape the croissants, the air in the bakery is thick with tension. My skin feels hypersensitive, aware of every current of air, every passing touch.

I demonstrate cutting the dough into triangles, the knife gliding through layered dough with satisfying precision. “Now we roll, starting from the wide end,” I explain, my voice huskier than normal. “Like this.”

I roll one triangle into the classic crescent shape, then pass triangles to each of them. “Your turn.”

Liam approaches the task with an ease that speaks of his grandmother’s influence, his croissant taking shape with natural grace. Mason works methodically, his focus absolute as he replicates my technique with careful precision. Jude’s has creative flourishes that shouldn’t work but somehow do.

Caleb studies my technique with intense focus before creating his own. His large hands move with surprising delicacy, the croissant taking shape under his careful attention. When he finishes, he looks to me for approval, a silent question in his eyes.

“Beautiful,” I say softly, and his scent spikes with pleasure at the praise.

When the croissants have proofed and it’s finally time to bake, we gather around the oven like spectators at a sporting event. I brush each pastry with egg wash, the golden liquid glistening on the surface.

“The moment of truth,” I say, sliding the trays into the oven and setting the timer. “Twenty minutes to glory or disaster.”

“With you making them? Definitely glory,” Jude says.

That’s when the rain starts. A gentle patter against the windows that quickly intensifies to a steady drumming. Fat droplets race down the glass, blurring the outside world.

“Wasn’t in the forecast,” Mason observes, glancing toward the windows with a slight frown.

“Guess you’re stuck with us a bit longer,” Jude says, bumping against me playfully. “Tragedy.”

The idea of them staying sends a curl of pleasure through me. I hide my smile by turning to check the oven window, where the croissants are already beginning to expand, the layers separating visibly as they brown.

When the timer finally chimes, I pull on my oven mitts and open the door. Heat and the intoxicating scent of butter washes over me as I carefully extract the trays.

The croissants are perfect—golden brown and shatteringly crisp on the outside, their layers distinct and visible. I can’t contain my grin of triumph as I set them on the cooling rack.

“The first official baked goods from Sweet Omega’s,” I announce, unable to keep the pride from my voice. “What do you think?”

Jude doesn’t wait for them to cool, snatching one from the tray with nimble fingers that must be impervious to heat. He tears it open, the steam escaping in a fragrant cloud, and takes a bite. His eyes close as he chews, an expression of pure bliss spreading across his face.

“Holy—” He swallows the exclamation with visible effort. “Leah, these are illegal. You’re going to have lines around the block.”

His enthusiasm is contagious, the others each taking a croissant with varying degrees of eagerness. Liam breaks his open gently, appreciation evident in his expression before he even tastes it. Mason observes his croissant for a moment, as though committing its perfection to memory, before taking a careful bite. Caleb tears his open, the layers separating perfectly, before taking a substantial bite.

Their expressions of appreciation—Liam’s warm “These are incredible,” Mason’s thoughtful “I’ve never tasted better,” Caleb’s approving nod and deepened breathing—fill me with a satisfaction deeper than any I’ve felt before.

I finally try one myself, the exterior shattering satisfyingly between my teeth, giving way to a buttery, tender interior. It’s everything a croissant should be—light, layered, with a complexity of flavor that reveals the quality of the ingredients.

“This is why I do this,” I say softly, unable to contain the emotion in my voice. “This moment—seeing people enjoy something I’ve created. It’s... everything.”

The sincerity of my statement hangs in the air as the rain pounds harder against the windows. Thunder rumbles in the distance, and the lights flicker once before steadying.

“Getting worse out there,” Caleb observes, moving to stand near the window. His broad silhouette is outlined against the gray light, powerful and somehow protective.

“We could call a car,” Liam suggests, his tone gentle.

“Or,” Jude counters, already reaching for a second pastry, “we could enjoy being trapped in a bakery with a master baker. I vote for more food.”

As I watch them debate the merits of leaving versus staying, a different warmth begins spreading through me. It starts in my core and radiates outward, making my skin tingle and my cheeks flush. Their scents, which I’ve been aware of all morning, seem to suddenly intensify. My hands tremble slightly as I reach for another croissant. It falls to the floor as my clumsy fingers fail to grasp it. Frowning, I bend to retrieve it, but a wave of dizziness washes over me, and I have to steady myself against the counter.

Mason is at my side instantly, eyes concerned. “Leah?”

I press a hand to my flushed cheek, suddenly aware of what’s happening as my skin grows hypersensitive, my body temperature rising noticeably. “Oh,” I manage weakly. “That’s... hmm.”

“Heat flash,” Liam says quietly, his gentleness now carefully controlled as he moves to adjust the bakery’s thermostat. I see him take a measured breath, maintaining his composure even as his own scent responds to mine.

Jude, meanwhile, is already shrugging out of his hoodie—a well-worn navy thing that looks soft. “Here,” he offers, the teasing gone from his voice. “This might help.”

I clutch the garment gratefully, the fabric already saturated with his citrus scent. The instinct to press it to my face, to inhale deeply, is nearly overwhelming. “Thanks,” I murmur, embarrassed by my obvious reaction but too affected to hide it.

“Don’t be embarrassed,” Caleb says immediately, his voice lower and rougher than usual, his own scent sharpening in response to mine. “It’s natural.”

Mason doesn’t hesitate. Right there in the middle of my bakery, his fingers go to his buttons. One by one, they slip free until he’s shrugging out of his shirt, the fabric still warm from his body. The others follow suit without a word. Caleb yanks his over his head, Jude peels off his, and Liam does the same.

I watch, pulse hammering, as they transform my small office nook into a sanctuary. The worn armchair becomes the centerpiece as Mason arranges Caleb’s shirt across the seat with precise folds. Jude drapes his shirt over the backrest while Liam’s sweater forms a soft barrier against the desk’s edge.

Mason steps back last, his bare chest distracting as he offers me his still-warm button-down. “For the arms,” he murmurs, nodding toward the chair’s rests.

I take the fabric with trembling fingers, pressing it to my face first to inhale deeply before draping it where he indicated. The moment I sink into the chair, their mingled scents rise around me like a living thing. Caleb’s growl vibrates through the small room when I unconsciously nuzzle into his shirt cushion.

Liam braces one hand on the desk, his bare arms flexing as he leans closer. “Enough?” he asks, his voice gone rough.

I shake my head, fingers curling into Mason’s shirt beneath me as I tilt my head back. The exposed line of my throat says what I can’t—that their careful distance is the opposite of what I need. The office walls seem to shrink around us, the air thickening with pheromones and unsaid promises.

Caleb’s nostrils flare, understanding immediately. “May I?” he asks, his voice a low rumble as he kneels beside my nest.

When I nod again, he leans in slowly, deliberately, his nose tracing the curve where my neck meets my shoulder. The light contact sends electricity dancing across my skin. He inhales deeply, then exhales, his breath hot against my sensitive skin. Dark chocolate and espresso intensify around me, sinking into my pores, a temporary marking that soothes something primal in my chest.

When he pulls back, his eyes have darkened to near-black, pupils expanded with desire he’s keeping rigidly in check. The restraint itself is as arousing as his scent.

Jude approaches next, his usual playfulness tempered by unexpected reverence. “My turn, doll?” he asks softly, waiting for my nod before taking my hand.

He turns it to expose my inner wrist, his thumb brushing lightly over my pulse point. The touch is gentle but sends sparks racing up my arm. He presses his lips there in a kiss that’s almost chaste—except for the deliberate way he exhales against the sensitive skin, flooding the area with his citrus scent.

“Just so you remember who gave up their favorite hoodie,” he teases, but his eyes are darker than usual, his typical mischief banked to smoldering embers.

Liam sits beside me, taking both my hands in his. His touch is steady and warm as he holds my gaze, a silent question in his eyes. When I nod, he leans forward, his forehead resting briefly against mine in an unexpectedly intimate gesture. He doesn’t speak, but his old books and rain wraps around me, creating another layer of protection, another claim.

When he pulls back, his expression is soft but his eyes burn with a controlled intensity that makes my breath hitch.

Mason chooses a less traditional approach. He gestures to the space behind me in the wide chair. “May I?” he asks, his calm voice a stark contrast to the tension evident in his shoulders.

When I nod, Mason settles behind me with the efficiency of a man who’s calculated every possible angle. His chest presses against my back, legs bracketing mine, but his arms stay loose. Like he’s giving me an out if I need it. Which is ridiculous. I’m currently burrowed in a nest made of their clothes, for fuck’s sake.

He nuzzles the top of my head, his sandalwood scent wrapping around me. Outside, thunder cracks loud enough to rattle the display cases. Jude immediately launches into a story about the time lightning struck the brewery and fried all their digital thermometers.

“Lost three batches of IPA before we realized the readings were off,” he says, sprawled on the floor like a discarded jacket. “Liam cried actual tears.”

“I did not cry,” Liam corrects, adjusting a sweater under my elbow. “I was…disappointed.”

Caleb snorts from his post by the door, his arms crossed over his bare chest, eyes locked on me. “You punched a hole in the drywall.”

The banter flows around me while Mason’s fingers trace idle patterns on my arm.

Gradually, the intensity of the heat flash fades, leaving me pleasantly tired but clearheaded. I remain curled in the nest, reluctant to move from this bubble of contentment.

“Better?” Mason asks, his voice a gentle rumble against my back.

“Much,” I admit, suddenly shy about the whole situation. “Sorry about the... biological meltdown.”

“Don’t apologize,” Liam says with a warm smile. “We…like helping.”

“Plus,” Jude adds, sprawling on the floor beside my chair with casual grace, “now we know croissant-making is your aphrodisiac. Valuable information for future reference.”

I kick at him half-heartedly, but can’t help laughing. “You’re the worst.”

“You mean the best,” he corrects with a wink.

The lights flicker again as another crash of thunder shakes the building. The storm shows no signs of letting up, sheets of water cascading down the windows and turning the world beyond into a blur.

“Looks like we’re here for a while,” Liam observes.

“Oh no. Trapped in a bakery. However will we survive?” Jude clutches his chest dramatically. “I guess we’ll just have to eat more pastries and enjoy the company of a beautiful omega. The hardship is unimaginable.”

His ridiculous performance startles a laugh from me. I look at them—really look at them. Four males who dropped everything this morning to help me with a flour delivery. Who spent hours making croissants with me, their hands in dough, creating something beautiful together. Who built me a nest out of their own clothing when my biology decided to have an emotional meltdown.

“Thank you,” I say simply.

“For what?” Mason asks, his chin resting lightly on my shoulder.

“For this,” I gesture around us—at the bakery with its perfect croissants cooling on the rack, at the nest cradling me, at them in their various protective positions. “For helping me without taking over. For... seeing me, I guess.”

Caleb nods, understanding in his eyes. “We see you.”

“The stubborn parts too,” Jude adds with a wink.

“Especially the stubborn parts,” Liam agrees with a warm smile.

Mason’s arms tighten fractionally around me, a gentle squeeze that says more than words.

And damn if that doesn’t hit harder than any grand gesture.

26

LEAH

My apartment feels eerily quiet after the chaos of yesterday. The pack insisted on seeing me home after the storm finally cleared, making sure I was safely tucked away with leftovers from the impromptu croissant-making session, takeout, and promises to check in this morning. The goodbye at my door was lingering. Some part of me didn’t want to break the bubble of contentment we’d created at the bakery.

Now, surrounded by the echoing silence of my own space, I take a breath. Gaze shifting to my sourdough starter quietly living its life on my kitchen counter. I stare at it for a long while before another big sigh makes my shoulders rise and fall.

Will I see them today? I don’t even know. We’d made no plans, and some traitorous part of me pangs with disappointment. I run a hand through my hair, a groan leaving my throat as I plop back against my pillows, trying to resist burying my face into the sheets to catch the lingering notes of their scent.

What is wrong with me? Am I not the same omega that ran away from them convinced it was for the best? Now I’m lying here clenching my thighs and trying not to think about them.

My gaze shifts back to Fernando. “I’m pathetic, aren’t I, Fern?”

I’ve just brushed my teeth and barely washed the drool from my face when a knock at the door startles me. Probably Mrs. Finley. No. Most likely Zoe coming over to gloat.

I groan again, bracing myself, but when I open the door, he’s standing there with a small, neatly wrapped package tucked under one arm and an uncharacteristically nervous expression.

“Liam?” I blink, not really sure I’m seeing him right.

“I thought...” He pauses, giving me a slight smile that softens his features in that endearing way he does. “That is, we thought—the pack—that perhaps you might enjoy some... individual interactions.”

I blink at him, warmth blooming in my chest at the fact he’s here, all while trying to think straight so I can parse the formal phrasing. “Are you... asking me on a date?”

The tips of his ears turn pink. “Yes. That’s a more efficient way of stating it.”

A smile tugs at my lips as I lean against the doorframe. “And the others are okay with this?”

“It was actually Caleb’s suggestion,” Liam admits. “We’ve established a rotation.”

Of course they have a system. These ridiculous, wonderful men.

“So you drew the short straw for first date?” I tease.

His eyes meet mine, suddenly intense. “I volunteered.”

The simple statement knocks the breath from my lungs. Since meeting these men, Liam has never pushed forward or tried to claim attention. That he specifically chose to be first sends a warm flutter through my chest.

“Well then,” I say, willing my voice to stay steady despite the butterflies in my stomach. “I’d love to.” I glance down at my old t-shirt and yoga pants. “But I should probably change out of my disaster outfit first.”

Liam’s smile is small but genuine. “Take your time. I’ll wait downstairs.”

Twenty minutes later, after the fastest shower known to omega-kind and throwing on the first decent outfit I could find (dark jeans, a soft sweater, and boots that make me feel put together), I find Liam leaning against their SUV, two to-go coffee cups in hand.

“You look beautiful,” he says simply, handing me one. The warmth in his voice makes my cheeks heat before I can stop myself.

“So where are we—” I start to ask as I buckle in, but he shakes his head with that quiet smile.

“Surprise,” he says, putting the car in gear.

When we pull up to a tiny bookstore tucked between a laundromat and a vintage record shop, I can’t help the smile. “A bookstore?”

Liam’s fingers brush mine as he takes my empty coffee cup. “You’ll see.”

I’m ninety percent sure Liam’s trying to kill me with poetry.

“Skin on skin, a whispered sigh, no words needed, only you and I,” he reads, voice low and steady like he’s explaining a beer fermentation process and not pressing me against the Philosophy shelf. His thumb traces the spine of the book like it’s sacred.

“You brought me to the metaphysics aisle for this?” I whisper. The old beta at the register hasn’t looked up from her crossword in twenty minutes, but still.

Liam’s lips twitch. “Poetry is chemistry. Precision matters.”

“Uh-huh.” I pluck the book from his hands and flip to a random page. “‘A touch, a taste, a burning fire, no need for words, only pure desire.’” I smirk up at him. “That your pick-up line, doc?”

His ears go pink again. “No. That’s—” He exhales sharply when I step closer, my hip brushing his. “Yes,” he admits softly.

I laugh, but it catches in my throat when he cages me against the shelf, one hand braced by my head. His scent wraps around me like a soft embrace, familiar and thrilling all at once.

“For balance,” he murmurs, and kisses me so thoroughly I forget which way is up.

His mouth is careful against mine at first, as if we’re kissing for the first time instead of the dozenth. But there’s something different about this—about being alone with just Liam, about the way his focus narrows to me with such intensity that it makes my knees weak.

His free hand cups my face, thumb brushing my cheekbone with delicate pressure that makes me shiver. When I gasp, he takes the opportunity to deepen the kiss, his tongue meeting mine in a slow, deliberate exploration that has heat pooling low in my belly.

Somewhere in the distance, a book thuds to the floor. The beta clerk finally looks up.

“You two. Out,” she says, though there’s more resignation than actual outrage in her tone.

Liam pulls back immediately. His eyes are darker than usual, but his composure returns quickly as he straightens his blazer, which has gone slightly askew.

“Apologies,” he tells the clerk with such genuine politeness that her stern expression softens slightly.

“Just buy the book if you like it that much,” she says with a wave of her hand.

Liam does exactly that, purchasing not only that collection but also three other books he noticed me lingering over during our browsing. His thoughtfulness touches me more than I think he even knows.

Outside, the air has a crisp edge that feels refreshing against my flushed skin. Liam takes my hand as we walk, his long fingers interlacing with mine in a way that feels both casual and significant.

“Is this your way of saying I’m your muse?” I ask, bumping his shoulder playfully as I hold up the poetry book.

I expect him to deflect with some academic observation. Instead, he stops walking, turning to face me with an expression so open and vulnerable it steals my breath.

“Yes,” he says simply.

Just that. One syllable, delivered with such quiet certainty that it lands like a weight in my chest.

“Oh,” I manage, suddenly finding the sidewalk fascinating.

He places a finger under my chin, tilting my face up to meet his gaze. “Is that alright?”

When I meet his gaze, the look in his eyes is so raw, so genuine, that I’m left speechless. If he says I’m his muse, he means it. He has probably analyzed the statement from every angle before voicing it.

“I’ve never been anyone’s muse before,” I admit. “I’m not sure I know how.”

His smile is gentle. “There’s no manual.”

The sincerity in his voice makes my throat tight. “You’re really good at this,” I finally murmur.

“At what?”

“This dating thing...”

His expression softens. “That’s not a skill, Leah. It’s simply paying attention to what matters.”

Before I can respond to this casually devastating statement, my phone buzzes with a text. It’s from Jude:

Is Liam boring you with poetry yet? Blink twice if you need rescue. I’m outside the record store with donuts and ZERO academic intentions.

I laugh, turning the screen so Liam can see it. “Your pack is checking up on you.”

“Our pack,” he corrects mildly, and there’s a hint of alpha possessiveness in the way his hand tightens slightly around mine. “And they’re simply impatient for their own turns.”

“Well, they’ll have to wait,” I say, tucking my phone away without responding. “I’m not done with you yet.”

His pleased smile warms me more than the coffee he buys me from the shop next door, where we spend the next hour discussing everything from ancient brewing techniques to his grandmother’s secret cookie recipe. When he drives me home that evening, I…don’t want to say goodbye. Lingering in my doorway, I look up at him.

“Thank you for today,” I tell him, meaning it completely.

“The pleasure was mine,” he responds, and somehow the formal phrase doesn’t sound stiff coming from him.

When he leans in to kiss me goodnight, it’s gentle but thorough, a promise rather than a demand. As he turns to leave, I catch his wrist.

“Would you like to come in?”

His pupils dilate noticeably, but he shakes his head with obvious reluctance. “The others would never let me hear the end of it if I did.”

“I don’t recall asking about the others.” Aah! When did I get so bold?

Liam swallows visibly. “Leah...”

“Just for a little while,” I add, suddenly unsure. “We could have tea.”

The smile that spreads across his face is knowing. “We both know tea is not what would happen if I stepped through that door right now.”

The heat in his gaze makes me shiver. “Would that be so terrible?”

“No,” he murmurs, stepping closer despite his earlier restraint. “But I’ve waited this long to have you to myself. When I do, I plan to take my time. Hours, not minutes.”

The promise in his voice sends a cascade of anticipation down my spine. “I’ll hold you to that, doctor.”

His eyes darken at the nickname. “Please do.” He brushes his lips against my forehead, a touch so light it’s barely there. “Goodnight, Leah.”

I watch him walk away, already looking forward to whatever Caleb, Jude, and Mason have planned for their turns. If Liam’s courtship is any indication, I’m in for quite a week.

27

LEAH

Jude cheats at mini-golf with the precision of a master criminal.

“Natural talent!” he declares, using his club to gently nudge my ball into the hole from three feet away. His grin is all wicked alpha charm as he plucks the ball out and hands it to me, fingers brushing mine just a second too long.

I swat his arm. “You’re terrible at this.”

“At golf?” He leans in until his citrus-and-woodsmoke scent drowns out the stale pond water. “Absolutely. At admiring you?” His voice drops to a purr. “Undefeated champion.”

I roll my eyes, but my pulse jumps when he produces a blue slushie from nowhere and presses the cold cup into my hand. “As Mason would say, hydration is key,” he murmurs, watching me take the first sip with those predator-bright eyes.

Then he ruins the moment by turning to the family at Hole 4 and stage-whispering: “Psst—kid. Wanna see a magic trick?”

Before I can stop him, Jude:

1. “Borrows” the dad’s club (“Tactical acquisition”)

2. Lines up three balls at once

3. Sinks them all in a single, physics-defying shot

The crowd gasps. The teenage employees start filming. The manager turns purple, glaring at Jude.

Jude bows like he’s accepting an Oscar, then tosses the club back to the stunned dad. “Worth it,” he tells me as he laces our fingers together and leads me toward the exit. “Did you see that eight-year-old’s face? I’ve made a core memory.”

I’m laughing despite myself. “I’ve said it many times, but you are ridiculous.”

Jude bows with theatrical flourish.

I can’t help laughing as he grabs my hand and pulls me toward the exit. His enthusiasm is infectious, his joy in the moment so genuine that it’s impossible not to get caught up in it.

“I had plans for the next hole,” he says as we emerge into the parking lot. “I was going to spell your name in golf balls. It would have been very romantic.”

“And entirely against the rules,” I point out, still smiling despite myself.

“Rules are just suggestions with better marketing,” he says dismissively, slinging an arm around my shoulders. “Now, I believe I promised you the Best Date Ever.”

He guides me to the car, opening the door and waiting for me to get in. “Onward to Plan B!”

I’m grinning now. Can’t help it. “Which is?”

“A surprise,” he says with a wink.

I know we’ve arrived before Jude even kills the engine. The scent hits me first. Hops and malt and something deeper, richer, like oak barrels and spice. The building is all industrial-chic brick and gleaming steel, with a massive lion’s-head logo painted above the entrance, its eyes glowing under the security lights.

“You…brought me to your brewery?” I breathe, craning my neck to take in the soaring ceilings as Jude unlocks the side door.

“Not just the brewery,” he murmurs, his hand finding mine in the dark. “Our second home.”

The word sends a shiver down my spine.

Inside, it’s even more breathtaking. The taproom is a cathedral of craft beer—polished concrete floors, exposed beams strung with Edison bulbs, and a bar made from a single slab of reclaimed oak that must be twenty feet long. The walls are lined with awards and vintage beer signs, but what catches my eye are the personal touches:

A framed photo of all four of them, covered in mud after what looks like a barley harvest gone wrong

Mason’s painfully organized clipboard hanging by the taps.

Jude’s collection of ridiculous novelty mugs behind the bar.

Caleb’s battered leather jacket slung over a chair like he just left it there.

“Welcome to Le Roux After Dark,” Jude announces, flipping a switch. The lights come up slowly, illuminating the space in a warm, golden glow. “Where the beer is cold, the company is hot, and the entertainment is...” He produces a remote from some hidden compartment with a flourish. “...private karaoke.”

I stare at him in disbelief. “You brought me here to sing karaoke?”

“Not just any karaoke,” he corrects, guiding me to a table that’s been set with candles and a small vase of wildflowers. “Private karaoke. With beer. And me, who has been told on multiple occasions that my rendition of ‘Total Eclipse of the Heart’ can make grown alphas weep.”

“With laughter or emotion?” I ask dryly.

He clutches his chest in mock offense. “You wound me, doll. Just for that, you’re going first.”

Before I can protest, he’s handing me a microphone and queuing up a song on the sound system. The opening notes of “I Will Survive” fill the taproom, and Jude’s expectant grin is so infectious that I find myself singing along despite my initial reluctance.

What follows is two hours of increasingly ridiculous duets, solo performances that range from heartfelt to deliberately terrible, and enough laughter to make my sides ache. Jude, it turns out, actually does have a decent singing voice when he’s not intentionally butchering songs for comic effect. His version of “Can’t Help Falling in Love” is surprisingly tender, his eyes never leaving mine throughout the performance.

“Your turn,” he says afterward, handing me the microphone.

I scroll through the song options, feeling oddly vulnerable. Singing in front of others has never been my thing—I’m more comfortable with the repeated steps of baking than the raw exposure of performance. But something about Jude’s open enthusiasm, his complete lack of self-consciousness, makes me brave enough to select a song I’d never normally attempt in public.

The opening notes of “At Last” fill the room, and I close my eyes, letting the music wash over me. When I start to sing, my voice is quieter than Jude’s, less confident, but I find my footing as the song progresses. By the chorus, I’m lost in the melody, in the emotion of the lyrics.

When I open my eyes at the end, Jude is watching me with an expression I’ve never seen on his face before, all traces of his usual mischief gone.

“What?” I ask, suddenly self-conscious.

“Nothing,” he says, shaking his head slightly as if coming out of a trance. “Just... you’re full of surprises, Leah Carter.”

Before I can respond, he’s crossing the space between us, taking the microphone from my hand and setting it aside. When his lips find mine, I nearly moan in his mouth. His kiss is all passion and playfulness, his hands cupping my face as he pours himself into the contact.

I melt into him, my hands finding purchase on his shoulders as he walks me backward until I bump against the edge of a table. In one smooth motion, he lifts me onto it, stepping between my legs without breaking the kiss.

“Been wanting to do that all night,” he murmurs against my lips when we finally break apart for air. “Actually, been wanting to do a lot more than that, but I promised Caleb I’d behave.”

The mention of their head alpha sends a shiver of anticipation through me. “And do you always keep your promises?”

His grin turns wicked. “Only the boring ones.”

Just as he leans in again, his phone buzzes insistently in his pocket. He groans, resting his forehead against mine. “I swear to god, if this is Liam asking about the fermentation logs again...”

When he checks the screen, his expression shifts to amused exasperation. “Mason, you psychic bastard,” he mutters, showing me the text:

Mason face with hand over mouth

Either you’re giving Leah a brewery tour (unlikely) or you’re about to violate at least three health codes. Move it along, Casanova.

I burst out laughing. “He knows you too well.”

Jude rolls his eyes and types back with exaggerated keystrokes:

We’re admiring the craftsmanship of your copper piping.

The reply is instant:

Liar. Get out before I send Caleb.

Jude pockets his phone with a dramatic sigh. “Our beta has zero respect for romance.”

I laugh, sliding off the table and straightening my clothes. “Rain check, then?”

He gives me a lopsided smile. “For now.”

The drive back is filled with Jude’s animated storytelling about the brewery’s early days. I laugh till my sides hurt. By the time we reach my apartment, I’m again reluctant for the date to end.

At my door, Jude brushes a strand of hair behind my ear, his touch unexpectedly gentle. “Mason’s up next,” he murmurs. “Prepare for spreadsheets of your favorite coffee orders and whatever other data he’s been quietly collecting.”

“And Caleb?” I can’t help asking.

Jude’s grin turns wolfish. “Oh, you’ll know when it’s Caleb’s turn.” His goodnight kiss is surprisingly chaste. Just a brush of lips that lingers just long enough to promise more. As he walks backward toward the elevator, he calls out: “Sweet dreams, omega. Try not to miss me too much.”

He waves, leaving me standing there with the phantom press of his lips still tingling against mine.

Two days later, after spending much time with the final touches of the bakery, Mason turns up.

He arrives at my door precisely on time, dressed in a dark sweater that makes his eyes look like liquid amber. The rolled papers under his arm catch my attention.

“For later,” he says before I can ask, that subtle half-smile playing at his lips. “I thought you might enjoy seeing the stars without light pollution.”

The simple statement sends warmth through my chest. This is Mason. The kind of man who notices what you need before you do.

Our first stop surprises me—a hidden farmers market in a converted warehouse, bursting with colors and scents I’ve never encountered. Mason moves through the space with quiet confidence, his hand occasionally brushing the small of my back to guide me toward something special.

“Try this,” he murmurs, offering a slice of peach glistening with honey. “The vendor keeps bees in her orchard. Notice the floral notes?”

The fruit bursts on my tongue, sweetness layered with something deeper. “How did you find this place?”

He tilts his head slightly. “You’re a baker, Leah. When I heard about this vendor’s process, I knew you’d appreciate it.”

My heart swells. For the next few minutes, we gather treasures—vanilla beans still glistening with moisture, saffron threads like captured sunlight, a jar of honey so dark it’s nearly black. Each selection reveals how closely he’s been paying attention to my work, my passions.

Dinner is at an intimate chef’s counter where the courses seem tailored specifically to my tastes. When I raise an eyebrow at the perfect wine pairing, Mason simply says, “You said you liked Le Roux.”

That’s Mason’s magic. The way he observes without intruding, cares without crowding. His quiet attention feels like a warm cloak I don’t want to get rid of.

On the brewery roof later, he spreads a blanket before producing a thermos. The rich chocolate scent makes me smile before I even taste it.

“You added cinnamon,” I note.

“Of course.” As if there was never another option. He arranges himself behind me, his chest against my back, arms bracketing me securely. “The shower should start in twelve minutes. Look northeast.”

The meteors come right on schedule, streaking across the sky as Mason names constellations in that low, steady voice. When I shiver, his arms tighten instinctively. “Cold?”

“Just perfect,” I murmur, leaning back into his warmth. His responding hum vibrates through me.

Later, at my door, he hesitates. That’s when I understand. For all his quiet confidence, this matters to him. My fingers find his collar, pulling him down into a kiss that starts soft but deepens when his control slips just enough to let me feel the hunger beneath.

“Goodnight, Mason,” I whisper against his lips.

His thumb brushes my cheekbone, his breathing not quite even. “Sleep well, Leah.”

As he turns to leave, I can’t resist adding, “Tell Caleb I’m looking forward to his turn.”

Mason’s lips quirk in that almost-smile he does. “I believe he’s already aware. Quite aware.”

The anticipation that statement sends coursing through me carries me all the way to sleep, dreams filled with stars and careful hands and the promise of what tomorrow might bring.

When Caleb texts “Meet me at the brewery’s private gym. 7 pm,” I stare at my phone like it might explain this abrupt invitation. No greeting, no context. Just time and place in his typical no-nonsense style. After Jude’s playful karaoke night and Mason’s thoughtful market tour, I’d expected something... different from our head alpha.

The brewery parking lot is nearly empty when I arrive, just a few security lights glowing against the brick exterior. I’m buzzing the intercom when the side door swings open, revealing Caleb in his usual uniform of dark jeans and a black t-shirt stretched across his shoulders. His hair is slightly damp, the scent of soap and his signature dark chocolate espresso scent wrapping around me as he steps aside to let me in.

“You came,” he says, approval evident in his tone.

I raise an eyebrow, trying to ignore the flutter in my stomach at his presence. “You didn’t give me much choice. Your text was very... commanding.”

A hint of a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “And yet, you’re here.”

“Curiosity,” I explain, gesturing around the empty gym. “Though I have to say, this isn’t what I expected for a date.”

“What did you expect?”

I shrug, trying for nonchalance. “I don’t know. Dinner? A movie? Some traditional alpha display of wealth and status?”

He snorts, moving farther inside with a predatory grace that makes my omega instincts sit up and take notice. “Not my style.”

“So what is your style?” I ask, following him cautiously.

He turns to face me, his expression serious. “Protection.”

The single word hangs between us, loaded with meaning. I blink, trying to process the implications. “I don’t need a bodyguard, Caleb.”

“Not a bodyguard,” he corrects. Caleb leads me down a hallway I’ve never noticed before, stopping at an unmarked door. “Our training space,” he says simply, pushing it open.

The gym is nothing like the commercial fitness centers I’ve seen. No mirrored walls or pink dumbbells - just polished concrete floors, serious-looking equipment, and an open mat area that takes up half the room. The air smells faintly of lemon cleaner and the musk of hard work.

I turn in a slow circle, taking it in. Understanding dawns. “You want to teach me self-defense.”

He nods, watching my reaction carefully. “Is that acceptable? You know, before you decide.”

“Decide what?”

His green eyes lock onto mine. “If we’re worth keeping.”

I blink at him. Here is an alpha who could easily overpower me, who society would say has every right to protect me as he sees fit, asking for my consent to teach me to protect myself.

“Yes,” I say, stepping onto the mats. “Show me.”

What follows is two hours of the most intensive physical training I’ve ever experienced. Caleb is a demanding instructor, but his criticism is constructive, his demonstrations careful despite the strength I know he’s holding in check. He shows me how to break various holds, how to use an attacker’s weight against them, how to identify and target vulnerable areas on a larger opponent.

“Again,” he says after I fail to execute a particular escape move for the third time. “You’re overthinking it. Trust your instincts.”

I grit my teeth, frustration building as he easily captures my wrists in his much larger hands. “Easy for you to say. Your instincts come with alpha strength.”

“And yours come with omega adaptability,” he counters, not loosening his grip. “Use it. I’m bigger, but you’re faster. I’m stronger, but you can be smarter.”

The challenge in his voice sparks something in me—determination, maybe, or just plain stubbornness. It works. I break free, backing away with a triumphant grin.

“Good,” he approves, a hint of pride in his expression. “Now, attack me.” He stands in the center of the mat, feet planted, arms at his sides.

I hesitate. “Just... attack you?”

He nods. “However you want.”

I study him, looking for any vulnerability. His stance is solid, his balance perfect. But there’s something in his eyes—a challenge, yes, but also something warmer, more approving. He’s watching me think, and he likes what he sees.

That realization gives me an idea. I move in again, but this time instead of aiming for a proper takedown, I drive my knee toward his thigh—not hard enough to truly hurt, but with enough force to make my point.

His eyes widen fractionally, and for a split second, his focus shifts to the unexpected target. It’s all the opening I need. I use his momentary distraction to hook my foot behind his ankle and push, not with enough strength to topple him on my own, but with enough technique to throw him off balance.

He growls—a low, rumbling sound that vibrates through the air—and suddenly I’m the one falling, my back hitting the mat with enough force to knock the breath from my lungs. Caleb follows me down, his body covering mine, hands pinning my wrists above my head.

“Do it again,” he says, voice dropped to a register that sends shivers down my spine. “I dare you.”

The challenge in his eyes, the weight of him pressed against me, the scent of alpha arousal suddenly thick in the air—it’s intoxicating. I should be intimidated, maybe even afraid, but all I feel is a heady rush of excitement and my own answering arousal.

“What happens if I do?” I ask, my voice dropping to a husky tone I didn’t intend.

His eyes darken, pupils expanding as he takes in my flushed cheeks, my quickened breathing. “Try and find out.”

The tension between us is electric, a live wire of attraction that has been building since that first meeting at that pre-wedding cocktail party. With the others, there’s sweetness, exploration, gentle discovery. With Caleb, there’s this raw, primal, undeniable electricity.

I buck against his hold and his grip tightens, not painfully but with unmistakable dominance. When I try to knee him again, he shifts, slotting himself between my thighs in a way that makes us both freeze at the sudden, intimate contact.

“Leah,” he says, my name almost a growl in his throat.

“Caleb,” I return, deliberately flexing my hips upward.

The growl deepens, his control visibly fraying at the edges. I can see the moment he makes his decision, the slight nod to himself before he lowers his head to brush his lips against mine—a question, an offering.

I answer by surging upward, turning the tentative contact into something hungry and demanding. He responds immediately, his mouth claiming mine with such intensity it leaves no doubt who’s in charge.

One of his hands releases my wrist to cup my face, thumb stroking my cheekbone with surprising gentleness given the heat of our kiss. I use my newly freed hand to explore the solid muscle of his shoulder, the taut line of his back. Every touch seems to stoke the fire between us, his scent growing richer and more potent with each passing second.

When we finally break apart for air, his eyes have gone almost black with desire, just a thin ring of green visible around the dilated pupils. He’s breathing hard, his control hanging by a thread that I suddenly, desperately want to snap.

“Is this still part of the self-defense lesson?” I ask, my voice breathy and uneven.

The corner of his mouth quirks upward. “No. This is part of the ‘driving me crazy’ lesson.”

I can’t help the smile that spreads across my face. “Am I a good student?”

“Exceptional,” he rumbles, lowering his head to brush his lips against the sensitive spot just below my ear. “Though your technique could use some refinement.”

“Perhaps I need more hands-on instruction.”

His answering growl vibrates against my skin, sending shivers of anticipation down my spine. “Happy to provide it.”

What follows is less a kiss than a claiming—his mouth hot and demanding against mine, his body a welcome weight pinning me to the mat. I match his intensity with my own, omega instincts reveling in the powerful alpha currently marking me with his scent and touch.

We’re so lost in each other that we don’t hear the gym door open, don’t notice we have company until a pointed cough breaks through our haze of arousal.

I jerk back from Caleb’s mouth to find Jude leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest, that infuriating smirk playing on his lips. Mason stands just behind him, eyes dark and calculating as they rake over my disheveled state—lips swollen, hair wild, Caleb’s scent clinging to my skin. Liam’s the one who steps forward first, his usual calm replaced by something far more dangerous.

“Interesting interpretation of ‘self-defense training,’” Jude drawls, pushing off the doorframe. “Unless the lesson was how to fuck our alpha senseless? In which case—” He gestures to me, pinned beneath Caleb. “Top marks, omega.” He bites his lip, barely hiding his grin.

Caleb’s growl vibrates through me where our bodies are still pressed together.

“She’s mine tonight.”

The possessive claim should chafe. Instead, it sends a wave of slick between my thighs, the omega in me purring under his dominance.

Liam’s fingers flex at his sides, his calm veneer cracked by the tension in his shoulders. “We agreed about this,” he says, his voice steady but taut.

Mason tilts his head, studying us like a particularly fascinating puzzle. His gaze drops to where Caleb’s hips press into mine, and he inhales sharply. Slowly, his tongue flicks out to wet his lips.

Jude narrows his eyes playfully, his grin all mischief and heat. “You’re hogging her, Caleb.”

I should be embarrassed—mortified, even. But the omega in me preens under their combined attention. My body arches instinctively toward the nearest alpha—Caleb, who still cages me against the mats, his scent thick and overwhelming.

Then Liam moves.

One moment, he’s standing by the door; the next, his fingers are tangled in my hair, tilting my face up. His lips crash against mine, his kiss slow but demanding, his tongue sweeping into my mouth like he’s memorizing the taste of me. I gasp, my hands gripping Caleb’s forearms where he still pins me.

Jude’s hands slide beneath my blouse, his clever fingers finding my nipples and pinching just hard enough to make me gasp into Liam’s mouth. “Fuck, she’s soft,” Jude murmurs against my throat before biting down on the tender skin where my shoulder meets my neck.

Caleb snarls, his grip on my wrists tightening as his cock presses harder against my thigh. But before he can react, Mason kneels beside the mat, his analytical gaze locked between my legs.

“Fascinating,” Mason murmurs, dragging a single finger over the damp fabric of my leggings. When he lifts his hand and rubs my slick between his fingers, his eyes darken. “Fuck, Leah. You’re dripping.”

Jude nips at my earlobe. “Let’s see how much more we can make her drip.”

The tension snaps.

Caleb growls low in his throat, one hand releasing my wrist to yank my shirt over my head. His gaze locks with mine, dark and hungry. “Look at me,” he orders.

I do.

They move without even having to tell the other where they want to go. A breath shudders through me and then Jude’s hands hook into the waistband of my leggings, dragging them down my legs in one sharp, fluid motion. He tosses them over his shoulder, his growl of approval vibrating against my skin.

The cool air hits my overheated core for only a moment before Jude’s mouth replaces his fingers. His tongue licks a slow, filthy stripe up my center, and my back bows off the mat.

“Fuck!” I gasp, the sound raw and unrestrained.

Liam swallows the sound with another bruising kiss, his teeth scraping my bottom lip as his hand finds my breast, rolling my nipple between his fingers. Caleb’s teeth drag over the sensitive skin of my neck, his cock heavy and insistent where it presses against my side.

Jude groans against me. “She tastes so fucking good,” he mutters before diving back in, his tongue circling my clit, relentless. “I’ll never get enough of this sweet pussy.”

I writhe beneath them, my body overwhelmed by the onslaught of sensation. Caleb’s growl vibrates against my shoulder as he releases my other wrist, his hands sliding down to grip my thighs. He holds me open for Jude, his thumbs pressing into my flesh with enough force to leave bruises.

Mason, still kneeling beside me, watches for another heartbeat before Jude growls, his voice muffled against my folds:

“Stop thinking and fuck her mouth already.”

Mason’s control snaps.

One hand fists into my hair, tilting my head back as he releases his cock from his pants. He’s thick, the salt-slick taste of him flooding my tongue as he pushes past my lips. He doesn’t go too deep at first, letting me adjust, but when my tongue swirls around the head, he groans and thrusts deeper.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, voice strained.

Jude redoubles his efforts below, his tongue working in tandem with two fingers curling inside me. My thighs tremble, the tension coiling tighter and tighter until I’m sure I’ll snap.

Caleb’s hands skim lower, replacing Jude’s as he spreads me wider. “Move over,” he growls at Jude.

Jude pulls back with a low chuckle, his lips glistening with my slick. “Fine. But she better scream for you.”

Caleb doesn’t waste time.

He positions himself between my legs, the head of his cock dragging through my folds, gathering my slick. He presses forward slowly, the stretch stealing my breath.

The burn is exquisite, and when he finally seats himself fully inside me, my scream vibrates around Mason’s cock.

“Fuck, Leah,” Caleb groans, his voice rough. “You’re so fucking tight.”

My body clenches around him instinctively, the stretch overwhelming and absolutely perfect. Caleb sets a slow, punishing rhythm at first, his cock dragging against every sensitive inch of me, sending sparks of pleasure shooting up my spine.

Mason pulls out of my mouth, his breathing uneven as he strokes himself, his eyes glued to the place where Caleb disappears inside me. “She’s perfect,” Mason murmurs, his voice thick with awe. He presses the tip of his cock to my lips again, and I open willingly, taking him back into my mouth, my tongue swirling around him as he groans softly.

“Fuck, that’s it,” Mason mutters, his control slipping. His hips rock forward, sliding deeper into my mouth, his hand fisting in my hair to steady himself.

Jude shifts lower on the mat, his hands spreading my thighs wider as Caleb continues to drive into me. “Look at her,” Jude murmurs, his lips ghosting over the inside of my thigh. “Completely wrecked.”

He presses his mouth to my clit, licking slow, deliberate circles that make my legs tremble. I cry out around Mason’s cock, my entire body arching off the mat as pleasure rips through me.

Caleb snarls at the sound, his grip on my hips tightening as he pounds into me harder, his thrusts deep and unrelenting. “She’s fucking perfect,” he groans, his voice strained.

Liam kneels beside me, his hand sliding beneath my head to cradle it as his lips find my temple. “You’re incredible, Leah,” he murmurs, his other hand lifting mine and guiding it to his cock. The heat of him pulses against my palm, and I wrap my fingers around him instinctively, stroking him in time with Caleb’s thrusts.

“That’s it,” Liam breathes, his voice low and full of praise. “So good for us.”

Jude groans against my clit, his tongue relentless as he slides two fingers inside me alongside Caleb’s cock. The stretch is almost too much, my body trembling as I try to take it all.

“She can handle it,” Jude growls, his lips brushing against my slick folds. “Isn’t that right, sweetheart? You love being stuffed full.”

I can’t answer—not with Mason’s cock filling my mouth, Caleb pounding into me, Jude’s fingers and tongue driving me higher, and Liam’s cock heavy in my hand. The overload of sensation makes my head spin, my body vibrating with tension as I teeter on the edge of release.

“Fuck, she’s close,” Caleb grits out, his thrusts growing faster, harder, his knot swelling at the base of his cock.

Mason’s hips stutter as he thrusts deeper into my mouth, his cock hitting the back of my throat. “She’s going to make us all come,” he groans, his voice tight with restraint.

Liam’s hand covers mine, guiding my strokes as his breathing grows ragged. “Let go, Leah,” he murmurs, his lips brushing my ear. “Come for us.”

Jude pulls back slightly, his breath hot against my slick skin as he growls, “Come, Leah. Let us feel you.” He licks and sucks as his teeth scrape over my clit.

The combination is too much.

I shatter.

My orgasm crashes over me, my entire body convulsing as I scream around Mason’s cock. My muscles clamp down on Caleb, pulling him deeper, and the rough sound he makes sends another wave of heat through me.

“Fuck, Leah,” Caleb snarls, his hips slamming into mine one last time as his knot swells, locking us together.

Mason lets out a guttural groan as he follows, his cock twitching against my tongue as he spills into my mouth. I swallow greedily, the salty taste of him flooding my senses as his hand tightens in my hair.

Liam curses softly, his hand tightening around mine as he comes, his release spilling over my fingers and his cock pulsing against my palm. He presses his lips to my temple, murmuring praise as I milk him dry.

Jude’s groan vibrates against my clit as he spills onto the mat beneath us. His tongue doesn’t stop, licking me through the aftershocks until my entire body shakes with overstimulation.

The room is filled with the sound of our ragged breathing, the air thick with the scent of sex and satisfaction.

Caleb doesn’t move, his body heavy and possessive over mine, his knot keeping us connected. His lips brush against my neck. “Mine.”

Mason leans down, his fingers brushing a strand of damp hair from my face. “Ours,” he corrects softly, his gaze steady and unshaken.

Liam kisses my temple again, his free hand tracing lazy circles on my hip. “You’re perfect, Leah,” he murmurs, his voice full of quiet reverence.

Jude collapses beside me on the mat, his grin lazy and satisfied as he props himself up on one elbow. “So,” he says, his tone teasing, “still think mini-golf was better?”

I laugh weakly, the sound breathless and wrecked, my body boneless and sated.

Caleb growls low in his throat, but his hand slides possessively down my stomach, his thumb brushing over the sensitive skin just above where his knot holds us together.

I’m in so much trouble. The good kind.

28

LEAH

Some days later

I’m one rogue strip of wallpaper away from snapping.

The floral print I’d insisted on—because it was “charming” and “whimsical”—is fighting me like a feral cat. I press it against the wall with both hands, holding my breath as the glue starts to set. For a glorious half-second, it stays put.

Then it peels away again, flopping to the floor like it’s staging a protest.

“Right,” I mutter, picking it up for what feels like the hundredth time. “You want war? Fine. Let’s go.”

The bell above the bakery door jingles, and Zoe strides in, her beta energy sharp and brisk as usual. She’s carrying two coffees and a croissant, which she waves at me like a peace treaty.

“You’re late,” I say, glaring at her from the top of my wobbly ladder.

“I brought caffeine,” she replies, unapologetic. “Time runs on coffee, not clocks.”

I climb down, wiping glue-covered hands on my leggings before grabbing the cup she offers me. “If you’re not here to suffer with me, you’re legally required to leave.”

“Oh, I’m here to suffer,” she says, taking a bite of her croissant as she surveys the chaos around her. “But mostly I came to make sure you haven’t accidentally glued yourself to the wall.”

“Not yet,” I mutter, sipping my coffee. “But give it time. The launch is in two weeks, and this stupid wallpaper is trying to kill me.”

Zoe sets her coffee down, tilting her head to examine my wallpapering handiwork. “It’s... definitely a statement.”

“The statement is ‘I have no idea what I’m doing,’” I groan. “Why did I think DIY was a good idea? I should have hired professionals like a normal person.”

“Because you’re pathologically incapable of delegating,” Zoe says cheerfully. She pulls her hair back and rolls up her sleeves. “Also, you’re broke.”

I can’t argue with her assessment. Opening a bakery has drained my savings to the point where every penny counts. Hence the DIY wallpapering disaster unfolding in my would-be charming seating area.

Zoe picks up the fallen strip of wallpaper with two fingers, like she’s handling something potentially radioactive. “So what’s the plan here? Just keep gluing it until it submits to our authority?”

“Exactly,” I nod, snatching it back. “Wallpaper responds to dominance. I read that on the internet.”

“Right alongside ‘essential oils cure taxes’ and ‘the moon is made of alpha tears’?”

I laugh despite myself. Having Zoe here makes the monumental task of finishing the bakery feel slightly less overwhelming. Two weeks till the official grand opening.

“Have you seen the guys this morning?” Zoe asks casually—too casually. She’s been unnervingly interested in my pack situation since the day they showed up at her apartment to bring me home.

“Mason stopped by at dawn and helped me with the seating arrangements,” I say, trying not to smile at the memory of the beta’s muscles flexing. “Jude sent sixteen texts about the sign installation, each one with more exclamation points than the last. And Liam called to confirm the health inspector’s visit scheduled for Thursday.”

“And the big bad alpha?”

My cheeks warm. “Caleb’s... handling some supplier issues.”

Zoe’s eyebrows shoot up. “By ‘handling’ do you mean threatening to disembowel someone over flour prices?”

“No,” I scoff. Then add, “Maybe. I didn’t ask for specifics.”

The truth is, having four males orbiting my bakery plans has been both wonderful and completely terrifying. Their support is unwavering, but I’m still learning how to accept help without feeling like I’m surrendering control. It’s a delicate balance.

“They’re coming by later to help move the display cases,” I add, attempting to reposition the wallpaper yet again. “Caleb insisted.”

“I bet he did,” Zoe smirks. “Nothing says ‘I’m completely smitten with this omega’ like volunteering for manual labor.”

“It’s not like that,” I protest weakly, but we both know it’s exactly like that. The Le Roux pack has been claiming me in a hundred little ways since our reconciliation—from scent-marking my oven mitts to arranging deliveries to showing up with coffee at precisely the moment I’m about to have a meltdown over permit paperwork.

It’s terrifying how quickly I’ve adapted to their presence in my life, how easily I’ve slipped into letting them help. For someone who’s been stubbornly independent for years, it feels dangerously close to dependence.

“Right,” Zoe drawls, clearly unconvinced. “The bakery looks amazing, though,” she says, changing the subject as she surveys the space. “Even with the wallpaper staging a rebellion.”

She’s right. Despite the chaos of renovation, Sweet Omega is coming together beautifully. Just a few more tweaks, like the wallpaper, and I’ll be ready.

“Two weeks,” I breathe, allowing myself a moment of pride. “I can’t believe it’s actually happening.”

“Believe it,” Zoe says firmly. “You’ve worked your ass off for this.”

The bell jingles again, and we both turn to see Mrs. Finley bustling in, armed with a tote bag that looks suspiciously full of unsolicited decorating advice.

“Girls!” she exclaims, her sharp eyes taking in the wallpapering disaster. “Oh dear. That’s not going to work at all.”

“Hello to you too, Mrs. Finley,” I sigh, already bracing myself.

“I brought fabric swatches,” she announces, digging into her tote. “That wallpaper is all wrong for your complexion, dear. An omega should surround herself with colors that complement her natural glow.”

Zoe catches my eye, visibly fighting a laugh. “I wasn’t aware wallpaper needed to match one’s complexion,” she says innocently.

“Of course it does,” Mrs. Finley says, dead serious. “How else will customers know this establishment belongs to a respectable omega? First impressions are everything.”

I bite my tongue to keep from pointing out that my baking skills, not my “omega glow,” should be the selling point.

“These would be much better,” Mrs. Finley continues, spreading fabric samples across my counter. “The sage green, especially. Very calming for alpha clientele. My Herbert always said a calm alpha is a spending alpha.”

“Is that right?” I manage, exchanging a look with Zoe.

“Absolutely. That’s why I always wear blue when we go shopping. Even now, these darn bunions won’t stop me. Puts him right at ease while I max out his credit cards.” She winks at me. “Decades of marriage, dear. I know a thing or two about managing alphas.”

Before I can formulate a response that won’t involve screaming into my coffee cup, Mrs. Finley’s attention is drawn to something outside. She stiffens, squinting through the front windows.

“What on earth...?”

Zoe and I turn to look, and my stomach drops through the floor.

Across the street, where the old hardware store used to be, workers are hanging a massive black awning. Bold white letters gleam in the morning sunlight:

ALPHA BITES: PROPER PASTRIES FOR PROPER OMEGAS.

“What…the actual…fuck?” Zoe breathes, echoing my thoughts precisely.

I step closer to the window, convinced I must be hallucinating. But no—the sign is very real, as is the man standing beneath it, directing the installation with precise gestures.

My ex-boyfriend. Eric.

“Is that...?” Zoe starts, then trails off as recognition dawns. “Oh, you have got to be kidding me.”

“That young man,” Mrs. Finley says, peering through her bifocals, “looks familiar.”

“He should,” I say through clenched teeth. “He’s the alpha who told me opening my own bakery was ‘cute but unrealistic for an omega.’”

“The one who said your cupcakes were ‘adequate for amateur work’?” Zoe adds helpfully.

“The very same.”

Mrs. Finley’s expression hardens. “Well,” she says, drawing herself up to her full five-foot-two height, “this simply won’t do.”

And before I can stop her, she’s marching toward the door, fabric swatches forgotten.

“Mrs. Finley, wait—” I call, but it’s too late. The elderly omega is already crossing the street with alarming speed for someone who complained about her bunions not five minutes ago.

“Oh my god,” Zoe whispers, gleeful. “This is going to be amazing.”

We scramble after her, dodging a delivery truck as we rush across the street. By the time we reach Alpha Bites, Mrs. Finley is already facing down Eric, her tiny frame vibrating with indignation.

“Young man,” she’s saying as we approach, “do you have a permit for that awning installation?”

Eric looks down at her, his expression a mix of confusion and condescension. “Yes, ma’am. Everything’s in order.”

“I very much doubt that,” she sniffs. “The neighborhood association has strict guidelines about signage. Article seven, section three clearly states that all exterior modifications must be approved by the committee.”

Eric’s mouth opens, then closes. He clearly hasn’t expected to be confronted by a septuagenarian wielding bylaws like weapons.

“I assure you, our paperwork is in order,” he says, his alpha voice dropping into that authoritative register that used to make me want to please him. Now it just makes me want to vomit.

“We’ll see about that,” Mrs. Finley says ominously. Then, spotting me and Zoe, she adds, “Ah, Leah dear. Come explain to this young man the consequences of violating zoning ordinances.”

Eric’s gaze shifts to me, and his expression changes—surprise, followed by something that might be guilt, quickly masked by smug satisfaction.

“Leah,” he says, his voice warming with false affection. “What a coincidence.”

“Coincidence,” I repeat flatly. “You’re opening a bakery. Directly across from mine. And you’re calling it a coincidence.”

He has the audacity to shrug. “It’s a prime location.”

“It’s deliberate sabotage,” Zoe counters, stepping forward. “And pathetically transparent.”

Eric’s attention shifts to Zoe, his lip curling slightly. He’s never liked her, probably because she saw through his alpha posturing from day one. “This is a business decision,” he says coolly. “Nothing personal.”

I laugh, the sound sharp and bitter. “Nothing personal? Your sign literally specifies ‘proper omegas,’ Eric. That’s about as personal as it gets.”

Eric straightens his tie—a nervous habit I once found endearing but now recognize as the prelude to bullshit. “Not every omega wants to be a... free spirit, Leah.”

The way he says “free spirit” makes it sound like “feral animal.” My hands curl into fists at my sides, and I become aware that I’m still covered in wallpaper glue, my hair is a disaster, and I probably look exactly like the unprofessional mess he thinks I am.

I step closer, fury overriding my usual caution around confrontation. “What you’re offering is mediocrity dressed up as superiority. And you’re only doing it to spite me because I didn’t fit into your narrow definition of what an omega should be.”

Zoe’s hand lands on my arm, a gentle restraint. “He’s not worth it, Leah,” she murmurs.

But I’m too far gone, years of suppressed anger finally finding an outlet. “You couldn’t handle that I had ambitions beyond being your supportive little mate,” I continue, my voice rising. “So now you’re trying to sabotage the thing I’ve worked hardest for.”

Eric’s expression darkens. “You’re being dramatic. This is business, not a vendetta.”

“Is that why your sign specifically targets ‘proper omegas’?” I demand. “Is that why you’ve set up shop directly across from me? Is that why you’re opening exactly two weeks before my grand opening?”

A small crowd has gathered, attracted by our raised voices. I’m dimly aware that I’m making a scene, but I can’t seem to stop the words pouring out.

“You told me I’d never succeed,” I remind him, jabbing a finger at his chest. “That I’m not ‘pack material’. That omegas don’t have the temperament for business ownership. You said my baking was ‘adequate at best.’ And now you’re opening a competing bakery? Are you that threatened by me?”

Eric’s nostrils flare, his alpha pheromones spiking with anger. “I’m not threatened by you,” he growls. “I’m providing an alternative to your chaotic little... whatever it is you’re doing.”

“What I’m doing,” I say, my voice dangerously quiet, “is creating something authentic. Something that matters. Something that isn’t defined by outdated stereotypes about what omegas should want or be.”

“And how’s that working out for you?” Eric gestures to my glue-stained appearance. “Playing business owner while frantically DIY-ing everything because you can’t afford professionals? Real success story there, Leah.”

It’s a direct hit, targeting my deepest insecurities about the bakery’s financial situation. I flinch, and Eric’s expression shifts to one of satisfaction.

“At least I’m doing it myself,” I counter. “Not hiding behind hired help because I don’t actually have any skills of my own.”

Eric’s jaw tightens. “I have plenty of skills.”

“Is that what you tell yourself?” Zoe interjects, her voice sharp. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you’re so pathetically hung up on your ex that you’re literally building a business to spite her. Do you have nothing better to do with your life?”

Eric’s scent sours with embarrassment. “This isn’t about Leah,” he insists, but the slight flush creeping up his neck betrays him.

“Really?” Zoe presses. “So it’s just a coincidence that after she rejects you and starts her own bakery, you suddenly discover a passion for pastry? Please. This is sad even by alpha standards.”

A ripple of amusement runs through the gathered crowd, and Eric’s expression darkens further.

“Careful,” he warns Zoe. “You’re making assumptions about things you don’t understand.”

“Oh, I understand perfectly,” Zoe says sweetly. “You’re a textbook example of alpha entitlement. Can’t handle rejection, can’t stand seeing an omega succeed without you, so you throw money at the problem and try to crush her.”

Mrs. Finley nods vigorously. “Shameful behavior. In my day, alphas had dignity.”

The bell above Alpha Bites’ door jingles, and Eric’s new omega emerges. She assesses the situation, jaw tightening as her gaze lands on me.

“Is there a problem?” she asks.

“No problem,” Eric says quickly. “Just catching up with old friends.”

The omega’s eyes flick to me, taking in my disheveled appearance and the fury I’m sure is radiating from me. “I see,” she says, clearly not buying it. “Well, the interior designer needs your input on the display case arrangement.”

Eric nods, visibly relieved at the excuse to escape. “We’ll have to continue this another time, Leah,” he says, his confidence returning now that he has an exit strategy. “Good luck with your... project. You’re going to need it.”

With that parting shot, he turns and retreats into Alpha Bites, his omega woman following close behind.

“What a complete ass,” Zoe mutters once he’s out of earshot.

“Language, dear,” Mrs. Finley chides, then immediately adds, “though I can’t say I disagree with the sentiment.”

I stare at the Alpha Bites storefront, my mind racing. The pristine black and white color scheme, the sleek modern furniture visible through the windows, the professional staff already bustling inside—it’s everything Sweet Omega isn’t. Polished. Corporate. Backed by actual money.

“He’s going to destroy me,” I whisper, the reality of the situation finally sinking in. “He’s got resources and connections and an actual business background. I’m just... me.”

“And ‘just you’ is going to kick his perfectly moisturized ass,” Zoe declares, linking her arm through mine. “Come on. We’re not giving him the satisfaction of seeing you worry.”

Mrs. Finley pats my arm. “She’s right, dear. That young man may have money, but he lacks something far more important.”

“A soul?” Zoe suggests.

“Taste,” Mrs. Finley corrects. “Both in baking and in women.”

Despite everything, I laugh. “Thanks, Mrs. Finley.”

She nods, satisfied. “Now, about that wallpaper...”

As Zoe and Mrs. Finley take care of my wallpaper disaster, the world turns grey. I can only stare out my shop window, watching the people moving about over at Alpha Bites.

I can’t believe he’s doing this to me.

I’m still absorbing the fact that Eric is more of a cunt than I first thought when the bell jingles. It’s a delivery person with a large arrangement of sunflowers.

“Delivery for Leah Carter,” the beta announces, setting the vase on my counter.

I open the small card tucked among the blooms.

For the omega who makes her own success. We’re just lucky to witness it. - C, J, L, M

“It’s from those handsome hunks, isn’t it?” Mrs. Finley grins, peering over my shoulder at the card.

I ignore her, my throat suddenly tight. The flowers are beautiful—bright and bold and perfectly imperfect, just like me.

I’m staring at them when Zoe comes close. “They’re good for you,” she says quietly, watching my expression. “You know that, right?”

Before I can respond, the bell jingles again. This time, it’s Jude, his arms loaded with paint cans.

“Leah!” he calls cheerfully. “Liam calculated the exact shade of yellow that would optimize the lighting, so I bought—” He stops short, noticing the tension in the room. “What’s wrong? Why do you look like someone died? Was it Mrs. Finley? She’s right there, so that can’t be it.”

“Young man!” Mrs. Finley exclaims, but there’s no real anger in it.

“Eric opened a competing bakery across the street,” Zoe explains, gesturing toward the window.

Jude sets down the paint cans with care, his usual exuberance vanishing as he processes this information. “The ex? The one who⁠—”

“Yes,” I cut him off. “That Eric.”

Jude’s expression darkens in a way I’ve rarely seen. His typically playful scent turns sharp, protective alpha pheromones filling the small space.

“Well, that’s unfortunate,” he says, his voice deceptively light. “For him.”

Something about his tone makes me nervous. “Jude, don’t⁠—”

“I’m not going to do anything,” he assures me, already pulling out his phone. “I’m just texting the pack. For... informational purposes.”

“Jude,” I warn.

“What?” He looks up, all innocence. “They’re on their way to help with the display cases anyway. They should know about potential... obstacles.”

I groan, already imagining Caleb’s reaction. The head alpha’s protective instincts are intense under normal circumstances. Add in a direct threat from an ex, and I might as well start planning Eric’s funeral.

“I can handle this myself,” I insist. “I don’t need pack intervention.”

Jude studies me for a moment, his expression unusually serious. “Has it occurred to you that maybe we need to help? That seeing you threatened makes us feel like shit if we can’t do something about it?”

That brings me up short. I’ve been so focused on maintaining my independence that I haven’t considered how my situation affects them.

“Oh,” I say softly.

“Yeah, ’oh,‘” Jude confirms. “Look, none of us thinks you need saving. We know you’re badass and competent and scary good at butter lamination. But we’re your pack, bonded or not. Let us have your back without making it a referendum on your independence.”

Mrs. Finley nods approvingly. “The boy makes sense, Leah.”

“I hate when you’re the voice of reason,” I tell Jude, which makes him grin.

“Makes one of us,” he quips, his phone buzzing with incoming messages. He glances at the screen. “And here we go. ETA ten minutes for the cavalry.”

I sigh, resigning myself to the inevitable. “Just... tell them not to do anything stupid. Or illegal. Or legally questionable.”

“That eliminates approximately ninety percent of Caleb’s initial suggestions,” Jude says cheerfully. “But I’ll convey the message.”

True to Jude’s prediction, the rest of the pack arrives in under ten minutes. Mason is first. He takes one look at my face, then at Alpha Bites across the street, and his expression shifts from confusion to understanding.

“Ah,” he says simply.

Before I can respond, Liam enters, carrying what appears to be architectural plans for my bakery. His gaze follows Mason’s to the competing storefront, and his eyes narrow.

“Interesting,” he murmurs, setting down his plans. “Very interesting indeed.”

And then Caleb arrives, and the atmosphere in the bakery changes instantly. His alpha presence fills the space, his scent washing over me and drowning out the others in a wave that’s both comforting and overwhelming.

“Where is he?” Caleb demands without preamble, his green eyes scanning the bakery as if expecting to find Eric hiding behind the counter.

“Across the street,” Zoe supplies helpfully, pointing through the window. “In the soulless corporate pastry emporium with the unfortunate name.”

Caleb’s gaze locks onto Alpha Bites, his expression darkening. “Alpha Bites,” he reads, his voice flat. “Subtle.”

“About as subtle as a brick through a window,” Jude agrees. “Which, by the way, is still on the table as an option.”

“No, it’s not,” I interject firmly. “No property damage. No threats. No... whatever it is you’re all thinking right now.”

The pack exchanges a look that I can’t quite interpret.

“We would never,” Liam assures me. “That would be completely unprofessional.”

“And illegal,” Mason adds.

“And deeply satisfying,” Jude mutters under his breath.

Caleb says nothing, which is somehow more concerning than if he’d agreed with Jude.

“I mean it,” I insist, stepping into the center of the room. “This is my business, my problem. I appreciate your support, but I need to handle this my way.”

Mrs. Finley, who has been observing the proceedings with undisguised interest, clears her throat. “Perhaps I should check on that zoning ordinance,” she suggests. “Marge’s nephew works in the permit office. She owes me after that unfortunate incident with the garden gnomes.”

“I don’t even want to know,” Zoe murmurs.

“That would be helpful, Mrs. Finley,” I say, grateful for her practical suggestion. “Thank you.”

Mrs. Finley nods, gathering her tote bag. “Consider it done, dear. And do consider the sage green for the walls. Much better with your complexion than that dreadful yellow.”

With that parting shot at Jude’s paint selection, she bustles out, the bell jingling in her wake.

Zoe checks her watch. “I should head out too. Some of us have actual jobs with set hours.” She squeezes my arm. “Call me later, okay? And try not to commit any felonies before happy hour.”

Once she’s gone, I’m left alone with the pack, all of whom are watching me with varying degrees of concern and protective intensity.

“I’m fine,” I say automatically, though the wobble in my voice betrays me.

“Sure you are,” Jude says, rolling his eyes. “And I’m the Dalai Lama.”

“You’re upset,” Mason observes, his quiet voice cutting through my defenses.

“Of course I’m upset,” I snap, pacing the small space. “My ex-boyfriend just opened a competing bakery across the street specifically designed to undermine everything I’ve worked for. I think I’m entitled to a little emotional distress.”

“You are,” Liam agrees, his tone soothing. “But perhaps we could⁠—”

“—discuss strategies to ensure his business mysteriously fails its next health inspection,” Jude suggests.

“Jude,” Liam and Mason say in unison, their tone warning.

Caleb, who has been unnervingly quiet, finally speaks. “What did he say to you?”

I pause my pacing, caught off guard by the direct question. “What?”

“When you confronted him,” Caleb clarifies, his voice careful and controlled in a way that tells me he’s working hard to manage his alpha instincts. “What exactly did he say to you?”

I hesitate, not wanting to pour fuel on the fire. But something in Caleb’s steady gaze makes me answer honestly.

“He implied that my bakery is unprofessional and chaotic,” I admit. “That I’m just playing at being a business owner. That his approach—catering to ’proper omegas’ with traditional values—is what customers really want.”

Caleb’s jaw tightens, but his voice remains level. “And how did that make you feel?”

It’s such an unexpectedly gentle question that it catches me off guard, my carefully constructed defenses crumbling. To my horror, tears well up in my eyes.

“Like maybe he’s right,” I whisper, the admission painful. “Like maybe I am in over my head. Like maybe I can’t actually do this.”

The pack moves as one, closing the distance between us. Jude wraps an arm around my shoulders, Liam takes my hand, and Mason presses a handkerchief into my palm. But it’s Caleb who steps directly in front of me, his large hands cupping my face with surprising tenderness.

“Look at me,” he says, and I do, my vision blurry through unshed tears. “That asshole isn’t right about anything, least of all you.”

“But—”

“No,” Caleb cuts me off. “Listen to me. I’ve seen how hard you’ve worked on this. I’ve watched you negotiate with suppliers until they drop their prices out of sheer exhaustion. I’ve tasted what you create, Leah. It’s not just food—it’s fucking art.”

His vehemence startles a watery laugh from me. “It’s just pastry.”

“It’s not ‘just’ anything,” Caleb insists. “And neither are you.”

“What he’s trying to say,” Liam interjects gently, “is that your ex is an ass stuck in the 1930s.”

“Exactly,” Jude agrees. “The guy’s so full of shit his eyes are brown.”

“His eyes are blue,” I snort.

“Not the point,” Jude says, squeezing my shoulder. “The point is, he’s wrong. And we’re going to help you prove it.”

“How?” I ask, wiping at my eyes with Mason’s handkerchief. “His bakery looks like it’s backed by serious money. He’s got staff, marketing, professional everything. I’ve got... wallpaper that won’t stick and paint that may or may not optimize appetite.”

“You’ve got us,” Mason says simply.

I look around at them—at Jude’s infectious enthusiasm, Liam’s steady reliability, Mason’s quiet competence, and Caleb’s unwavering strength—and something shifts inside me. Maybe accepting help doesn’t have to mean surrendering control. Maybe it just means having a safety net while I take bigger risks.

“Okay,” I say finally. “Let’s do this. You and me.”

The relief in their scents is immediate and overwhelming, a collective exhale that I hadn’t realized they were holding.

“But,” I add firmly, “no sabotage. No threats. Nothing that would reflect poorly on Sweet Omega. We win this fairly or not at all.”

“Agreed,” Mason says immediately.

“If we must,” Jude sighs dramatically.

“Of course,” Liam nods.

All eyes turn to Caleb, who hasn’t agreed to my terms.

“Caleb?” I prompt.

He holds my gaze, something fierce and protective in his expression. “I won’t do anything to harm your business or reputation,” he says carefully. “That’s all I can promise.”

It’s not exactly what I asked for, but I know it’s the best I’m going to get from him. Alpha instincts run deep, especially when it comes to perceived threats to pack.

“Fine,” I concede. “Now, can we please focus on getting this place ready for the grand opening? Starting with these display cases that need moving.”

The next few hours pass in a flurry of activity. The pack works with surprising efficiency. Liam calculates the optimal placement for each piece of furniture, considering traffic flow and visual appeal. Mason creates a detailed inventory system for supplies and ingredients. Jude starts painting the walls the exact shade of yellow that, I have to admit, does seem to make the space feel warmer and more inviting.

And Caleb... Caleb does the heavy lifting, moving display cases and tables with alpha strength that, despite my best feminist principles, I find ridiculously attractive. The way his muscles flex under his t-shirt as he positions the vintage glass display case is nothing short of mesmerizing.

I catch myself staring more than once, and each time, he meets my gaze with a knowing smirk that sends heat flooding through me. The bastard knows exactly what he’s doing.

By late afternoon, the bakery has been transformed. The failed wallpaper has been replaced with cheerful yellow paint. The display cases gleam in their new positions. The seating area looks inviting and cozy, with vintage chairs clustered around small tables.

“This is...” I trail off, tears welling up again as I take in the space. “Thank you. All of you.”

“Don’t thank us yet,” Jude says, pulling out his phone. “We need to document this for the ‘gram. Transformation content is social media gold.”

I laugh, allowing him to position me in front of the main display case for a photo. As he snaps pictures, directing me to “look more baker-y” (whatever that means), I catch Caleb watching me with an intensity that makes my breath catch.

“What?” I ask when Jude finally declares he has enough content for a week of posts.

Caleb shakes his head slightly. “Nothing. Just... you look happy.”

“I am,” I realize, somewhat surprised by the truth of it. Despite Eric’s appearance and the threat to my business, I feel... okay. More than okay. “It’s hard not to be, with all of you here.”

Something shifts in Caleb’s expression, a softening around the eyes that makes him look younger, more vulnerable. “Good,” he says simply.

We finish the day’s work as the sun begins to set, casting golden light through the large front windows. The bakery—my bakery—is finally starting to look like the vision I’ve carried in my head for years.

“Dinner at the pack house?” Jude suggests as we lock up. “I’m thinking pasta. Carbs are critical after manual labor. It’s science.”

“It’s really not,” Liam murmurs, shaking his head, but he doesn’t disagree with the dinner invitation.

I hesitate, glancing across the street at Alpha Bites. The lights are still on, silhouettes moving behind the windows as Eric’s team continues their preparations. A knot of anxiety tightens in my stomach at the sight.

Caleb follows my gaze, his expression hardening. “Don’t,” he says quietly. “Don’t let him live in your head rent-free.”

“Easier said than done,” I reply.

“I know.” His hand finds the small of my back, a warm, steady pressure. “But you’re not facing him alone anymore.”

The simple truth of that statement washes over me. I’m not alone.

It’s terrifying. And wonderful.

“Pasta sounds good,” I say finally, turning away from Alpha Bites and toward my pack. “But I need to shower first. I’m pretty sure I have wallpaper glue in places wallpaper glue should never be.”

“I could help with that,” Jude offers with exaggerated innocence. “I’m very thorough.”

“I bet you are,” I laugh, shoving his shoulder lightly.

“My shower has excellent water pressure,” Caleb mentions casually. “And plenty of room.”

The implication sends heat curling through my belly.

“Are you offering your shower or your company?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.

“Both,” Caleb says without hesitation. “Always both.”

The directness of his answer, the unwavering certainty in his green eyes, makes my breath catch. This is what draws me to him, to all of them—the way they want me without apology or pretense.

“I’ll consider the offer,” I say, trying to sound casual despite the blush I can feel warming my cheeks.

Jude whoops. “She’s considering it! That’s practically a yes in Leah-speak.”

“It is not,” I protest, but I’m laughing as we make our way to the pack’s vehicles.

I end up riding with Caleb, the sleek black SUV practically silent as it moves through Sweetwater’s streets.

“He can’t hurt you,” Caleb says suddenly as we pull up to the pack house. “Eric. He can try, but he can’t succeed. Not anymore.”

I turn to look at him, struck by the certainty in his voice. “How can you be so sure?”

Caleb kills the engine, then turns to face me fully, his expression serious. “Because you’re stronger than he knows. Than he could ever understand.” A pause, then, “And because we won’t let him.”

The fierce protectiveness in his voice should make me bristle. Instead, it makes me feel secure.

“Thank you,” I say simply.

Caleb nods once, then gets out of the car, coming around to open my door.

Inside, the pack house is warm, the scent of home washing over me as soon as we enter. Mason and Liam have arrived before us, already moving through the kitchen as they prepare dinner. Jude is nowhere to be seen, presumably in one of the bathrooms trying out whatever new hair product has caught his fancy this week.

“I’m going to shower,” I announce, suddenly desperate to wash away the stress of the day along with the wallpaper glue. “Alone,” I add when Caleb opens his mouth to offer company again.

He nods, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “Towels are in the linen closet. Use whatever you need.”

I head upstairs to Caleb’s bathroom, a luxurious space with a shower that could comfortably fit three people. As I strip off my glue-stained clothes, I catch sight of myself in the mirror—tired, stressed, but also somehow... radiant. There’s a glow to my skin, a brightness in my eyes that wasn’t there six months ago.

It’s the pack, I realize with a start. Even without formal claiming bites, we’re connected now, my biology responding to their consistent presence in my life. The thought should scare me, but instead it brings a sense of peace.

The shower is exactly what I need, hot water sluicing away the day’s tensions along with the stubborn wallpaper glue. I use Caleb’s shampoo, the familiar scent wrapping around me like an embrace. By the time I step out, wrapped in a fluffy towel, I feel renewed.

I realize too late that I’ve forgotten to bring clean clothes. After a moment’s hesitation, I rummage through the drawers in the bedroom, finding one of Caleb’s soft sweaters and a pair of sweatpants. They’re both comically large on me, but they smell like pack, and right now that’s exactly what I need.

Downstairs, I find all four males in the kitchen, the scene so domestic it makes my heart clench. Mason is chopping vegetables, Liam is stirring sauce on the stove, Jude is setting the table with more enthusiasm than accuracy, and Caleb is opening a bottle of wine, his movements confident and controlled.

They look up when I enter, and something shifts in the air—a collective intake of breath, a subtle change in their scents. It takes me a moment to realize why: I’m wearing Caleb’s clothes, my hair still damp from using his shower products, too.

To an alpha’s instincts, I look claimed. Marked as pack.

“I borrowed these,” I say unnecessarily, plucking at the oversized sweater. “Hope that’s okay.”

“More than okay,” Liam says, his voice slightly rough.

“Keep them,” Caleb adds, his eyes darkening as he takes in the sight of me swimming in his clothes.

“Dinner’s almost ready,” Mason announces, breaking the charged moment. “Jude, the forks go on the left.”

“In this economy?” Jude quips, but he rearranges the silverware according to Mason’s instructions.

We settle around the table. It’s pasta and salad and good wine. Perfect for the way I’m feeling right now. The conversation flows and I notice them deliberately steering clear of bakery talk and Eric’s unwelcome appearance. Instead, they tell me about their day before coming to help—a minor crisis at the brewery involving a missing shipment of specialty hops, a dispute with a distributor that Caleb settled, a new beer recipe Liam is developing that’s giving him fits.

After dinner, we migrate to the living room, Mason and Liam settling into a chess game while Jude channel-surfs with the determined focus of someone avoiding more productive activities. I find myself on the couch beside Caleb, my legs tucked under me, his arm a warm weight across my shoulders.

It’s normal. Comfortable. Like I’ve been part of this pack for years instead of weeks.

They’re…perfect.

“You’re quiet,” he observes, his voice low enough that only I can hear.

I shrug slightly. “Just thinking.”

“About?”

“Everything. Eric. The bakery. You guys.” I hesitate, then add, “Why you’ve never bonded before.”

The question slips out before I can stop it, something I’ve wondered about but never directly asked. The pack is stable, successful, clearly committed to each other. By all logic, they should have found an omega to complete their family years ago.

Caleb’s arm tightens slightly around me. “Why do you ask?”

“Just curious,” I say, trying to sound casual. “You’re all so... good at this. At caring for each other. For me. It seems strange that no omega snapped you up long ago.”

Jude, who apparently has better hearing than I gave him credit for, abandons his channel-surfing to join the conversation. “We’re very picky,” he announces. “Extremely selective. Only the finest omega for the Le Roux pack.”

I roll my eyes at his typical deflection. “Seriously, though.”

Mason and Liam look up from their chess game, some silent communication passing between all four males.

“We’ve had opportunities,” Liam says carefully. “There have been omegas who expressed interest in joining the pack.”

“But?” I prompt when he doesn’t continue.

“But none of them wanted us,” Caleb says simply. “They wanted what we represented—stability, security, status. Not who we actually are.”

The blunt honesty of his answer takes me aback. “What do you mean?”

Mason sets down a chess piece, his expression thoughtful. “Most were attracted to the superficial aspects—Caleb’s family name, the brewery’s success, the financial security. When they discovered the reality of pack life with all of us combined...”

“They bailed,” Jude finishes when Mason trails off. “Turns out, not everyone appreciates my charming morning personality or Mason’s tendency to reorganize the kitchen at 3 AM or Liam’s diagrams for literally everything.”

“Or my... intensity,” Caleb adds quietly.

There’s something vulnerable in his admission that makes my chest ache. I’ve seen Caleb’s intensity firsthand—the laser focus, the protective instincts that sometimes border on possessive, the deep emotions he tries to keep contained. It’s overwhelming at times, even to me. I can imagine how it might have frightened away omegas looking for a more conventional alpha.

“Their loss,” I say firmly, reaching for his hand and lacing my fingers through his. “I happen to like your intensity. And Jude’s morning chaos. And Mason’s middle-of-the-night organizing. And Liam’s diagrams.”

The smile that breaks across Caleb’s face is like the sun emerging from clouds—warm and rare and beautiful. “We never found her,” he says simply. “Until now.”

The words hang in the air between us, heavy with meaning.

“Oh,” I breathe, the weight of the realization settling over me.

“Oh indeed,” Jude says, his usual playfulness softened by genuine emotion. “We’ve been waiting for you, doll. Even when we didn’t know who we were waiting for.”

Tears prick at my eyes, unexpected and unwelcome. Stupid omega hormones. “I’m not crying,” I announce preemptively. “It’s just... wallpaper glue fumes. Very toxic.”

“Of course,” Liam agrees solemnly, though his eyes are suspiciously bright.

“Completely understandable,” Mason adds. “Those chemicals can create a variety of responses.”

“Including being overcome with affection for devastatingly handsome alphas,” Jude suggests hopefully.

That startles a laugh from me, breaking the emotional tension of the moment. I swipe at my eyes with the sleeve of Caleb’s borrowed sweater. “You’re all absurd,” I say, but the words come out sounding like something else entirely.

Something like love.

Caleb’s hand tightens around mine, his thumb tracing patterns on my skin. “Be ours,” he says quietly—not a question, not quite a command, but something in between. A claim and an offering all at once.

The words should terrify me. Six months ago, they would have sent me running in the opposite direction, determined to maintain my independence at all costs.

I pause, looking at all of them in turn. Seeing how they’ve all gone still. All waiting with bated breath for my answer.

“I already am,” I admit, my voice barely above a whisper.

The pack moves as one, converging on the couch until I’m surrounded—Caleb’s solid warmth at my side, Jude perched on the arm of the couch, Liam and Mason settling on the floor near my feet. Their combined scents envelop me, and my heart cracks with how much I’ve wanted this and didn’t really know I did till now.

“We should make it official,” Jude suggests, suddenly serious. “Like, with actual bites and everything.”

“Jude,” Liam chides. “That’s not something to rush into. When Leah’s ready⁠—”

“I’m not suggesting we do it right this second,” Jude protests. “Just... soon. Before someone else tries to steal our omega.”

“No one is stealing anyone,” Caleb growls, his arm tightening around me.

“I don’t know,” I say thoughtfully. “Mrs. Finley did offer to introduce me to her grand-nephew at some point. Apparently he’s a ‘very eligible alpha with excellent dental work.’”

The collective growl that rises from all four of them makes me laugh. “I’m kidding,” I assure them. “Though the dental work part was real. She’s very concerned about genetic orthodontic issues.”

“Wise woman,” Mason nods seriously.

“See? Mason gets it,” I grin.

“Mason gets everything except jokes,” Jude teases, reaching over to ruffle the beta’s neatly combed hair.

Mason ducks, rolling his eyes. “Living with you, my tolerance for absurdity is surprisingly high.”

“Which is exactly why we love you,” I say, leaning down to press a kiss to the top of his head.

The casual admission slips out before I can censor it, hanging in the air between us. I freeze. We haven’t said those words yet—not directly, not plainly. We’ve danced around them, implied them, but never spoken them aloud.

The pack goes still, four pairs of eyes fixed on me with varying degrees of surprise and hope.

“What I mean is—” I start, fumbling for a way to backtrack.

“Don’t,” Caleb interrupts, his voice gentle but firm. “Don’t take it back.”

“I wasn’t going to,” I protest weakly. “I was just going to clarify that I meant⁠—”

“That you love us,” Jude supplies, his expression uncharacteristically vulnerable. “All of us. With our weird quirks and annoying habits and alpha dramatics.”

“And beta pragmatism,” Mason adds quietly.

I look at each of them in turn—Jude with his hopeful grin, Liam with his steady gaze, Mason with his quiet certainty, Caleb with his intense focus—and realize there’s no point in denying what’s become increasingly obvious.

“Yes,” I admit. “That’s exactly what I meant.”

The tension breaks, replaced by a wave of joy so palpable I can smell it in their combined scents—sweet and rich and intoxicating.

“Well, thank fuck for that,” Jude says, his irreverent response belied by the brightness in his eyes. “Because we’ve been stupidly in love with you even before you jumped into a dumpster to escape Caleb.”

“I didn’t jump,” I correct automatically. “I slipped.”

Caleb’s gaze softens as he meets mine. “Doesn’t matter,” he murmurs, his voice low and husky. “We would have loved you even if you’d landed on your face.”

A warmth spreads through my chest at his words, chasing away the last of my anxiety. “The point is⁠—”

“The point is,” Liam interjects, his voice steady despite the emotion swirling around him, “that we love you too. Individually and collectively.”

“With certainty,” Mason adds.

“What they said.” Caleb grins, his hand finding the nape of my neck in a gesture that’s become familiar.

I’m not prepared for the wave of emotion that washes over me, tears spilling down my cheeks before I can stop them. “I’m not crying,” I insist again, even as Caleb’s thumb gently wipes away the evidence to the contrary. “It’s just... a lot. In a good way.”

“We know,” Liam says softly.

And they do know, that’s the miracle of it. They understand me. They see all of me, not just the parts that fit some predetermined omega mold.

Caleb pulls me closer, pressing his lips to my temple. “No pressure,” he murmurs. “About the bonding. We can wait.”

“Until you’re ready,” Liam agrees.

“Or until we’ve proven ourselves worthy,” Mason adds.

“Or until you can’t resist our collective charm any longer,” Jude suggests with a wink.

I laugh through my tears, overwhelmed by their patience, their understanding, their willingness to move at my pace. “Thank you,” I say simply, because there are no adequate words for what I’m feeling.

“For what?” Caleb whispers.

“For waiting,” I say. “For finding me. For being exactly who you are.”

29

LEAH

The rest of the evening unfolds with a new lightness. The guys gather snacks and we pile onto the couch for a movie marathon. No one mentions the words we exchanged earlier, but I feel them in every casual touch, every shared smile, every knowing glance.

As the credits roll on the third film, I reluctantly check the time.

“Stay,” Caleb says, his fingers tangling with mine as I fumble with the hem of his sweater. “Stay tonight.”

The simple invitation makes my heart flutter.

Mason catches my eye from across the living room. “I planned breakfast,” he offers, his voice mild but his meaning clear. He’s been preparing for me to stay. They all have.

Jude flops dramatically against the couch. “If you leave, who’s going to referee our morning arguments? We need adult supervision.”

“You’re all adults,” I point out, but I’m already grinning.

“Debatable,” Liam murmurs, the corner of his mouth quirking upward.

I nod, the simple gesture somehow feeling momentous. “Okay.”

Jude pumps his fist victoriously. “I’ll get the wine.”

“We just had wine with dinner,” I remind him.

“This is celebratory wine. Completely different category.”

Mason stands, shaking his head. “I’ll make tea instead.”

“Tea is just sad water,” Jude protests, but he follows Mason to the kitchen anyway, their bickering fading as they go.

Liam stretches, his tall frame unfolding from the floor as Caleb’s hand settles at the small of my back, guiding me toward the stairs. His touch is light but the warmth of his palm still seeps through the borrowed sweater.

The upper floor of the pack house is quiet, the hallway softly lit. I’ve been up here before, but tonight feels like something else entirely. Like I’m crossing a threshold I can’t uncross.

Caleb leads me toward his bedroom with its massive bed and dark walls. We’re halfway there when I pause, my gaze caught by the partially open door at the other end of the hall.

The nest room.

The sanctuary. For heats. For emotional distress. For the deepest kind of comfort. For a level of belonging I’ve never allowed myself.

Caleb notices my hesitation, following my gaze to the door. “Leah?”

I swallow, suddenly nervous in a way I can’t fully explain. “How about...” The words stick in my throat. I try again, cheeks warming. “How about we sleep in the nest?”

Something shifts in Caleb’s expression—surprise, followed by a joy so raw it makes my chest ache. “You’re sure?”

I nod, the tightness in my throat making speech difficult.

He brings my hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to my knuckles with such reverence I nearly combust. “Come on,” he says softly, tugging me toward the room.

The nest room is exactly as I remembered, yet somehow more intimidating now that I’m not being bombarded by heat. The moment I step in, the actual nest steals my breath. That enormous circular mattress cradled in the sunken portion of the floor, piled with pillows and blankets in a chaotic arrangement that speaks to years of pack life. It’s beautiful in its disorder, but it’s not mine. Not yet.

“It needs work,” I say without thinking.

Caleb laughs softly. “It’s been waiting for you.”

The simple truth of his statement hits me hard. This space, this sacred, omega-centered space, has existed in their home for years. Waiting for the missing piece of their pack.

Waiting for me.

I step closer to the nest, running my fingers over the jumble of blankets. I can scent each pack member in the materials—Caleb’s dark chocolate, Jude’s bright citrus, Liam’s old books, Mason’s sandalwood. They’ve all contributed, but the arrangement lacks the touch of an omega.

Without conscious thought, I begin dismantling the nest, pulling blankets and pillows out and setting them in distinct piles. Caleb watches silently, not interfering, understanding instinctively that this is something I need to do myself.

The door creaks open behind us, and Jude pokes his head in, curiosity etched on his features. “Hey, we were wondering if—” He stops, eyes widening as he takes in the scene. “Holy shit,” he breathes. “Are you⁠—?”

“Yes,” Caleb answers for me, his voice low with significance. “She’s rebuilding the nest.”

Jude vanishes so quickly I almost laugh, his footsteps pounding down the hallway. Seconds later, more footsteps approach—these more controlled.

Liam and Mason appear in the doorway, both radiating a careful restraint that tells me Jude has updated them on what’s happening. Mason carries a steaming mug that he sets on the small table near the entrance before backing away respectfully.

“Tea,” he says simply. “For when you’re ready.”

I nod my thanks, hands still busy with the sorting. None of them enter fully, understanding without being told that I need space for this ritual.

“Can we help?” Liam asks quietly.

I consider for a moment, then nod. “Bring me your favorite things. One each. Something that smells strongly of you.”

They disappear without another word, even Jude managing to contain his usual commentary. I return to my task, methodically emptying the nest until I’m left with the bare circular mattress. Only then do I truly realize the magnitude of what I’m doing.

I smooth the wrinkles from the duvet, the soft cotton warm beneath my fingers. I fluff the pillows, arranging them just how I like them to be, then step back to admire my handiwork. A small smile plays on my lips. It feels…right.

The pack returns one by one, each bearing gifts.

Mason is first, presenting a soft gray cardigan. “It’s warm,” he says unnecessarily, holding it out with careful hands. “One of my favorites.”

I accept it with a smile, tucking it into the foundation layer I’m building. “Perfect. Thank you.”

Liam approaches next, cradling what appears to be a well-worn quilt in deep blue. “My grandmother made this,” he explains, his voice softened with memory. “I’ve had it since childhood.”

The significance of his offering steals my breath. “Liam,” I whisper, “are you sure?”

He nods, placing the quilt in my outstretched hands. “It belongs in our nest.”

Our nest.

Jude appears next, holding a faded orange hoodie. “This,” he says, his voice uncharacteristically soft, “was my lucky hoodie. Wore it during our first big brewing competition. Figured you might need some extra luck with the bakery.” He shrugs, avoiding my gaze, his cheeks flushed a faint pink. “Plus, it smells like me,” he adds, his usual grin returning. “So, you know, you won’t forget about me.”

“Juuude,” I protest, accepting the hoodie. I tuck the hoodie into the growing nest, secretly pleased.

Caleb is last, approaching with something clutched in his large hands that he seems almost hesitant to offer. When he opens his fingers, I see a simple cotton t-shirt, worn thin.

“It’s not special,” he says gruffly. “Just... it’s what I sleep in most nights.”

The simplicity of his offering touches me more deeply than something grand would have.

“It’s perfect,” I tell him, taking the shirt and bringing it to my nose. His scent fills my lungs—dark chocolate and espresso, safety and strength.

With their offerings added to my materials, I begin the actual construction of the nest. There’s no conscious plan to my movements, just instinct guiding my hands as I layer and fold, tuck and arrange. The foundation needs to be sturdy—that’s where I place Liam’s quilt, its weight and history providing a solid base. Mason’s cardigan gets folded into the area I instinctively know will be his sleeping spot, positioned for maximum warmth.

Jude’s hoodie becomes part of the central pile of pillows—chaotic and bright, just like him. And Caleb’s t-shirt I place where I know my head will rest, his scent positioned to surround me through the night.

The pack watches in reverent silence as I work. It should make me self-conscious, this audience to such an intimate ritual, but instead it feels right. This nest isn’t just for me—it’s for us. For all five of us together.

When I finally sit back on my heels, surveying my creation, a sense of profound satisfaction washes over me. The nest looks nothing like the original jumble I dismantled. It’s structured now. There’s Mason’s tidy corner, Liam’s section with extra pillows for his broad shoulders, Jude’s chaotic but somehow perfect sprawl area at the foot, and Caleb’s space beside mine at the center.

It’s beautiful. It’s functional. It’s ours.

“Done,” I announce, suddenly shy as I look up at them.

The emotion on their faces steals my breath. None of them speak for a long moment.

Jude breaks the silence first, because of course he does. “Dibs on being the little spoon.”

The tension breaks, laughter bubbling up from my chest. “You’re always the little spoon, Jude.”

“That’s because I’m excellent at it. Some people are natural athletes; I’m a natural little spoon. It’s my calling.”

“An admirable life goal,” Liam deadpans, but his eyes are bright with happiness.

Mason moves to the wall panel, dimming the lights to a soft glow. “Temperature preference?” he asks, hand hovering over the thermostat.

“Warmer,” I decide. “But not too warm.”

He nods, making a minute adjustment before stepping toward the nest. He pauses at the edge, looking to me for permission. It’s such a subtle acknowledgment that this space is now under my authority that it brings a small smile to my lips.

I hold out my hand, inviting him in. “Come on.”

That’s all it takes. The four of them shed outer layers before they join me in the nest. I find myself in the center, Caleb’s solid warmth at my back, Liam a comforting presence at my front. Jude sprawls across the foot of the nest, one arm flung dramatically over his eyes. Mason occupies the space near Liam.

“Perfect,” Caleb murmurs against my hair, his arm a welcome weight across my waist.

And it is.

Soon, the tension from the day releases from my shoulders.

“What are we going to do about Eric?” I finally ask the question that’s been lurking at the back of my mind all evening.

“Beat him at his own game,” Caleb says simply, his voice rumbling against my back where I’m tucked against his chest.

“By making the best damn pastries in the city,” Liam elaborates from my other side.

“And by leveraging our collective skills to hit him out of the water,” Mason adds from his corner.

“And by looking hot as hell while doing it,” Jude contributes sleepily from the foot of the nest. “Never underestimate the power of attractiveness in customer acquisition.”

I smile into the darkness, their confidence infectious. “Okay,” I say. “We’ll beat him fair and square.”

“Mostly fair,” Jude amends. “Square-adjacent, at minimum.”

“Jude,” Liam and Mason warn in unison.

“Fine,” Jude huffs. “But if we’re going completely legit, someone needs to remind Caleb that growling at health inspectors is frowned upon.”

Caleb’s answering growl rumbles through the nest, making me giggle. I snuggle closer, enjoying the warmth of their bodies and the easy banter. Sleep pulls at me, and the last thing I hear is Jude’s whispered comment: “Dibs on the omega in the morning.”

30

LEAH

Aweek flies by without me noticing. So much to do before the bakery opens and the time is almost here.

Twenty-four hours. We moved up the launch and that’s how long we have until Sweet Omega’s official grand opening. One day that suddenly feels like two minutes thanks to Eric.

“We need to move faster,” I announce to the pack gathered in my bakery. “Everything needs to be perfect by Thursday.”

Caleb emerges from the storage room, carrying a stack of shelving units that he sets down with controlled strength. His forearms flex as he arranges the pieces, and I definitely don’t get distracted watching the movement of muscle under tanned skin. Definitely not.

“The display cases are positioned,” he reports. “Floor has been refinished. Sign is installed. What’s next?”

I consult my mental checklist, which has grown exponentially. “Shelving needs to be assembled, counter area needs final cleaning, menu boards need to be finished, and I need to finalize the opening day selection.”

“I’ll handle the shelves,” Caleb says, already reaching for his drill.

“Menu boards are nearly complete,” Liam calls from the small office where he’s been working on the elegant chalkboard displays. “Just finalizing the specials section.”

“And I’m documenting everything for maximum social impact,” Jude adds, lifting his phone to snap a candid photo of me in my flour-covered apron. “The ‘authentic bakery experience’ aesthetic is very hot right now.”

“Delete that,” I warn, pointing a spatula at him. “I look like I’ve been attacked by a flour bomb.”

“Exactly,” Jude grins, typing something on his screen. “Hashtag bakery life, hashtag flour queen, hashtag sweet omega rising.”

I lunge for his phone, but he dances away with the grace of an alpha who’s spent years avoiding consequences for his actions.

“Too late,” he singsongs. “Already posted to the bakery’s story. Fourteen likes already. The people want authentic, Leah!”

“The people can have authentic when I don’t look like a powdered donut,” I grumble, trying to hide my smile as I return to my cleaning.

Mason glances up from his tablet, his expression shifting to something I’ve come to recognize as his version of concern. “You haven’t slept properly in thirty-six hours,” he observes. “Do you want to take a break? We can handle the work for a bit.”

“I’m fine,” I insist, even as my body betrays me with a jaw-cracking yawn.

“Obviously,” Liam says dryly, appearing in the office doorway with a mug of tea that he sets on the counter near me. “Drink this. It’s chamomile.”

“I don’t need chamomile,” I protest. “I need more hours in the day.”

“What you need,” Caleb says without looking up from the shelf he’s assembling, “is to delegate. You can’t do everything yourself.”

“I’m not doing everything myself,” I point out, gesturing to the four of them scattered around my bakery. “I’m very clearly allowing you all to help.”

“‘Allowing,’” Jude repeats with air quotes. “Like we need permission to help our omega?”

The possessive phrasing makes me blush.

“Fine,” I concede.

“That’s our girl,” Jude grins. “Feminist as fuck while letting us handle the heavy lifting.”

Mason eyes Caleb’s work with barely concealed skepticism. “The angle of that bracket is concerning.”

Caleb grunts, adjusting the piece without argument. For an alpha who growls at most suggestions, he takes Mason’s practical input with surprising grace.

“Has anyone checked on the competition today?” Liam asks, changing the subject with his usual diplomatic timing.

Four pairs of eyes turn toward the front windows, where Alpha Bites is visible across the street. The sleek black and white exterior looks irritatingly professional, with workers inside arranging furniture.

“Eric’s been parading around in there all morning,” Jude reports. “Wearing a suit like he’s opening a bank instead of a bakery. Very ‘I have a trust fund and I’m not afraid to use it’ energy.”

“Has he hired more staff?” I ask, trying to sound casual rather than desperately curious.

“Four betas,” Mason answers promptly. “All female, all conventionally attractive, all wearing identical uniforms that would not be out of place in a 1950s diner.”

I blink at him. “How do you know all that?”

“Reconnaissance,” he shrugs. “I walked by and observed while picking up the receipt paper.”

“Spy beta,” Jude stage-whispers with obvious delight. “Very 007.”

“Practical information gathering,” Mason corrects. “Know thy enemy.”

I turn back to the window, squinting across the street. Sure enough, I can make out several betas in matching outfits arranging pastries in display cases. Something uncomfortable twists in my stomach.

“He’s really going all-in on the traditional bakery concept,” I mutter. “Complete with uniforms and... are those pearl necklaces?”

“Collars would be too obvious,” Jude remarks, earning himself a sharp look from Caleb.

“It’s a marketing strategy,” Liam says calmly, always the voice of reason. “He’s positioning himself as the conservative alternative to your more progressive approach.”

“Well,” I say, straightening my spine, “let’s make sure my progressive approach kicks his traditional ass, shall we?”

Jude whoops, punching the air. “That’s the spirit! Viva la revolución!”

“I’m opening a bakery, not leading an uprising,” I remind him.

“Why not both?” he grins, already typing on his phone. “Sweet Omega: Pastries and Revolution. I’m feeling it.”

By evening, the bakery is ready. The display cases gleam beneath strategic lighting. The seating area looks inviting with its vintage tables and comfortable chairs. The kitchen is organized for maximum efficiency.

It’s beautiful. It’s mine. And I’m absolutely terrified.

“What if no one comes?” I whisper, the fear finally breaking through as we stand in the center of the space, surveying our day’s work.

The pack exchanges a look I can’t quite interpret.

“People will come,” Liam says with quiet certainty.

“But what if they don’t? What if they all go to Alpha Bites instead? What if⁠—”

“Leah,” Caleb interrupts, his voice gentle but firm. “Stop.”

I take a shaky breath, trying to contain the anxiety threatening to overflow. “I can’t.”

His warm arms envelop me and I can’t help but melt into him.

“We’ll help,” Liam says. “Starting with making sure you actually sleep tonight.”

I glance at the clock, surprised to find it’s already past ten. “I still need to finalize the opening day menu and⁠—”

“No,” Caleb says simply. “You need to rest. Everything else can wait until morning.”

I want to argue, but my body betrays me with another jaw-cracking yawn. “Fine,” I concede. “But I’m setting an alarm for five.”

“Seven,” Caleb counters.

“Six,” I compromise.

“Home?” Jude repeats, his expression brightening. “As in, the pack house? Our home?”

I feel my cheeks warm. Biting my lip, I give them a small nod.

Jude pumps his fist victoriously but wisely keeps his commentary to himself for once.

We lock up the bakery, and I can’t help casting one last glance across the street at Alpha Bites. The lights are still on, shadows moving behind the windows as Eric’s team continues their preparations. My stomach tightens with renewed anxiety.

“Tomorrow,” Caleb says quietly, his hand finding the small of my back. “Tonight is for rest.”

I nod, letting him guide me to his SUV. The short drive to the pack house passes in comfortable silence, their presence beside me more soothing than any words could be.

The pack house welcomes us with warm light and familiar scents. Despite my protests about needing to review recipes, I find myself drawn to the nest room as soon as we arrive, my body craving the comfort of the space I’ve claimed as my own.

“Shower first,” Liam suggests, gentle but firm. “You’ll sleep better.”

He’s right, of course. I’m covered in a day’s worth of bakery prep—flour in my hair, vanilla extract on my wrists, a suspicious smudge of chocolate on my elbow that I don’t remember acquiring.

The nest’s bathroom is a luxury I’m still getting used to—multiple shower heads, endless hot water, and enough space for... activities that make me blush to think about. I’ve barely turned on the water when there’s a soft knock on the door.

“Leah?” Liam’s voice carries through the steam. “May I join you?”

My pulse quickens. “Yes,” I call back, aware of the flutter in my chest.

He enters, already shirtless, his eyes darkening as they find me. “You’re exhausted,” he says simply. “Let me help.”

He undresses, stepping into the shower. Without a word, he takes the shampoo, pouring a measure into his palm before gesturing for me to turn around.

His fingers are magic against my scalp, working the shampoo into a lather with firm, methodical pressure that makes me groan involuntarily. “Good?” he murmurs, his voice closer to my ear than I expected.

“Mmm,” is all I can manage as tension melts from my shoulders under his attentions.

He works his way down my body with careful hands, washing away flour and fatigue with equal thoroughness. By the time he reaches my thighs, my exhaustion has transformed into a different kind of heaviness, a languid heat pooling low in my belly.

“Liam,” I breathe, leaning back against his chest.

“I know,” he says, his voice a rumble I feel through my skin. One hand slides between my legs, finding me already slick for him. “Let me take care of you.”

His fingers are precise, deliberate, drawing circles exactly where I need them. I arch against him, my head falling back against his shoulder as tension builds with surprising speed. “That’s it,” he encourages, his free arm wrapping around my waist to steady me. “Let go, Leah.”

When I come, it’s with a soft cry that echoes against the tile, my body shuddering in his arms. Before I can recover, he turns me to face him, lifting me with ease. “May I?” he asks, always so careful.

“Yes,” I gasp, wrapping my legs around his waist.

He enters me slowly, pressing me against the cool tile as hot water cascades over us both. The dual sensation makes me gasp. He sets a measured pace, each thrust deliberate, his control absolute even as pleasure builds again. My second orgasm crashes over me just as his rhythm falters, his own release following moments later.

After, he holds me until my legs stop trembling, then gently washes us both again. When he wraps me in a fluffy towel, his touch is tender, almost reverent.

“Better?” he asks, pressing a kiss to my forehead.

I nod, cheeks flaming. “Much.”

When we emerge, I find clothes laid out. A soft t-shirt that smells like Jude and sleep shorts that are actually mine. I dress quickly, feeling languid and pleasantly tired in a way that has nothing to do with bakery work.

Dressed and thoroughly refreshed, I pad to the nest room, drawn by the murmur of quiet voices and the concentrated scent of pack. I find the other three already settled in the nest.

“There she is,” Jude says, making room for me in the center. “Our flour-covered warrior returns.”

“Shut up,” I say without heat, crawling into the space they’ve left for me. “I’m too tired for your comedy routine.”

“Sleep now, mockery tomorrow,” he agrees, yawning widely. “I’m saving all my best material for when Eric’s business inevitably fails.”

“Jude,” Liam warns, sliding into the nest behind me, his still-damp hair giving away what we’ve been doing. Caleb meets his eyes with knowing approval before settling on my other side.

“What? I’m just stating the objective reality that his bakery concept is fundamentally flawed and destined for market rejection.”

“What he said,” I mumble, already feeling sleep tugging at me as I settle between Caleb and Mason, their warmth bracketing me like living walls.

“Rest,” Caleb says simply, his arm a comforting weight across my waist. “Everything else can wait.”

I want to argue that nothing can wait, that we have a thousand things to do before opening day, that Eric is probably working through the night to ensure Alpha Bites crushes Sweet Omega before it even begins. But the nest is too comfortable, the pack’s presence too soothing, and my body too relaxed after Liam’s attentions to resist.

The last thing I register before sleep claims me is the gentle press of Caleb’s lips against my temple and the collective scent of pack surrounding me like a blanket.

I wake before my alarm, my stomach already twisted into knots. Today’s the day. The bakery opening I’ve dreamed about for years. The one Eric’s been trying to sabotage from across the street.

Caleb’s arm tightens around my waist as I try to slip from the nest. “Too early,” he murmurs, voice thick with sleep.

“Can’t sleep,” I whisper back.

His eyes snap open instantly, that alpha protectiveness kicking in. Before I can protest, he’s rolling me onto my back, his massive frame caging me in. “Tell me.”

The words spill out in a rush. “What if no one comes?”

Caleb’s purr starts low in his chest, that deep alpha vibration that always makes my bones melt. “They will, but I know that doesn’t stop the anxiety.” His lips find the sensitive spot beneath my ear. “Let me help.”

His hand slides under my sleep shirt, calloused fingers tracing the dip of my waist. The purr grows louder as he kisses down my neck, each touch calculated to unravel me.

“You’re thinking too much,” he murmurs against my skin. His free hand slips between my thighs, finding me already wet. “Let me fix that.”

I bite my lip to stifle a moan as his fingers circle my clit with just the right pressure. The purr vibrates through me, syncing with the rhythm of his touch until I can’t tell where the sound ends and the pleasure begins.

“Quiet,” he warns as my hips jerk. “Unless you want to wake the others.”

The threat makes me clench around his fingers as he slides two inside. His thumb keeps up that torturous pace while his purr shifts to match my quickening breaths.

“That’s it,” he growls when my back arches. “Come for me. Let it all go.”

The orgasm crashes through me like a wave, stealing my breath and every anxious thought with it. Caleb swallows my whimpers with a kiss, his purr now a satisfied rumble as he holds me through the aftershocks.

When I finally come back to myself, he’s smirking. “Better?”

I swat his chest, but there’s no heat behind it. “Cheater.”

“Effective,” he corrects, pressing a kiss to my forehead before rolling out of bed. “Now let’s go make your dreams come true.”

The others are already stirring, drawn awake by our muffled activities. Jude stretches with a dramatic yawn. “Do I smell coffee or just the scent of your early morning sins?”

“Both,” I mutter, face heating.

Mason checks his watch. “We’re on schedule. Leah, your doughs should be perfectly proofed by now.”

The pack has cleared their schedules for my big day. By the time we head out into the dawn, Caleb’s hand finds mine. His purr kicks up again, just for me. And for the first time all week, I believe today might actually be perfect.

31

LEAH

“Duck!” I yell, moments before the stand mixer sputters to life with apocalyptic force, sending a mushroom cloud of all-purpose skyward. Mason, ever vigilant, dives behind the counter while Liam, who clearly hasn’t developed proper baker reflexes, takes a direct hit to his perfectly pressed shirt.

“I told you the seal was loose,” Mason says, emerging from cover looking infuriatingly pristine while Liam resembles a very disappointed ghost.

I swipe flour from my eyebrows. “In my defense, we’re making triple batches because someone—” I glare pointedly at Jude, who’s filming the entire disaster for social media “—told the entire city we’d have endless croissants.”

“I said ‘while supplies last’!” Jude protests, zooming in on Liam’s flour-covered hair. “This is gold, by the way. Pure engagement fuel.”

Liam attempts to brush off his shirt with all the dignity of a duke who’s fallen into a pig pen. “We’ve been open for three hours and sold more pastry than we projected for the entire day.”

“Because we’re awesome,” Jude declares, panning his phone to capture the line that still stretches out the door and halfway down the block. My heart flutters in my chest at the sight. “Also, the mariachi band was clearly a stroke of genius.”

Jude’s doing. “For ambiance,” he said.

The band in question has relocated to the small stage area by the window, serenading the packed café with an unexpectedly lovely rendition of “Sweet Caroline.” Two elderly omegas at table six are doing enthusiastic shoulder wiggles to the music while demolishing maple pecan rolls.

“I still can’t believe you did that,” I mutter, my heart warming at the sight. Is this really my bakery? The mariachi band has been surprisingly perfect—their energy infectious, their music drawing curious passersby inside. “Though I think they’ve played the same six songs on rotation.”

“Limited repertoire, unlimited charm,” Jude winks, helping himself to a reject cookie. “Like me.”

The bell over the door jingles as Caleb shoulders his way back inside, carrying yet another crate of emergency supplies from the restaurant wholesaler across town. His expression is thunderous as usual, sending a young beta scrambling out of his path.

“Delivery,” he announces unnecessarily, setting the crate on the floor with enough force to make the register jump.

“My hero,” I say, standing on tiptoes to kiss his cheek, leaving a perfect flour print of my lips. “Did you get the⁠—”

“Extra vanilla, industrial-sized parchment, emergency butter, and,” he produces a coffee cup from nowhere, “this.”

I take the cup with both hands, inhaling the rich scent. “You’re forgiven for terrifying the customers.”

“I didn’t terrify anyone,” he says defensively.

As if on cue, a toddler at the nearest table bursts into tears, pointing at Caleb with a sticky finger.

“The scary man has angry eyebrows, Mommy!”

The mother, a pretty beta with impressive eyebrows of her own, shoots us an apologetic smile. “Sorry! He says that about everyone these days.”

Caleb’s brow furrows further, which only makes the child wail louder.

“Angry eyebrows!” the toddler sobs.

Jude nearly drops his phone, shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter. “He’s not wrong.”

“Perhaps a different station for you,” Liam suggests, steering Caleb toward the back. “Away from the small humans.”

“I like small humans,” Caleb mutters, looking genuinely wounded. “They’re just... loud.”

I pat his arm consolingly. “It’s not you, it’s your face.”

“That’s not better,” he growls.

The mariachi band chooses this moment to launch into an enthusiastic rendition of “La Bamba,” complete with coordinated hip swivels that draw applause from the café patrons.

Mason appears at my elbow, clipboard in hand. “We need to discuss inventory management,” he says, somehow making it sound like both a crisis and a perfectly reasonable observation. “At current consumption rates, you’ll exhaust your premium chocolate supply by—” he checks his watch, “—four PM.”

“That’s weirdly specific.”

He grins and shrugs.

“Have you considered a career in business management?” I grin back.

“I dabble.” Mason plants a kiss on my nose just as the bell jingles again. I look up to see Mrs. Finley making her entrance like a five-foot-nothing battleship, parting the crowd through sheer force of personality.

“Leah, dear!” she calls, waving a newspaper over her head. “You’ve made the morning edition!”

She pushes her way to the counter, cutting in front of three waiting customers.

“Look!” She slaps the paper down, jabbing a bony finger at a small article. “Local Business Beat section!”

I lean over, scanning the headline: “Sweet Omega Draws Crowds on Opening Day; Traditional Rival Struggles Across Street.”

“They’ve already written about us?” I ask, incredulous. “We’ve been open for three hours!”

“My niece’s husband’s cousin works for the paper,” Mrs. Finley says, as if that explains everything. “I might have made a call.”

“Oh, Mrs. Finley,” I laugh, scanning the article.

My laughter dies as I read the next paragraph: “Meanwhile, Alpha Bites, the traditional omega-focused bakery across the street, remained conspicuously empty during its simultaneous opening, with owner Eric Donovan refusing to comment on the apparent lack of interest in his concept.”

“Empty?” I repeat, something between guilt and vindication churning in my stomach.

“Like my Harold’s promises to fix the bathroom door,“ Mrs. Finley confirms with obvious satisfaction. “Not a soul.”

I glance out the window toward Alpha Bites. Through the sleek black awning and pristine windows, I can see Eric pacing, hands gesturing wildly as he berates his staff. Even from here, his frustrated scowl is visible.

“Don’t feel bad for him,” Jude says, reading my expression with unnerving accuracy. “He tried to sabotage you, remember?”

“I don’t feel bad,” I protest, though the churning in my stomach says otherwise. “It’s just…”

“Your compassion showing,“ Liam supplies, finally having dealt with the flour situation. “It’s one of your better qualities, though perhaps misplaced in this instance.”

Before I can respond, there’s a commotion at the door. The crowd parts to reveal Zoe.

“Make way for the conquest spoils!” she announces, striding toward the counter with the confidence of someone who’s been practicing this entrance in her bathroom mirror.

“What did you do?” I ask warily.

“Reconnaissance,” she says, setting the package on the counter with a dramatic flourish. “Open it.”

I tear away the paper to reveal a small silver trophy cup—the kind given out at elementary school field days—with a hastily engraved plaque reading “BEST BAKERY (BY DEFAULT).”

“Is this...?”

“Eric ordered it for himself,” Zoe confirms, eyes gleaming with mischief. “I spotted the box in their recycling when I went to ‘check out the competition.’”

“And you stole it?” I ask, half horrified, half impressed.

“Liberated it,” she corrects. “For the good of society. Also, his face when he couldn’t find it was priceless. Like a constipated bulldog.”

The mariachi band, probably sensing dramatic potential, switches to a triumphant fanfare.

“Hold it up!” Jude urges, phone at the ready. “This is Instagram gold!”

I hesitate, torn between pettiness and professionalism. “I shouldn’t…”

“You absolutely should,” Caleb says, surprising me with a rare grin that transforms his entire face. “After everything he’s done.”

I glance around at my packed bakery—the happy customers, the flour-covered counters, the ridiculous mariachi band, and most importantly, the pack that made it all possible—and make my decision.

I hoist the trophy overhead like I’ve just won the World Cup.

“To Sweet Omega!” I shout, embracing the moment’s absurdity. “Best bakery by default and by merit!”

The café erupts in cheers, the mariachi band launches into something that might be the Rocky theme song, and Jude captures the entire glorious mess for posterity.

“That’s going on a t-shirt,” he declares.

“Absolutely not,” I say, but I’m laughing too hard to be convincing.

The lunch rush hits like a tsunami. Mrs. Finley appoints herself unofficial greeter, telling every customer who enters about “that dreadful alpha bakery across the street” and how they’ve made “the superior choice for their patronage.”

“We don’t need to disparage the competition,“ I tell her gently after she describes Eric’s pastries as “probably made with tears and broken dreams.”

“Speak for yourself, dear,” she sniffs. “I’ve been waiting forty years to see an uppity alpha get his comeuppance.”

I’m about to respond when the bell jingles yet again. The mariachi band, now on their second wind after the coffee and pastries I provided, immediately launches into a cheerful welcome melody.

Eric stands in the doorway, his face a perfect mask of barely contained fury.

The music stops abruptly, the lead trumpet player hitting a sour note that hangs in the sudden silence.

“Oh my,” Mrs. Finley says with obvious delight. “The villain returns.”

Eric ignores her, marching straight to the counter where I’m frozen in place, still holding a serving tong full of lemon bars.

“You did this,” he seethes, voice low but vibrating with anger. “You deliberately sabotaged my opening.”

“I did what now?” I ask, genuinely confused.

“Don’t play innocent,” he hisses. “The mariachi band. The newspaper article. The... the trophy!”

I glance at the trophy, now sitting proudly beside the register. “That was a misunderstanding.”

“A misunderstanding?” He laughs, the sound bitter and sharp. “Just like it’s a misunderstanding that every supplier in the city suddenly won’t return my calls? Or that the health inspector showed up at 6 AM for a ‘routine inspection’?”

I blink, looking over his shoulder at the pack. Jude suddenly becomes very interested in a spot on the ceiling. Mason examines the display. Liam straightens an already-straight napkin dispenser.

Only Caleb meets my gaze directly, his expression unapologetic.

“I didn’t—” I start, but Eric cuts me off.

“Save it,” he snaps. “I know when I’ve been outmaneuvered. But this isn’t over. You may have won today, but I have resources you can’t imagine.”

“Is that a threat?” Caleb materializes at my side, his voice deathly quiet.

Eric falters, finally noticing the four males who have formed a protective semicircle around me. His gaze darts between them, calculation and fear warring in his expression.

“It’s a promise,” he says finally, but the words lack conviction. “Enjoy your victory while it lasts.”

He turns to leave, only to find himself face-to-face with Mrs. Finley, who has positioned herself directly in his path.

“Young man,” she says, looking up at him through her bifocals, “in my day, alphas knew how to lose with dignity.”

“Get out of my way, old woman,” Eric mutters.

Mrs. Finley’s eyes narrow dangerously. “I beg your pardon?”

“I said⁠—”

Whatever Eric meant to say is lost as Mrs. Finley, with the speed and precision of someone who’s been waiting decades for this moment, brings her heavily bedazzled purse swinging upward in a perfect arc. It connects with Eric’s chin with a satisfying thwack.

The café goes silent. Then erupts.

“That’s assault,” Eric sputters, holding his jaw.

“That’s karma,” Mrs. Finley corrects sweetly. “And if you’d like to explain to the police how an eighty-three-year-old omega managed to assault a prime-age alpha, I’ll wait right here.”

Eric looks around the café, taking in the sea of unsympathetic faces, the pack’s protective stance, and Mrs. Finley’s triumphant smile.

Without another word, he turns and flees.

The mariachi band, with impeccable comedic timing, plays a mournful “wah-wah-wah“ riff as the door closes behind him.

“Did you see his face?“ Jude crows, rewatching the video he somehow managed to capture despite being across the room. “Pure Instagram gold. I’m thinking viral by dinner.”

“You are not posting that,” I say firmly. “Mrs. Finley could get in trouble.”

“Please,” she scoffs. “At my age, what are they going to do? Take away my bingo privileges?”

The café patrons, thoroughly entertained by the drama, have resumed their chatter, many now ordering seconds “to celebrate the show.”

I turn to the pack, arms crossed. “Did you really mess with his suppliers?”

They exchange guilty looks before Liam clears his throat and shrugs.

“And the health inspector?”

“An anonymous tip,” Mason admits. “Nothing fabricated, just... accelerated oversight.”

I should be angry. I should lecture them about fair play and taking the high road. Instead, I find myself fighting a smile.

“You’re all terrible,” I say, but my tone belies the words.

“Terribly effective,” Jude corrects, slinging an arm around my shoulders. “Admit it, you love it when we go all protective alpha on your behalf.”

“I admit nothing,” I say, but I lean into his side all the same.

The afternoon passes in a blur of customers, pastries, and mariachi music. By closing time, the display cases are empty, the coffee urns drained, and my feet aching in the best possible way.

“Final tally,” Mason announces, consulting his tablet as the last customer leaves. “Three hundred twenty-seven transactions. Ninety-eight percent positive feedback. Forty-seven loyalty card sign-ups beyond the pre-sold hundred. And,“ he looks up with quiet pride, “seventeen advance orders for custom cakes.”

“That’s…” I blink, overwhelmed. “That’s amazing.”

“It’s what you deserve,” Caleb says simply.

“Not to mention,” Jude adds, waving his phone, “over two thousand new Instagram followers, largely thanks to Mrs. Finley’s purse offensive, which—despite your objections—has indeed gone viral.”

“Wonderful,” I groan. ”My business success will forever be tied to elderly vigilante justice.“

“There are worse brand associations,” Liam points out.

As if summoned by her newfound infamy, Mrs. Finley appears from the back room where she’s apparently been reorganizing my storage shelves alongside Zoe.

“Your inventory system was abysmal, dear,” she announces. “I’ve categorized everything alphabetically, with a subsection for perishables organized by expiration date.”

“Thank you?” I say. “But you didn’t have to⁠—”

“Nonsense,” she waves a dismissive hand. “Consider it payment for the best entertainment I’ve had in years.”

She gathers her purse—now elevated to legendary status—and pats my cheek. “You’ve done well, dear. Even without the sage green walls I recommended.”

As she leaves, the mariachi band follows, tipping their sombreros in farewell. They’ve been paid handsomely for their impromptu all-day performance, with a standing invitation to return for “special occasions and emergency alpha intimidation.”

Zoe trails out behind them, eyeing me and the pack before waggling her eyebrows and giving me a not-so-hidden conspiratorial wink.

I can’t help the heat that rises up my neck.

The bakery feels suddenly quiet without them.

“We did it,” I whisper, looking around at my dream made real. “Sweet Omega is officially open.”

“And wildly successful,” Liam adds.

“And Instagram famous,” Jude chimes in.

“And financially viable,” Mason contributes.

“And mine,” I finish, a lump forming in my throat. “All mine.”

Caleb’s arms wrap around me from behind, his chin resting on top of my head. “You did it, Leah.”

I lean back, letting the breath ease from my chest. “I did.”

“Home?” Caleb asks, his arms tightening around me. “There’s something…something we planned for tonight.”

I ease up, brows furrowed in confusion. “What?”

32

LEAH

“You need to wear the red dress!” Zoe rifles through my closet with the determined efficiency of someone conducting a military operation. The moment I texted her that the pack had something planned for tonight, she’d rerouted straight to my apartment. “The one that makes your ass look like it should be in a museum.”

I peer over her shoulder, watching hangers fly past at alarming speed. “I don’t recall owning anything like that.”

“Trust me,” she mutters, extracting a garment I’d forgotten I owned. “This one.”

The dress in question is red silk, with a neckline that dips just low enough to be interesting without crossing into scandalous territory. I vaguely remember buying it for a catering event that subsequently cancelled, leaving it to languish in the back of my closet for the past two years.

“Are you sure? It seems a bit... much for a regular dinner.”

Zoe looks at me like I’ve suggested wearing sweatpants to a royal coronation. “Honey, from what you’ve told me, this isn’t a ‘regular dinner.’ This is your pack taking you out to celebrate the most successful bakery opening in the history of carbohydrates.”

“You’re exaggerating,” I protest, but warmth blooms in my chest at the words “your pack.”

“Am I though?” She holds up her phone, displaying what appears to be a waitlist for Sweet Omega’s second day of operation. “Three hundred people signed up to be notified when you restock. For pastries. In a city where you can’t throw a rock without hitting an artisanal croissant.”

I can’t help the smile that spreads across my face. “It was a good day, wasn’t it?”

“It was a triumphant day,” Zoe corrects, thrusting the dress into my hands. “Now go get ready. Your four horsemen of the alphacalypse will be here in an hour, and I refuse to let you greet them looking anything less than devastating.”

“Three horsemen of the alphacalypse and one of the betacalypse,” I correct automatically, but I’m already heading toward the shower, dress clutched to my chest.

An hour later, I’m scrutinizing my reflection with critical eyes. The silk skims my curves exactly as advertised, the color making my skin glow and my eyes look more siren black than brown. I’ve applied more makeup than usual, including the fancy lipstick Zoe insisted I needed “for emergencies and hot dates.”

My hair falls in soft waves around my face, and for once, I actually look like I’ve made an effort rather than just rolled out of a flour explosion.

“Damn,” Zoe whispers from behind me. “If I weren’t strictly into betas with daddy issues, I’d be seriously reconsidering my life choices right now.”

“That’s... a compliment?”

“The highest form,” she assures me, adjusting a stray curl. “Those alphas won’t know what hit them.”

The doorbell rings, and my stomach does a nervous little flip. Which is ridiculous. I’ve seen these men covered in flour. I’ve watched Jude eat cookies for breakfast while wearing unicorn pajamas. I’ve seen Caleb with bedhead and morning grumpiness. I’ve witnessed Liam’s failed attempt at making foam art in coffee, resulting in what looked disturbingly like anatomical drawings rather than hearts.

There’s no reason to be nervous.

Yet when I open the door, my breath catches in my throat.

They stand in the hallway like something out of a magazine spread—all four dressed in complementary shades of charcoal and navy, their usual chaotic energy temporarily contained in tailored suits and crisp shirts. Even Jude looks polished, his strawberry-blond hair styled into artful waves instead of its usual “electrical socket” aesthetic.

When Caleb’s eyes meet mine, they darken visibly.

“You look...” he starts, then seems to lose his train of thought entirely.

“Edible,” Jude supplies helpfully, earning an elbow in the ribs from Liam.

“Beautiful,” Mason finishes, his steady gaze taking in every detail with obvious appreciation. “Absolutely beautiful.”

The heat in their collective gazes makes me fidget, smoothing nonexistent wrinkles from my dress. “You all clean up pretty well yourselves,” I manage, aiming for casual and missing by a mile.

“Understatement of the century,” Zoe mutters behind me, apparently having appointed herself commentator for the evening.

Caleb extends his hand, formal in a way that makes my heart stutter in my chest. “Ready?”

I nod, accepting his palm against mine, the warmth of his skin sending a jolt of awareness up my arm.

“Don’t wait up,” I tell Zoe as I step into the hallway.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” she calls after us. “Use protection! Or don’t, if you’re feeling adventurous!”

The door closes on her cackling laughter, leaving me alone with my pack in the suddenly too-small hallway.

“She’s... supportive,” Liam observes.

“That’s one word for it,” I agree, still hyperaware of Caleb’s hand in mine.

Mason steps forward, offering his arm with old-fashioned courtesy. “Shall we?”

The drive passes in a blur of warmth and anticipation. I find myself nestled between Caleb and Liam in the back seat of the SUV, with Jude and Mason up front, Jude providing running commentary on everything from passing pedestrians to the “suspiciously cheerful” weather.

“Where exactly are we going?” I ask as we leave the familiar streets of our neighborhood behind.

“It’s a surprise,” Jude calls over his shoulder. “But I promise it doesn’t involve mariachi bands.”

“That’s... oddly specific and not particularly reassuring.”

“What he means,” Liam explains, “is that we wanted to celebrate your success properly. Somewhere special.”

“The bakery opening was special enough,” I protest. “You all already did so much⁠—”

“Leah,” Caleb interrupts gently, his fingers finding mine in the darkness of the back seat. “Let us do this for you.”

Something in his tone silences any further objections. I squeeze his hand in silent acquiescence, earning a small smile that transforms his usually serious face.

When we finally arrive, Mason guides me from the car toward an unassuming door tucked between two larger buildings. The subtle gold lettering on frosted glass reads simply “Thrum.”

“I’ve heard of this place,” I say, recognition dawning. “Isn’t there like a six-month waiting list?”

“For most people,” Jude agrees cheerfully. “But Liam went to school with the head chef, and Mason may have helped them with some tax situation that was allegedly ‘completely above board but required creative interpretation of certain regulations.’”

Mason’s expression remains carefully neutral. “I provided accounting services.”

“Right,” Jude winks. “Accounting services that somehow got us a private dining room on two days’ notice.”

Before I can question this further, the door swings open to reveal a dimly lit interior of polished wood and gleaming brass. A host greets us with practiced elegance, his eyes widening slightly as he takes us in.

“Le Roux party,” he confirms, recovering quickly. “Your table is ready. Please, follow me.”

We’re led through the main dining room—a cathedral-like space with soaring ceilings and intimate tables scattered like islands in a sea of luxury—and into a smaller private room. The space is illuminated by dozens of candles, their warm glow reflecting off the copper accents that adorn the walls. A circular table draped in crisp white linen awaits us, already set with gleaming silverware and crystal glasses.

“This is...” I trail off, overwhelmed by the sheer opulence of it all.

“Too much?” Liam asks, suddenly concerned.

“No,” I quickly assure him, not wanting to seem ungrateful. “It’s beautiful. I’ve just never been anywhere like this before.”

Jude grins, pulling out my chair with an exaggerated flourish. “Then prepare to have your mind blown, doll. The tasting menu here has fourteen courses, and each one comes with its own wine pairing.”

“Fourteen courses?” I echo, slightly alarmed. “I hope you’re not expecting me to remain conscious through all of them.”

“We have contingency plans for that,” Mason assures me with such seriousness that I can’t tell if he’s joking.

What follows is nothing short of impressive. Each dish arrives with dramatic presentation and detailed explanation from servers who materialize and vanish as if choreographed. They probably have. There are oysters topped with pearls of liquid nitrogen that dissolve on the tongue, wagyu beef aged for precisely 42 days, vegetables transformed into foams and gels that taste more intensely of themselves than should be possible.

Between courses, conversation flows as easily as the wine. Jude regales us with increasingly outlandish plans for Sweet Omega’s social media presence. Liam discusses potential flavor collaborations between the bakery and brewery (“The stout has chocolate notes that would complement your dark chocolate ganache perfectly”). Mason quietly ensures our glasses are never empty.

And Caleb... Caleb watches me with an intensity that makes my skin tingle, his gaze rarely leaving my face.

By the tenth course—some sort of deconstructed cheesecake that involves liquid nitrogen and edible flowers—a pleasant warmth has spread through my body. The room feels almost too warm, and I find myself absently fanning my face with the small menu card.

“Are you alright?” Mason asks, ever attentive.

“Just warm,” I whisper. “The wine, probably.”

He nods, but his expression suggests he’s not entirely convinced.

As the final course is cleared away, a server appears with four small boxes, placing one in front of each of my pack members. They exchange glances before their focus shifts to me. Jude gives me a sheepish grin.

“What’s this?” My gaze shifts to the boxes.

“Something we’ve been planning,” Liam says, his fingers drumming nervously on the table.

“Before the bakery opening,” Mason adds.

“Before Eric showed his punchable face,” Jude contributes.

“Before everything,” Caleb finishes, his voice deep and sure.

My pulse quickens as they each push their box toward the center of the table, forming a perfect square. The boxes are identical—small, navy velvet cubes that could only contain one thing.

“Are those—” I begin, my voice catching.

Caleb reaches for my hand, his larger one enveloping mine completely.

“We wanted something meaningful,” Liam explains.

Mason nods. “Open them,” he suggests quietly.

With trembling fingers, I reach for the nearest box—Liam’s, I think—and lift the lid. Inside, nestled against dark velvet, lies a delicate gold chain with a small pendant shaped like a puzzle piece.

I open the next box—Mason’s—to find another chain with another puzzle piece, different in shape but clearly designed to connect with the first. Jude’s and Caleb’s boxes reveal the same: beautiful gold pendants, each one a distinct piece of a larger whole.

“They fit together,” I realize, lifting one to examine it more closely.

“Or they can be worn separately,” Mason explains. “Each one stands alone, but together...”

“Together they form something more complete,” Caleb finishes.

I stare at the four pendants, understanding dawning. “Like us.”

“Exactly like us,” Liam confirms, his smile gentle.

“We…” Jude starts, uncharacteristically serious. “We wanted you to know...”

“That we’re yours,” Caleb states simply. “Whether you choose to wear our mark or not.”

Tears well in my eyes, blurring the candlelight into golden streaks. “I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything,” Mason assures me, reaching across the table to take my hand. His thumb brushes over my knuckles in a soothing pattern. “This isn’t a demand. It’s a promise.”

I look around at them—these four extraordinary men who have somehow become the center of my world. At Jude’s hopeful expression, Liam’s patient smile, Mason’s steady gaze, and Caleb’s intense focus.

As I’m about to reach for the pendants, they exchange another look. Caleb gives a slight nod, and suddenly all four of them rise from their chairs.

And then, in perfect synchronization that they must have practiced, they drop to one knee beside the table.

The entire restaurant falls silent. My heart seems to stop beating entirely.

“There’s one more thing,” Caleb says.

Mason produces a fifth box from his jacket pocket—larger than the others, covered in the same navy velvet. When he opens it, I actually gasp.

Inside lies the most beautiful ring I’ve ever seen—a stunning oval diamond surrounded by smaller stones in a platinum setting that somehow manages to be both elegant and striking. The center stone catches the candlelight, throwing rainbow prisms across the tablecloth.

“Leah,” Liam begins.

“Our perfect, stubborn omega,” Jude continues.

“We’re asking you to be ours,” Mason says, “formally and completely.”

“Will you marry us?” Caleb finishes.

Time stills.

For a moment, something within me, my heart possibly, swells so much my chest hurts.

I don’t realize I’m crying till Liam reaches forward and wipes a tear from my cheek. I’m vaguely aware that other diners are watching, that several servers have paused in their duties, that the chef has emerged from the kitchen to witness this moment.

For a heartbeat, I think about everything that brought me here—the chance encounter with these men I…I love so so much, the heat that threw us together, the rivalry with Eric, the long days of work and nights of slowly lowering my walls.

“Yes,” I say, the word emerging before I’ve decided to speak. More tears come. “Yes!”

The restaurant erupts in applause as Caleb takes the ring from its velvet nest. With gentle reverence, he slides it onto my finger. It fits perfectly—of course it does, they’ve thought of everything.

I stare at the ring sparkling on my hand, momentarily speechless at its beauty and what it represents. Before I can find my voice again, Caleb is pulling me to my feet and into a kiss that silences the room once more. When he finally releases me, the others take their turns—Jude’s kiss playful but deep, Liam’s tender and thorough, Mason’s quietly passionate.

Brushing another tear from my cheek, Caleb turns his attention to the pendants. He carefully lifts the first chain and moves behind me. His fingers brush the nape of my neck as he fastens the clasp, his breath warm against my skin. The pendant settles against my collarbone, cool at first but quickly warming to my body temperature.

One by one, the others join him, each adding their pendant to the collection until all four rest against my skin.

“Perfect.” Jude’s voice is almost a whisper. I look up at him and his eyes look a bit glassy. Filled with emotion. This beautiful ridiculous man. I love him so much. I almost choke on another happy sob.

I reach up to touch the pendants, then glance down at the ring now sparkling on my finger. “I…” I manage. What can I say? I look at each of them in turn. “They’re beautiful.”

“You’re beautiful,” Caleb corrects, his voice rough with something that makes my insides twist.

For a moment, we’re suspended in a bubble of intimacy. The crowded restaurant disappears. Caleb’s gaze holds mine, conveying depths of emotion that words could never adequately express. Around us, the others form a protective circle, their presence both supportive and possessive. Liam’s hand rests lightly on my shoulder, Mason’s fingers intertwined with mine, Jude leans close enough that his citrus scent mingles with the aroma of the wine around us.

I see my future in their faces—mornings in the bakery with flour-covered hands, evenings in the nest with tangled limbs, holidays and celebrations and quiet moments that make up a life together. The magnitude of what we’ve just committed to washes over me, and I wait for the wave of panic.

It doesn’t come.

The moment is interrupted by our server, who appears with a bottle of champagne. “Compliments of the chef,” he announces, expertly popping the cork without spillage.

As the bubbling liquid is poured into flutes, a strange sensation spreads through my body—a warmth that seems to originate from my core and radiate outward. I shift in my seat, suddenly uncomfortable in a way that has nothing to do with the formality of the restaurant or the fact that these four beautiful men have just asked me to be with them forever.

I sit, closing my eyes for a moment to steady myself. It feels like all the nerves in my core are waking up one by one.

Mason’s eyes narrow slightly as he watches me, his nostrils flaring subtly. “Leah?” he questions, concern evident in his tone.

“I’m okay. It’s all right,” I assure him, though I’m becoming less certain of that with each passing moment. The room feels impossibly warm now, and there’s an ache building low in my abdomen that I recognize with dawning horror.

No. Not here. Not now.

But my biology has never been particularly concerned with convenience, and the symptoms are unmistakable. The flush creeping up my neck. The increasing sensitivity of my skin. The way scents suddenly seem sharper, more intense.

I can’t be going into heat. Again. By surprise.

It’s weeks early, in the middle of the most exclusive restaurant in the city, surrounded by my pack, the men I love, but also by strangers who will definitely notice the moment my scent changes.

“We need to go,” I say abruptly, pushing back from the table. “Now.”

Caleb is instantly alert, his posture shifting from relaxed to protective in the span of a heartbeat. “Leah? What’s wrong?”

I lean closer, lowering my voice to avoid being overheard. “I think I’m... it’s starting.”

He frowns, gaze travelling over my form before his nostrils flare. Understanding dawns on his face, followed immediately by concern. “Your heat? Now?”

I nod miserably. “I’m sorry. It shouldn’t be happening. It’s early—probably all the stress and excitement⁠—”

“Don’t apologize,” he interrupts, already signaling for the check. “Mason, get the car. Jude, create a distraction if necessary. Liam⁠—”

“I’ve got her,” Liam says, moving to my side with calm efficiency. His arm wraps around my waist, providing support that I suddenly realize I need as another wave washes through me, making my knees weak.

The next few minutes pass in a blur of controlled chaos. Mason handles the bill with remarkable speed, possibly setting some sort of record for fastest payment of a fourteen-course meal. Jude, true to form, creates a minor scene by “accidentally” knocking over a water glass, drawing attention away from our hasty departure.

Caleb leads the way, clearing a path through the main dining room with the sheer force of his alpha presence. I’m vaguely aware of other diners turning to watch our exit, but their faces blur into an indistinct mass as another cramp seizes my abdomen.

“Almost there,” Liam murmurs reassuringly, his arm tightening around me as we reach the entrance.

The night air is a momentary relief against my overheated skin, but the respite is brief. By the time we reach the car, I’m trembling, my entire body now in the grip of pre-heat symptoms that are progressing far faster than usual.

“This is happening really quickly,” I breathe as Mason opens the car door. “Usually I have more warning.”

“Emotional catalysts can accelerate the process,” Liam explains, helping me into the back seat. “Significant life changes, stress... or a sudden proposal.”

“Ha.” I can’t even laugh, leaning my head against the cool window. “So my body decided to celebrate us being engaged by going into spontaneous heat? Very practical.” Oh my God, did I just say engaged? I’m engaged. I really am. The thought seems to send another wave through me.

Jude slides in beside me, his usual joking manner subdued. “Silver lining: at least it happened with us nearby. Imagine if you’d been alone at the bakery tomorrow.”

The thought sends a chill through me despite my rising temperature. Public heats are an omega’s worst nightmare—vulnerable, exposed, at the mercy of whatever alphas happen to be nearby.

Caleb takes the driver’s seat, his knuckles white on the steering wheel as he navigates through evening traffic. In the rearview mirror, his eyes catch mine, dark with concern and something deeper.

“Hold on,” he says simply. “We’ll be home soon.”

Home. The word fills me with longing so acute it’s almost painful. Not my apartment, but the pack house. Their den. Where the nest waits—the nest I rebuilt myself, with pieces of each of them arranged in patterns that felt right to the rabid omega instincts currently trying to claw their way out of me.

Another wave of heat courses through me, stronger than the last, drawing a small whimper from my throat before I can suppress it. The sound has an immediate effect on the alphas, their scents sharpening with protective instinct and something more primal.

“Caleb, windows,” Mason orders from the passenger seat, his usually calm voice tight with restraint.

Caleb immediately rolls down the windows, allowing fresh air to circulate through the car. It helps, but only marginally. My scent is changing rapidly now, the sweet vanilla-cinnamon taking on the unmistakable notes of omega heat.

“How much longer?” Liam asks, his arm still around me, his touch both comforting and increasingly distracting as my skin becomes hypersensitive.

“Ten minutes,” Caleb replies, accelerating through a yellow light. “Maybe eight if I push it.”

Eight minutes feels like an eternity in my current state. I squirm in my seat, the sleek silk of my dress suddenly an irritant against my overstimulated skin. “I’m sorry about dinner,” I manage, clinging to conversation as a distraction from the growing ache between my thighs.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Jude says, his tone gentler than usual. “Though I do feel cheated out of the chocolate soufflé they were about to bring out.”

“I’m sure that’s your biggest concern right now,” Liam remarks dryly.

“I contain multitudes,” Jude replies with a shadow of his usual grin. “Concern for Leah and mourning for missed dessert can coexist.”

Their banter washes over me, familiar and comforting despite the circumstances. I try to focus on it rather than the increasing dampness between my thighs or the way each bump in the road sends jolts of sensation through my core.

By the time we reach the pack house, I’m barely coherent, my body fully in the grip of heat hormones. The transition from pre-heat to active heat has never happened so quickly before, leaving me disoriented and desperate.

“I’ve got you,” Liam murmurs as he lifts me from the car, his arms strong and secure around me. The contact sends a wave of relief through my system, my omega instincts recognizing safety and protection in his embrace.

The journey from car to nest is a blur of movement and sensation. I’m vaguely aware of doors opening, of Mason moving ahead to prepare the space, of Caleb’s calm voice giving instructions. But most of my focus is on Liam—his scent, his strength, the steady beat of his heart against my ear.

When we finally reach the nest room, I nearly sob with relief. The circular mattress is just as I arranged it, blankets and pillows forming a perfect sanctuary in the center of the room.

Liam sets me down gently in the center of the nest, and immediately I curl into the softness, seeking comfort against the growing discomfort between my legs.

Jude reaches me first, his hands surprisingly gentle as he helps me out of my dress. The silk slides away, leaving me in nothing but the red lingerie I’d chosen with such care earlier in the evening.

“Christ,” he growls, pupils blown wide. “Look at this fucking feast.”

The others circle like predators, their restraint visibly crumbling as my heat pheromones fill the room. Clothes are torn off and discarded, four pairs of hands reaching for me at once.

“Please,” I gasp, beyond shame, beyond hesitation. “I need all of you. At once.”

Caleb’s eyes darken at my words. “Show us how bad you want it, omega.”

My body moves on pure instinct, hands and knees, ass high, face pressed to the nest. I reach back with both hands, spreading myself open, displaying my soaked pussy in blatant invitation. The muscles in my core ache so hard I clench on nothing, the need rising so fast, so quickly that I don’t care how desperate I must look. All that matters is being filled, being claimed by these men who are now mine.

“Fuck,” Mason breathes, his usual composure shattered. “I’ve never seen anything so perfect.”

They descend on me like starving men at a banquet. Liam growls as he lifts me and immediately positions himself beneath me, guiding my hips until I’m straddling his face, his tongue immediately plunging into my dripping cunt. The sensation tears a cry from my throat that quickly turns to a muffled moan as Jude feeds his cock between my lips.

“Oh fuck,” he hisses as I hollow my cheeks around him.

Mason’s hands spread my ass cheeks wider as his tongue circles my puckered entrance, working me open with a thoroughness that has my thighs trembling. Caleb watches it all with hungry eyes, stroking his massive cock as pre-cum beads at the tip.

“We’re going to give you what you want,” he says, voice so rough, the sound of it makes me whimper. “We’re going to take care of you.”

I pull off Jude’s cock with an obscene pop and a collective growl ripples through the pack at the filthy sound. Caleb and Mason exchange a look, communicating silently before repositioning me. Liam lies back on the nest, his cock standing proud as they guide me to straddle him. I sink down with a broken moan, his thick length stretching my pussy deliciously.

Before I can adjust, Caleb moves behind me, the blunt head of his cock pressing against my ass. I’m still slick from Mason’s ministrations, but the pressure is intense, bordering on too much.

“Breathe,” he commands, one hand splayed across my lower back as he begins to push inside.

The burn is exquisite as he breaches me, inch by excruciating inch, until I’m impaled on both cocks, stuffed fuller than I’ve ever been in my life. Liam and Caleb groan in unison, the sensation of being separated by only a thin wall of flesh driving them both to the edge of control.

“So. Fucking. Tight,” Caleb grinds out, his hips flush against my ass.

They begin to move, finding a rhythm that has me seeing stars—Liam thrusting up as Caleb withdraws, then Caleb driving deep as Liam pulls back, never leaving me empty for even a millisecond. The dual penetration has me babbling incoherently, pleasure building to heights I didn’t know were possible.

“Open, sweetheart,” Mason commands, appearing beside my face, his cock level with my mouth.

I comply eagerly, my jaw stretching to accommodate him as he slides down my throat. The feeling of having three holes filled simultaneously triggers something primal in my increasingly heat-drunk brain, a satisfaction so profound I feel tears spring to my eyes.

Jude watches for a moment, stroking himself, before positioning himself beside Mason.

I alternate between them, my lips stretched obscenely as I suck first one cock, then the other, sometimes both at once, their combined pre-cum and my saliva dripping down my chin onto Liam’s chest below.

“Look at our omega,” Jude says with reverent filth, “taking four cocks like she was made for it.”

“Our fucking beautiful wife,” Mason agrees, his propriety completely abandoned. “Built to be stuffed full of our cocks.”

Their filthy praise pushes me over the edge, my orgasm slamming through me with such force that I scream around the cocks in my mouth. My pussy and ass clamp down, milking Liam and Caleb who groan in unison.

They reposition me without warning—Mason sitting back against the headboard with me impaled on his cock, facing away from him. Jude kneels between our spread legs, the head of his cock nudging against my pussy where Mason’s shaft is already stretching me.

“Both,” I gasp, the need surging through me increasing so much it’s turning into pain. “Please, both in my pussy.”

Jude pushes forward slowly, the stretch burning so good I see stars. Inch by torturous inch, he works his shaft in alongside Mason’s until they’re both buried to the hilt, stretching me beyond what I thought possible.

“Holy fuck,” Caleb breathes, watching me stretch around both. “That’s the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”

Liam doesn’t speak, just guides his cock to my mouth, which I open willingly, desperate to be filled in every way possible. Caleb moves to my side, his hand finding my swollen clit. I whimper, the fire burning through me culminating at that one spot as he rubs it in tight circles that have me trembling on the edge of another orgasm.

Mason and Jude begin to move, shallow thrusts that leave me boneless. The sensation is overwhelming—being stretched to my absolute limits, filled beyond capacity, used in the most primal way possible.

“You’re ours,” Jude growls, his fingers digging into my hips. “Fuck, Leah. Ours.”

“Our perfect omega,” Mason adds, his tone replaced by raw dominance.

They up the pace and my head falls back, vision fading in and out. The relentless stimulation triggers another orgasm, this one so powerful my consciousness fragments, pleasure whiting out my vision as I convulse around them. My release triggers a chain reaction—Liam coming first, flooding my mouth faster than I can swallow, excess dripping down my chin.

Mason and Jude follow simultaneously, pumping me so full that it leaks out around their shafts despite how tightly they’re wedged inside me. The pressure of their release sends my orgasm into a spiral until I’m sobbing from overstimulation.

Caleb is the last to finish, painting my breasts with thick ropes of his release before collapsing beside us, his hand still idly stroking my trembling thigh.

We stay locked together, a tangle of limbs and fluids, until they can finally withdraw. The emptiness triggers another whimper, my body insatiable despite the thorough claiming.

“Knot,” I demand. “I need a knot.”

They exchange heated glances before rearranging me once more. This time Caleb lies beneath me, his cock sliding into my ass. Liam positions himself at my pussy, pushing in with a single smooth thrust that has me gasping.

Mason kneels by my head, guiding his cock back into my mouth while Jude watches, his hand stroking my sweat-dampened hair.

They set a brutal pace, all three thrusting in perfect synchrony, using my body with an abandon. Completely claiming of me. The sensation of being triple-penetrated, of being the center of their universe, pushes me toward another climax embarrassingly quickly.

My orgasm tears through me with devastating force, my entire body convulsing as pleasure crashes over me in endless waves. The contractions trigger Caleb and Liam’s releases, both of them flooding me with hot spurts that seem endless.

Caleb pulls out just in time, painting my back with thick stripes of cum that mark me as thoroughly claimed. Liam growls his approval, leaning down to kiss me deeply as his buries himself full hilt.

“Going to knot you,” he barely gets out before his knot swells and locks us together.

The sensation of being stretched, owned, loved, pushes back against the need eating at me, pushes back against the pain. I whimper as I take everything he’s offering. Everything they’re offering.

The night continues in a blur of positions and combinations, my body passed between them like a prized possession. They take me in every possible configuration—all my holes filled simultaneously, stretched to my limits and beyond, marked inside and out with their scent, their cum, their knots, their claiming.

Through it all, they mark me thoroughly—bites on my inner thighs, bruises on my hips, fingerprints on my ass, cum in every hole and across my skin. By the time my heat begins to ebb, hours or maybe days later, I’m a thoroughly debauched mess, every inch of me claimed and reclaimed by my pack.

When my heat temporarily subsides enough for coherent thought, I find myself cradled against Caleb’s chest, his heartbeat steady beneath my ear. The others are close by—Jude sprawled across the foot of the nest, Liam and Mason curled on either side of us like protective bookends.

“Thank you,” I murmur, my voice barely more than a rasp from screaming. “For taking care of me.”

Caleb’s arms tighten around me, his lips pressing against my temple. “Always,” he promises.

I turn in his embrace, looking up at his face. At the devotion written there, unguarded and sincere. My gaze drops to the puzzle piece pendants still somehow intact around my neck, the gold catching the low light of the nest room, before my focus shifts to the massive ring on my finger.

I’m theirs.

I’ve always been theirs.

“Caleb,” I whisper, the words forming before I fully decide to speak them. “I want your mark.”

His body goes rigid beneath me, his scent spiking with sudden intensity. “Leah.” His voice is rough with emotion. “Are you sure? The heat might be⁠—”

“It’s not the heat,” I interrupt, placing my palm against his jaw. “It’s me. It’s us. I’m sure.”

The others stir. Jude lifts his head, suddenly alert. Liam and Mason shift closer, their expressions a mixture of hope and caution.

“All of you,” I clarify, meeting each of their gazes in turn. “I want the pack bond.”

A collective inhale greets my words, four pairs of eyes widening with identical surprise.

“You don’t have to—” Liam begins, but I shake my head, cutting him off.

“I know I don’t have to,” I say firmly. “I want to. I want to belong to you, the way you belong to me.”

Caleb’s hand finds the nape of my neck, his touch reverent. “Once done, it can’t be undone,” he warns, though I can see the barely contained joy behind his caution. “You’ll be ours. Forever.”

The word should terrify me. Once, it would have. But now, surrounded by the pack that has become my home, my family, my everything, it feels like a promise rather than a trap.

“Forever,” I agree, tilting my head to expose my neck. “Starting now.”

The gesture is all the permission he needs. With a growl that vibrates through my very bones, Caleb’s teeth sink into the juncture where my neck meets my shoulder. Pain flares briefly before dissolving into a pleasure so intense it triggers another orgasm, my body arching as the bond forms instantly—a golden thread linking us together that branches outward, connecting me to all four of them through our alpha.

When he pulls back, his eyes are glowing with satisfaction, my blood staining his lower lip. “Ours,” he rumbles.

“Yours,” I agree, tilting my head to offer another part of my neck, this time to Jude.

He doesn’t hesitate, his mouth hot against my skin as his teeth sink in just below my ear. I gasp at the fresh wave of pain and pleasure that crashes through me, the bond between us clicking into place with the same intensity as Caleb’s had, another thread weaving into the tapestry that’s forming.

Liam moves forward next, his hands gentle but sure as he guides me to expose the back of my neck. His teeth find unmarked skin, claiming me with a bite that sends sparks racing down my spine. The bond forms immediately, another connection joining the others, strengthening the web that now ties us all together.

Mason completes the circle, his teeth grazing the soft skin above my collarbone before sinking in with surprising strength. His mark burns just as deep, his bond settling into place alongside the others, the final piece of a puzzle I didn’t know needed solving.

Four marks. Four bonds. Four pieces of myself given and received, forming something greater than any of us could be alone.

Mason traces the outline of his bite with a gentle finger before bending to press his lips to the mark. “We love you, Leah,” he whispers, his hand finding mine and squeezing gently. “So fucking much.”

As the final bond settles into place, something shifts within me—a sense of completion that fills spaces I never knew were empty. The puzzle pieces around my neck seem to warm against my skin in acknowledgment.

As another wave of heat rises within me, I surrender to it without fear, knowing I’m exactly where I belong—in the heart of a pack that loves me not despite my independence but because of it.

In their arms, surrounded by their scents and their love, I am finally, completely home.

EPILOGUE

One Year Later

Leah

I dive behind the counter as the mixer sputters to life, but unlike last year’s flour apocalypse, this time the machine purrs with perfect precision. The meringue whips into glossy peaks, not a speck flying astray.

“False alarm,” I announce, straightening up to find Mason watching me with barely concealed amusement. “What? Better safe than sorry.”

“I did replace the gasket last week,” he reminds me, sliding a spreadsheet across the counter. “Also, quarterly profits are up eighteen percent, and your lemon-thyme shortbread has officially surpassed the cinnamon rolls as our top seller.”

I scan the numbers, still marveling at how smoothly Sweet Omega runs these days. What started as my scrappy little bakery has evolved into a neighborhood institution, with lines that sometimes stretch around the block despite our expanded hours and additional staff.

“Mrs. Finley will be devastated,” I say, referencing our most loyal customer’s notorious addiction to my cinnamon rolls. “She’ll blame the lack of sage green walls again.”

Mason’s lips quirk into that subtle smile I’ve come to treasure. The gold band on his left hand catches the light as he reaches to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, his fingers lingering on the matching ring I wear alongside my engagement diamond.

“At least she’s loyal,” he notes. “Unlike the customers who abandoned Alpha Bites after just a few weeks.”

I chuckle at the memory. “Fastest restaurant closure I’ve ever witnessed.”

“Turns out flashy decor couldn’t hide mediocre pastries,” Mason adds with quiet satisfaction.

Eric’s grand venture had shuttered after barely a month in business, his pastry chef quitting in a spectacularly public meltdown that went viral thanks to Jude’s strategic social media coverage. Last we heard, Eric had fled to Europe somewhere, licking his wounds and pretending the whole fiasco never happened.

The sweet taste of that victory had been just one highlight in a year full of them. My fingers absently twist the gold band on my left hand, still not quite used to its presence. Sometimes I catch myself staring at the rings, marveling at how far we’ve come.

The ceremony had been small but perfect—just our closest friends gathered in the brewery’s garden, which Liam and Jude had transformed into a fairytale setting with twinkling lights and flowers everywhere. Zoe had been my maid of honor and Mrs. Finley had officiated. I’d worn a simple cream dress, carrying a bouquet of wildflowers that matched the ones woven through my hair.

The four of them had stood together, waiting for me at the end of the aisle—my alphas, my beta, my pack, my husbands.

I will never forget the way they looked at me. As if I was the best thing that ever happened to them in their entire lives.

The bell above the door jingles, and Jude bursts in with his typical hurricane energy, three shopping bags dangling from each arm.

“Taste test emergency!” he announces, dumping his haul onto the nearest table. “The Lovewell wedding wants sample boxes of our wine paired with your pastries, and I promised them options that would blow their collective minds.”

I arch an eyebrow at him. “We discussed this yesterday. The sample boxes are already prepped in the cooler.”

“Those were yesterday’s samples,” he dismisses with a wave. “These are today’s inspiration! I stopped by that spice market Mason mentioned—the one run by the hot beta with the forearms—and they had cardamom pods the size of my thumb!”

“Your thumb is not an accurate unit of measurement,” Mason points out mildly.

“Tell that to my Instagram followers,” Jude retorts, already unpacking exotic ingredients. “They’ve voted my thumb pics ‘most aesthetically pleasing’ three months running.”

I shake my head, unable to contain my smile. When I agreed to let Jude handle Sweet Omega’s social media presence, I expected disaster. Instead, he’s built us a following of over fifty thousand devotees who tune in daily for his outrageous taste tests and behind-the-scenes shenanigans.

The “Will It Croissant?” series—where he attempts to incorporate unlikely ingredients into laminated dough—nearly broke the internet when he successfully created wasabi-ginger croissants that actually tasted incredible.

As I turn back to my meringue, a wave of nausea hits me without warning. The scent of cardamom, usually one of my favorites, suddenly seems overwhelmingly strong. I grip the counter, willing the sensation to pass.

“Leah?” Mason is instantly at my side, his hand steady on my lower back. “You’ve gone pale.”

“I’m fine,” I assure him, though my stomach strongly disagrees. “Just a little queasy. Probably tried too many experimental fillings yesterday.”

He studies me with that penetrating gaze that misses nothing. “This is the third morning this week you’ve looked green around the gills.”

“Keeping track of my complexion now?” I tease, trying to deflect.

“Among other things,” he says cryptically.

Before I can question him further, the kitchen doors swing open as Liam backs through them, arms loaded with fresh produce from the farmers market.

“The early harvest strawberries are in,” he announces, setting his bounty on the prep table. “And I negotiated exclusive rights to the first pick for the next three weeks.”

His smile fades as he turns and sees me. “What’s wrong? You look⁠—”

“Green around the gills, apparently,” I finish for him. “I’m fine, just a little nauseous.”

Liam and Mason exchange a look I can’t quite interpret, some silent communication passing between them.

“What?” I demand, hands on my hips. “Why are you two making significant eye contact?”

Jude’s head pops up from behind his spice mountain. “Who’s making significant eye contact? Is it sexy significant eye contact or worried significant eye contact? Because there’s a difference.”

“Worried,” I say at the exact moment Mason says, “Speculative.”

The nausea intensifies suddenly, and I make a dash for the bathroom, barely reaching the toilet before my breakfast makes a reappearance. I’m still retching when I sense a presence behind me, a gentle hand gathering my hair away from my face.

“Better out than in,” Liam says sympathetically, offering a damp paper towel once I’m finished.

I wipe my mouth, mortified. “Sorry about that.”

“Don’t apologize for bodily functions,” he says with typical Liam pragmatism. “They’re perfectly natural, especially when⁠—”

He stops abruptly, pressing his lips together like he’s said too much.

“When what?” I ask, suspicion blooming. “Liam?”

His expression is carefully neutral. “When one is feeling unwell.”

I narrow my eyes at him. “That’s not what you were going to say.”

Before he can respond, my phone pings with a text from Caleb: Delivery arrived. Meet at home when you’re done?

Home. Our home. The pack house where I’ve lived for the past ten months, ever since the lease on my apartment expired and I realized I was spending every night there anyway. The transition had been surprisingly seamless, my fears about lost independence proving unfounded as the pack made space for me in their lives without trying to constrain mine.

My phone pings again. Zoe. Something about reminding me about that thing.

I frown at the cryptic message. What thing? Zoe and I had lunch three days ago, but I don’t remember her mentioning anything important enough to warrant a reminder.

Unless...

A sudden, wild suspicion takes root. I count backward in my head, trying to remember my last heat cycle. Six weeks? No, longer. Almost nine weeks.

Oh. Oh no.

Or...oh yes?

“I need to go,” I announce, pushing past Liam back into the kitchen. “Family emergency.”

“We’re your family,” Jude points out, looking confused. “And we’re all here.”

“Pack emergency,” I amend, already untying my apron. “Very urgent. Super critical. Can’t wait.”

Mason’s eyebrows rise toward his hairline. “Would this emergency happen to involve a certain pharmacy item Zoe mentioned purchasing for you yesterday?”

I freeze. “You knew?”

“Suspected,” he corrects gently. “Your scent has been... different. Sweeter.”

“And you’ve been avoiding coffee,” Liam adds. “You haven’t gone a morning without coffee since we met you.”

“And you cried when we ran out of raspberry jam last week,” Jude chimes in. “Like, actual tears. Over jam.”

“It was very good jam,” I mutter defensively.

“It was mediocre jam at best,” Jude counters. “Mason only bought it because it was on sale.”

I look between the three of them, these observant, irritating, wonderful men who apparently know my body better than I do. “So all of you suspected I might be...”

“Pregnant?” Liam supplies helpfully. “The probability…is rather high.”

“We were waiting for you to realize it yourself,” Mason explains. “Or to take the test Zoe bought you.”

“Which is currently burning a hole in your tote bag,” Jude adds, pointing to where my bag sits innocently by the door. “Unless you’ve already taken it?”

I shake my head, suddenly feeling overwhelmed. “I haven’t. I wasn’t sure. I’m not sure. I’m still not sure.”

“Only one way to find out,” Jude says, retrieving my bag and holding it out to me. “Want company for the big reveal?”

I take a deep breath, considering. “I should tell Caleb first. If there’s anything to tell. Which there might not be.”

“Of course,” Liam nods, though I don’t miss the flash of excitement in his eyes. “We’ll hold down the fort here.”

“And not call or text Caleb with cryptic hints,” I add sternly, looking directly at Jude.

He places a hand over his heart. “I would never.”

“You absolutely would,” Mason contradicts. “But you won’t, because we’re going to respect Leah’s process.”

Jude sighs dramatically. “Fine. No cryptic hints. But the moment it’s confirmed, I’m ordering ‘World’s Hottest Papa’ mugs for all of us.”

“Goodbye, Jude,” I say firmly, but I can’t help smiling as I grab my bag and head for the door.

The trip home passes in a blur of nervous anticipation. When I arrive, I pause in the entryway, my eyes catching on the framed photo from our wedding day that holds pride of place on the wall. The five of us, laughing as Jude smashed cake into Caleb’s face while Liam and Mason looked on with identical expressions of fond exasperation. It had been the happiest day of my life.

Until, perhaps, today.

I take the test in the downstairs bathroom, setting the plastic stick on the counter before washing my hands with trembling fingers.

Three minutes. That’s what the instructions said. Three minutes to wait before my whole life potentially changes.

I pace the small space, mind racing with possibilities. A baby. Our baby. A tiny person with Caleb’s eyes or Jude’s smile or Liam’s thoughtfulness or Mason’s steadiness. Plus whatever traits I might contribute.

It’s terrifying and exhilarating in equal measure.

When the timer on my phone chimes, I nearly jump out of my skin. Taking a deep breath, I pick up the test, already knowing what I’ll see.

Two pink lines. Unmistakable.

I’m pregnant.

I lean against the counter, legs suddenly weak. It’s one thing to suspect, another entirely to know. There’s a life growing inside me, a new person who will join our unconventional family.

“Leah?” Caleb’s voice comes from the other side of the door, concern evident in his tone. “Are you okay? You’ve been in there a while.”

I open the door to find him standing there, brow furrowed with worry. His expression shifts immediately as he takes in my face, scenting the mix of emotions rolling off me.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, reaching for me automatically.

I hold up the test, words failing me completely.

His eyes drop to the plastic stick, widening as understanding dawns. For a moment, he’s perfectly still, not even breathing. Then, with a sound that’s part growl and part laugh, he lifts me off the ground in a crushing embrace.

“You’re pregnant?” he says against my hair, voice thick with emotion. “We’re having a baby?”

“We’re having a baby,” I confirm, tears suddenly streaming down my face. Caleb freezes.

“Leah…” His voice almost cracks. “Oh Leah…You don’t want this?”

My tears flow harder, but I’m already nodding. “I do! I’m just scared and happy and completely terrified and so, so happy.”

His shoulders sag with relief. He sets me down gently, cradling my face in his large hands. “You have no idea how happy this makes us.”

As if summoned by his words, the front door bursts open, followed by the sound of multiple footsteps rushing down the hall.

“Did she pee on it yet?” Jude’s voice carries ahead of him. “Is it positive? Are we having a tiny baker or what?”

“So much for respecting my process,” I laugh through my tears as Jude, Liam, and Mason appear in the hallway, all pretense of patience abandoned.

“We tried,” Liam says, not sounding particularly apologetic. “But Jude pointed out that if we waited for you to tell us, Caleb would have an unfair advantage in baby preparation time.”

“Which is absolutely unacceptable,” Jude declares. “Especially since I’ve already ordered customized baby-sized aprons for the bakery. With extra miniature chef hats.”

“You’ve what?” I laugh, wiping away tears.

“I might have also researched omega-safe prenatal yoga,” Liam admits sheepishly. “And enrolled us in a partner class.”

“Us?” I repeat, eyebrows raised.

“All of us,” he confirms. “The instructor was a bit surprised, but I explained our pack dynamics, and she was quite accommodating.”

“I’ve stocked the freezer with lactation cookies,” Mason adds calmly, as if this is a perfectly normal contribution. “Apparently they’re best prepared in advance to allow the flavors to mature.”

I look between them in disbelief. “You all knew. Before I knew.”

“To be fair, your body knew first,” Jude points out. “We just paid attention.”

Caleb’s arm wraps around my waist, his palm splaying protectively over my still-flat stomach. “Is this truly okay?” he asks quietly. “All of it?”

I place my hand over his, feeling the warmth of his skin against mine. A year ago, I would have balked at the very idea of pregnancy, of being tied to one place, one person—or in this case, four people—for the rest of my life.

But now, surrounded by my pack, their excitement and love washing over me in waves, I can’t imagine wanting anything else.

“It’s more than okay,” I tell him, reaching out to include the others in our embrace. “It’s perfect.”

They move as one, enveloping me in a group hug that should feel suffocating but somehow just feels like home.

“So,” Jude says once we’ve all had our moment, “who gets dibs on godfather status? Because I’ve already practiced my Marlon Brando impression.”

“That’s not how pack dynamics work,” Liam informs him with exaggerated patience. “All of us will share equal responsibility for the child’s welfare and upbringing.”

“Fine, but I still want it on record that I’ll be the fun dad,” Jude insists. “The one who teaches them how to burp the alphabet and sneak cookies before dinner.”

“Noted,” Mason says dryly. “I’ll be the one teaching them financial responsibility.”

“And I’ll handle educational development,” Liam adds.

Caleb shakes his head, but his smile is fond. “And I’ll protect them from all of you,” he says, pressing a kiss to my temple. “And from anyone else who might threaten our family.”

“They’ll be the most loved, most prepared, most ridiculous child on the planet,” I laugh, overwhelmed with happiness.

Later that evening, after the initial excitement has settled into comfortable certainty, I find Caleb in the spare room adjacent to the nest, tape measure in hand as he studies the walls with intense concentration.

“Planning something?” I ask, leaning against the doorframe.

He jumps slightly, caught in the act. “Just... measuring. For shelves.”

“Shelves,” I repeat, fighting a smile. “Not, say, a crib? Or changing table?”

He has the grace to look sheepish. “Maybe those too.”

I cross the room to wrap my arms around his waist, pressing my cheek against his broad back. “You’re going to build the nursery yourself, aren’t you?”

“We all are,” he corrects, turning to face me. “Liam’s already sketched designs for a mobile that plays classical music and emits soothing light patterns based on some research about infant cognitive development.”

“Of course he has,” I laugh. “And let me guess—Jude wants to paint a mural?”

“Space dinosaurs wearing party hats,” Caleb confirms, his expression perfectly serious. “Mason vetoed the initial design for being ‘chaotic.’”

“So they compromised on...?”

“Space dinosaurs wearing party hats.”

I shake my head, loving them all so fiercely it hurts. “Our child is going to be the weirdest kid in preschool.”

“Probably,” Caleb agrees, his hand finding its now-familiar place over my stomach. “But they’ll always know they’re loved.”

“By four ridiculous fathers and one slightly less ridiculous mother,” I add.

“Who’s running a successful bakery, I might add,” he says with obvious pride. “I think Sweet Omega has even increased sales for Le Roux. Did Liam show you the quarterly reports?”

“He did,” I confirm. “Though I’m more excited about the early strawberries he scored. I’ve been craving strawberry shortcake for days.”

“Cravings already?” Caleb’s eyes light with interest. “What else?”

“Pickles and ice cream,” I deadpan. “The most cliché pregnancy craving possible.”

His expression turns so earnest that I burst out laughing. “I’m kidding! Though I wouldn’t say no to some of Mason’s double chocolate cookies if they’re still in the freezer.”

“I’ll get them,” he says immediately, pressing a kiss to my forehead before heading toward the kitchen.

Alone in the soon-to-be nursery, I place both hands on my stomach, marveling at the miracle happening inside me. It’s still too early to feel anything, but knowing our child is there, growing stronger every day, fills me with a sense of wonder I never expected to experience.

When I glance up, I catch sight of my reflection in the window. My pack mark is visible above the neckline of my shirt. The puzzle piece necklace still hangs around my neck. Both symbols of belonging, of connection, of a journey that began with a wedding invitation and a case of mistaken identity.

“Best plus-one mix-up ever,” I whisper to my reflection, and to the new life beginning within me.

From the kitchen, I hear Caleb calling for Mason, who apparently has hidden the cookies “in a location only he can access.” Jude’s voice joins the fray, followed by Liam’s more measured tones attempting to mediate.

My pack. My family. My home.

As I turn to join them, my hand still resting protectively over our growing child, I can’t help but smile. Whatever comes next—midnight cravings, nursery debates, the inevitable chaos of raising a child in a house full of alphas and one very opinionated beta—we’ll face it together.

Just the way it was always meant to be.

AFTERWORD

ΩΩΩ

I hope you laughed, swooned, and maybe choked on your coffee at least once while reading Pack Plus One. (Jude would be proud.) These ridiculous alphas (plus a beta) and their stubborn omega have completely stolen my heart, and I’m so thrilled you came along for the ride.

Good news for fellow drama llamas: Zoe’s story, Mated by Mistake, is already up for pre-order! (Spoiler: It involves a case of accidental bonding, a pack very persistent alphas, and enough sexual tension to power Sweetwater City.)

GRAB "MATED BY MISTAKE" HERE → [Amazon Pre-Order Link]

Want a bonus scene of what happens nine months after the epilogue? (Spoiler: You guessed it! Someone’s having a baby! Or babies!!!)

Sign Up for this exclusive messy-family moment + updates!

Thank you for reading—your support means the world. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to go write more scenes of ridiculous alphas and their adorable antics.

xx,

Ella

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Ella Beck grew up devouring steamy romances and tales of the supernatural.

When she's not bringing compelling new characters and tantalizing forbidden romances to life, you can find her trying to resurrect her neglected houseplants, bingeing paranormal TV shows, and taste-testing any new beverage with pumpkin spice.

Ella currently resides in a cozy cottage surrounded by lush, verdant woods that fuel her inspiration daily. But she still dreams of someday retiring to a haunted castle in Scotland with her rescue cats.