I look at these two men—one alpha, one beta, both of whom followed me into danger without hesitation and are now facing exile because of my actions.
"You don't owe me anything," I say finally. "Either of you. This is my mess. You should go home, make peace with your families, pretend you were never here."
"Shut up," Rhys says, but there's no heat in it. "You really think we'd abandon you now?"
"I think you'd be smart to."
"Well, we've never been accused of being particularly smart," Fen says with a grin that transforms his usually serious face. "Have we, Rhys?"
"Speak for yourself," Rhys shoots back, but he's almost smiling too. "I'm brilliant."
Despite everything, I feel my own mouth twitch upward. "You're both idiots."
"Your idiots," Fen says firmly. "If you'll have us."
The simple words hit me harder than any declaration of loyalty or friendship ever could. Your idiots. Like it's already decided, like there was never any question.
"The Thorne pack won't give up," I warn them. "Marcus had three sons, all alphas, all mean as hell. They'll want blood for blood."
"Let them come," Rhys says.
ELIANA
PRESENT DAY
Hmm, there’s nothing more satisfying then the smell of coffee first thing in the morning.
Well, it’s not quite first thing in the morning, I’m a writer so morning tends to be whenever I roll out of bed and decide to be part of civilization. Like I’m doing now in the The Spring Perk coffee shop at ten o’clock sharp. When the moms have dropped their kids off at school, eager to gossip or meet before they rush off to yoga. The rich kids hang out here too, drifting between university, life, and travel—living a luxury I’ve never had.
The retirees gather, laughing about the husbands they've left at home, while the men relish their newfound freedom as their wives gossip about them, talking about their true loves: cars, sports, and anything but their daily reality.
I’m a writer, who hasn’t written a word in other two years.
Not quite.
I’m an author who has published books, that used to be successful.
I try to conjure a scene—any scene—where two lovers meet in a place like this. Devin stirs his caramel macchiatoclockwise, like any self-respecting Alpha, then his nostrils flaredramatically at the scent ofcinnamon and moonlight, trying to forget his unpaid student loans. Across the coffee shop, Eliza senses a disturbance in the atmosphere, so she pauses, then dismisses it as she stirs her lavender latte—counterclockwise. Their eyes met over the rim of a "Live, Laugh, Howl" mug, and Devin growls "Mine" , and then seventeen people turn and stare.
"You smell like my forever," Devin declares. And then what? This is where I get stuck. It all sounds simple. So easy. So unreal and really, really boring.
If anyone were to go on a date here, I suspect they'd regret it. This is where the book club meets—the nosy moms, the elderly chatterboxes, and those who linger over pastries as if they're life's greatest joys. It's a haven for gossip—not the gyms, where only the rich go; not the country club, Blossom Ridge Country Club because that's reserved for the elite; and not the laundromat, frequented only by nannies and students. But here, whether you're working class, middle class, upper class, or upper-upper class, you're sure to end up having a coffee or a pastry. Because if the coffee or pastries don't entice you, the gossip will. Anyone daring to go on a date here would have to be prepared for an interview on Spring Hope Radio by the end of the day, complete with an update.
If I were single—and I am—I have been for a long time. This would be the last place I'd choose to find romance. My thoughts drift restlessly, tracing back to the past—and the thrill of being an omega, the longing for an alpha and the sense of belonging within a pack. But now? I'm just a dried-up author, my scent dulled to something barely perceptible. I catch myself smoothing my fingers over the soft, oatmeal-colored cable-knit of my well-worn sweater, inhaling the faint traces of vanilla and chamomile that still cling to the fabric from better days. My black leggings have grown thin at the knees. No makeup, no real sleep. I've let it all slip away, and it frightens me more than I careto admit—especially when I notice how other omegas' scents seem to bloom around me while mine withers.
When I first moved to Spring Hope, it helped me with my series, Hopeful series. Yeah, I don't have much of an imagination, naming the series after the town that I live in. The air here carried something different then—pine and possibility, the warm bread-scent from the bakery mixing with the coffee shop's rich aroma in a way that made my omega senses come alive. I published a book every year, with characters that readers cried over as if they were real. They were. The Spring Perk and the bakery, Blossom & Butter provided me with endless stories, their mingled scents of cinnamon, butter, and fresh coffee. I didn't need much creativity because Spring Hope was the butter to my croissant of inspiration, and its very essence seemed to seep into my stories through every breath I took.
“Well, if you’re going to write about us all," Celia Johnson, the head of the book club, once said, leaning across our table in a lighthearted challenge. "Then at least try and make me more attractive. I refuse to be labeled ‘the widower’. I’m so much more than that. I have style, class and I’m certainly not on the heavy size. I want you to write me exactly how you see me.”
I nodded. I had written her exactly as I saw her, but clearly, she completely disagreed. Desperate to revive my craft, I realized I should have done a better job of concealing their identities. So, I decided to interview them, and it gave me the spark I needed to write my stories. It led to me having enough material for eight more books—or so I thought. In this village—large, yet small at times; populated by too few people and repetitive scenarios—boredom inevitably set in. The villagers grew restless, and so did my readers.“Boo!” someone shouts directly into my ear.
I jump, the coffee in my hand sloshing dangerously close to the rim. I turn, heart pounding.
“Rebecca?” I blink in surprise.
“Sorry, Eliana. I didn’t mean to scare you. You just seem to be in your own world,” she says.
I clutch my chest, checking to make sure my heart is still beating.
