Page 32 of A Pack of Pumpkins
When her eyes flutter open, the green is back. “Jack,” she breathes, threading her fingers through my beard.
I help her dress again, my hands lingering on her soft skin. As we start toward the house, I glance back at the tombstone she had clung to.
The carved letters read:Finian O’Connel.
Finian
Hefuckedherinthe dirt above my bones, and I came thinking about how she’ll scream my name when I fuck her in the dark.
Clara
"Darlin'…Darlin'."
My eyes fly open. The endearment rings through my mind. I sit bolt upright, gathering the sheets and clutching them to my chest.
Last night I’d gone to bed early. I scan the room, but the moon is a sliver and everything is obscured by darkness.
Yet, in the corner—is that an outline?
The baked-bread scent engulfs the room. My omega loves it, and I perfume. Heat slips through my core and slicks my panties. Traitorous omega. My hands shake as I reach for the deco lamp on my side table.
Light floods the room and all the shadows flee—except one. The ink-black shadow in the corner stays. It’s the shape of an alpha. At least six feet tall and broad. Swirls of shadow make up its form.
My heart is in my throat. I should scream—need to scream—but I can’t.
The swirling shadows take a step closer. As they move and shift, little peaks of what’s underneath bleed through. A muscled arm. A pale blue eye. A strip of white-blond hair. The hints of a man are not enough. I want more.
His scent grows stronger until I know it can only be a scent-sensitive match. How could I be scent-sensitive with a shadow? The question slogs through my mind. Everything feels slow.
The shadow reaches the end of my bed, and I feel its weight dip the mattress.
Itcrawls up my body over the blankets. Every part of me it touches lights up in delicious pleasure. My legs fall open beneath the sheets. My panties are so wet they’ll have to be peeled off.
Why am I reacting this way?
My omega wants this. She’s not terrified—even if my heart beats a million miles a minute—because I am.
The shadow positions itself between my legs, forearms caging my head. Its face hovers just above mine, the side of a cheek brushing against me. Scent-marking me.
Its body presses down, a long, hard length grinding against my slick core. Even through the thin blankets, I can feel how thick it is.
I gasp—and my eyes, which I thought were already open, fly open again.
No one hovers above me.
I sit bolt upright—again.
A nightmare. Or a dream. I can’t decide. But the lamp is still on, the blankets at the corner of my bed rumpled where the shadow had crawled, and the scent of bread lingers.
What the hell?
I can’t sleep, but I don’t want to wander the house alone in the dark. So I sit up, trying to read my book club book, but only manage the same page over and over, absorbing nothing.
An hour later, I hear movement and decide to make my way downstairs.
At the bottom of the steps, I scent someone on the main floor. Pumpkin and cinnamon.
Victor.
