Page 45 of A Pack of Pumpkins
“I’m going back to bed,” Victor drawls, turning to close the door again.
I shove it open, pushing him back until his shoulders hit the opposite wall.
“What the fuck is your problem?” The snarl rips out before I can stop it. I’ve been holding my alpha in check for the pack, for Clara, for Victor himself. But him turning from us, turning from me, in this moment pushes every restraint past breaking.
A slow, taunting grin curves his mouth. “We all know what my problem is.” He laughs.
In.
My.
Face.
I slam my fist into the wall beside his head and let a wave of dominance roll out of me. I see the moment it hits. His head tips back, throat bared, his alpha submitting to mine even as hot fire burns in his eyes.
We don’t do this to each other. But I’m done. I’ve tried everything else to get my friend back.
“This shit is over, Victor. I don’t give a single fuck if you don’t want an omega—you don’t have to. But I see how she affects you. I see the way you avoid her yet track her every move when you’re in the same room. What your mom and dad did is not Clara’s fault.” He flinches hard, like I just landed a physical blow. “What your mother did is not Clara’s fault.”
He roars in my face, and I roar right back, forcing him under again.
“You don’t have to love her,” I say, “but you will respect her. And you will be there when she needs you, and when we need you.”
His gaze drops. “What if I can’t?” The whisper is raw.
“You know the answer to that.” My voice stays firm, though my gut sinks like a stone. We’ve been together since we were in college. I can’t imagine pack life without Victor. But I can’t keep living with the man he’s choosing to be, either. Not with the way he treats Clara. Not with the self-destructive, angry spiral he’s been riding.
His eyes go wide at what he sees in mine.
I turn and walk away without another word. My chest feels tight, my heartbeat stalled, as I wait.
Then, footsteps. Falling into step behind me.
I mask the exhale of relief as Victor follows me downstairs.
Jack
Clarahaseverythingsetup. When she first suggested this, I pictured a plastic Ouija board from Walmart and a couple of Bath & Body Works candles. I vastly underestimated my omega.
She’s got a real wooden board. The pointer is metal, etched with something in Latin I can’t decipher. She’s made sure the dining table is perfectly level and has been circling the room for the last five minutes, sage burning in her hand, humming to “clear the space.”
Not gonna lie, it’s adorable. I’m trying to take this seriously, I really am. But her hair is up in space buns, her skirt’s patterned with black cats, and her flowing top is covered in silver spiderwebs. Her skin glows warm in the dining room light, and she’s barefoot, padding around like this is the most natural thing in the world. My alpha can hardly take it. If I wasn’t positive she wouldn’t allow it right now, I’d bend her over the table and show her exactly what she does to me. Especially when she bites her lip as she stretches to waft sage smoke into the corners.
I step up beside her and carefully take the sage, reaching the upper parts of the ceiling she can’t get to. She beams at me. Her scent is sweet and heady, excitement curling off her… until Victor walks in, trailing behind Bram, who looks absolutely pissed. Her scent sharpens, turning burnt and bitter. Victor flincheswhen he realizes he’s the cause, but, for once, he says nothing. No hot barbs, no sharp reprimands. Good. Because I’m with Bram on this, I’ve had enough of his bullshit. Understanding only goes so far when it’s at our omega’s expense.
“Can you dim the lights?” she asks Victor.
It’s a test. I can tell. She’s checking if whatever Bram said to him upstairs is going to stick, or if she needs to toss him out before he ruins the cleansed, cozy vibe she’s created. He does it. Dims the lights. Still, if it were up to me, I’d wipe that surly look right off his tattoo-less face.
Clara accepts it, sitting at the table. We all follow. Bram on her right, me next to him. The twins across from us. Dagan looking like he’s about to punch his brother until Clara lets out a soft omega whine. It has Dagan snapping all his attention to her, breathing deep, and Victor ducking his head in a surprising show of submission.
Candlelight flickers over the walls, shadows dancing with every shift of the flame. Thunder rumbles overhead, the storm moving closer. The scent of sage mixes with the wet petrichor of the storm. It’s one of the reasons Clara chose tonight. Storms are supposed to heighten spiritual energy, according to one of her books. And the midnight hour is when the veil between worlds is thinnest.
“Can we all hold hands to close the circle?” she asks. I take Bram’s hand and reach for Victor’s. He sneers at it. I flash my teeth. I’m not usually one for confrontation. If I’m upset, you’ll know in the cold edge to your tea, the passive-aggressive way I’ve folded the laundry, the slightly crooked parking job that forces you to walk from the street. Which is why, when I get openly hostile, my packmates pay attention.
Victor’s eyes go wide before taking my hand, then Dagan’s. When I turn back to Clara, she’s already watching me, gratitude written plain across her face before she closes her eyes.
“Spirit of this house,” she begins, “are you there? If you’d like to speak to us, simply move the planchette.”
