Page 29 of A Pack of Pumpkins
He’s dead serious. His scent is steady. He means every word.
I just met this man. There’s an alpha upstairs with his exact same face who hates me. And yet, I can’t bring myself to freak out. It’s intense. But I guess… that’s just Dagan.
I don’t even realize my hands are still hovering, ready to reply but unable to find the words, until he gently takes them in his and kisses my knuckles. My face feels like it’s on fire.
Then he leans forward and captures my lips in his.
And I realize—I really want to be his. I’m so glad we all ended up here, in this house. My mind drifts back to what Jack said about getting a flyer in the mail. The same flyer I received. I’m happy with how it turned out… but who sent them? And why?
Bram
I’minawritinggroove. There’s no way I’m going to bed for hours. Two days ago, I couldn’t find a single word worth writing. But last night during dinner, we all sat at the table. Well, all except Victor. We laughed and joked. We got to know Clara better. Somehow, through her, we even got to know each other better. We’ve been a pack for years, but seeing my packmates take care of Clara, joke with her, find purpose in her, gave each of us a whole new side of one another.
I came to this house hoping the gothic atmosphere and secluded town would give me the inspiration I needed. But it’s Clara, with her haunting beauty and her clear apprehension about whatever’s going on here, that truly broke my writer’s block.
The story flows through me in a way it hasn’t in years. Yesterday I couldn't write a single sentence. Today, one page after another flows out until hours have passed unnoticed.
A noise pulls me from my story-induced haze. I blink around the office. My desk sits under a window facing the lake. A breeze pushes through the open window, rustling the pages of my notebook. I splay my hands across them to hold them down. As I do, I glance outside.
A man stands at the edge of the bluff, staring up at my window.
I jerk back, blinking rapidly.
He’s still there. Broad-shouldered. Wearing a newsboy cap and a vintage suit. The moon behind him is nearly full, lighting him like a spotlight.
I bolt from my desk. If this is the guy who’s been breaking into our house and leaving his scent everywhere, I don’t want him getting away.
It’s no surprise when I find Victor in the living room, hunched over his new laptop. He’d immediately bought one after the disaster that was his old system. He’s been keeping odd hours since Clara’s heat spike, avoiding her during the day. He claims it’s for research for his next miniseries.
He looks up, clearly surprised to see me awake. His expression shifts—hopeful for a second, then scowling. Had he thought I was Clara? More importantly… had he been hoping for Clara?
“Come on,” I bark.
He’s already standing before his body catches up, his growl low and dangerous. I don’t usually snap at my packmates, but Victor’s behavior toward Clara has my alpha on edge. My dominant nature wants to snap him in line.
“I saw someone. An alpha. On the bluff. Could be the same guy who was in Clara’s suite.”
He scoffs.
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “I don’t care what you think, Victor. There was a man. Out on our property. That’s trespassing.”
“The rental company’s property,” he mutters.
If I beat him to death, would the guy on the bluff help me sink the body in the lake?
Something in my expression must give away the thought, because Victor takes a half step back. Good.
I turn, and his footsteps follow. We head out the back door and down the porch steps. The bluff is empty. I walk to the edge, to the exact spot I’d seen him. Nothing.
Theclink of a Zippo lighter behind me, and then the scent of cigarette smoke wafts through the air.
I swing back to rip into Victor and freeze.
“What?” Victor asks, catching my expression.
All the blood drains from my face.
A set of eyes stare at me from behind Victor. Pale blue against stark white skin. A newsboy cap pulled low. Hollowed cheeks and sharp cheekbones make his face otherworldly. He’s angled so I can see his full right side. In his right hand, a switchblade.
