Page 11 of A Pack of Pumpkins
God, how do I say this?
Dagan steps forward, close enough I forget how to breathe, and inhales. Deep. Reverent.
Then he scoops my hands into his, presses his forehead to mine, and nods. His scent floods my senses. Fresh pumpkin and nutmeg. Delicious. I have the insane urge to climb inside him like a hollow pumpkin.
He scent-marks me with a gentle rub of his forehead against mine. It should feel strange, but it doesn’t. My omega sighs in relief. I gently mark him back.
His grin lights the entire beach.
Wewalk hand in hand toward the house, slow and golden in the morning light. But the moment we reach the porch, the world shifts again.
Dagan’s brother lounges there, cigarette smoldering between his lips. His gaze drops to our joined hands, expression tightening. Even through the smoke, I catch the edges of his scent. Pumpkin like Dagan’s, but sharper. Scorched cinnamon.
He exhales a plume my way, and I hold my breath. I take a cautious step back. Dagan stiffens.
“Don’t,” I murmur, resting a hand on his arm.
Too late. Dagan strides forward, yanks the cigarette free, and flings it over the railing.
Victor watches him, unbothered. “Not my fault the spooky girl can’t deal with a little nasty.” The gaze he rakes across me is both suggestive and disgusted.
I don’t know what his deal is, but I decide then and there not to let it affect me. That’s clearly what he wants.
So, I walk inside.
Two more scents greet me. One is caramel apples—not the store-bought kind rolled in wax paper, but bubbling and sticky, the kind from early autumn festivals. Warm sugar and tart juice. I’ve been told my own scent has an apple note.
The other is roasted marshmallows—gooey, molten chocolate, cinnamon graham crackers. Both scents make my mouth water and slick pool at my center.
I follow the trail into the kitchen.
The other two alphas are there. One sits at the island, staring at a pad of paper. Thick, wavy blond hair cropped short. Wire-rim glasses. Shirtless, thank the fates. Sun-kissed muscle, sweatpants slung low. The caramel apples belong to him.
Thesecond is at the stove, tall and broad-shouldered, the tallest of the four. His deep brown skin glows in the morning light, long dreads tied neatly back, dark beard framing a quiet smile. A black tank clings to him, loose pants hanging low on his hips. The kitchen is filled with his scent—gooey marshmallows and melted chocolate—but now it’s braided with the real aroma of sizzling butter, cinnamon, and maple syrup from the skillet in front of him.
Steam curls from a pan of spiced apples he’s stirring, the sweet-tart scent mingling with toasted bread and coffee drifting from the counter. It’s autumn itself, warm and cozy, like the best kind of breakfast on a chilly morning. My omega practically sighs at the hominess of it, as if he’s already taking care of us just by standing there.
Before I can panic about how to announce myself, the man at the stove turns, catches my eye, and smiles. Wide. Open. My omega squeals with delight. I smile back, trying not to let the porch moment color this one.
The back door slams, and Dagan stomps in, hands flying with signs. I wish so badly I understood him. I’ll learn. At least some basics to hold me over until I’m fluent. Not being able to talk to my mate already hurts.
The two men glance at each other, unsettled. That’s not good. My omega aches to smooth it over. Dagan stops signing and stomps over to the drawers, rifling. When he doesn’t find what he wants, he moves to the next.
“We’re sorry about Victor,” the blond says. He looks truly contrite.
“Victor?” I ask.
“Dagan’s brother. Seriously? He didn’t even give you his name?” He scrubs a hand through his messy blond hair.
“Well, it’s nice to meet you. I’m Jack,” says the man at the stove.
I take his hand. Would it have killed Victor to do the same? “Clara,” I say again. His hand engulfs mine. Warm, soft. No calluses. Definitely not a laborer. None of them look it.
Theblond—who’d been writing at the island—steps closer. “I’m Bram. I'm the dominant alpha of the Ember Pack."
He looks oddly familiar. I’ve definitely seen him before, but I can’t place where.
“Have we met before?” I ask. It’s a silly question. If we had, I would’ve noticed meeting my mate, but I can’t shake the feeling.
