Page 64 of A Pack of Pumpkins
Another group steps off the elevator, and he goes to greet them.
Clara
Wegohome.Theguys ask us what we’d seen. We explain the inexplicable basement. They say they experienced everything else we had, every cold spot, every flickering light, but nothing about a basement. Later, when we look it up online, the haunted asylum’s website confirms there’s only two levels. Guests either do the “tour” on one level or the other. Reviews never mention a basement full of patients.
We order Chinese food. Slowly, one by one, everyone heads to bed. I try to sleep, but I just end up staring at my ceiling, pulse still too high.
We saw that basement. And Victor had been the one between me and that charging doctor.
The memory of his scent, dark, sharp cinnamon tangled with heat and smoke, wraps around me. The memory of his chest flush to my face, my body caged in his arms. I should’ve felt trapped. Instead, I’d felt… safe.
I’m still mad at him. My omega isn’t. She wants a united pack, whether that’s smart or not. But I also can’t forget how he used his own body to shield me. How he’d apologized, rough, but real. And even though some things can’t be fixed with an apology… maybe this was something I had to decide for myself. Dagan had hinted his brother’s hatred of omegas had roots.
I throw the covers off and swing my bare feet onto the cool wooden floor. Pajama shorts and a matching button-up top. No bra. I don’t care.
Down the hall. Third door on the right. Victor’s room.
I tap lightly. My heart drops to my stomach as I second-guess every choice I’ve ever made in my life. Before I can turn and run, the door creaks open.
Victor blinks at me, squinting against the soft hall light. His hair is mussed, dark strands falling into his face. He’s bare-chested. Bare-legged, except for black boxers that hang low on his hips.
I’ve always wondered how far the tattoos go. The answer? Far. Every inch of skin below his chin is covered in black ink, an intricate tapestry that demands to be touched. I catch flashes of skulls, script, and curling designs I can’t decipher before my gaze drags lower.
“Spook?” His voice is rough, sleep-thick. “You okay?”
“I can’t sleep,” I murmur.
His eyes flicker wider. He steps back, wordless, and lets me in.
The room is dim, lit only by a single lamp. The bed is made with a black silk comforter, the furniture all heavy wood from the rental. Drawings, just taped, no frames, cover one wall.
I move toward them, feeling him at my back. The pack before they met me. Dagan and Victor at the ocean. All of them at a sports arena. Bram at a signing. Jack in a kitchen.
“Your pack means a lot to you,” I say.
His breathing shutters. “My pack means everything to me.”
“Is that why you hated me? You thought I was taking something from you?”
His face crumples. “No. I…” He swallows. “When we met, I’d convinced myself scent sensitivity was just a myth. Something desperate packs made up to justify letting an omega chain them for life.”
The words make me flinch. He sees it, and flinches too.
“My mother was an omega,” he says, and pieces of Dagan’s story click into place.
“She had a car accident,” I say softly.
“That’s what Dagan told you?” His laugh is sharp and humorless. “Not the whole truth. Her and her alphas were supposedly scent-sensitive. One died in a crash when we were too young to remember. The other left. She… took up drugs. Said it was to numb the pain.”
My throat tightens.
“When we were eight, she crashed the car with us in it. Died instantly.” His voice stays flat, but his eyes are glassy. “Dagan got the worst of it, concussion, broken bones, punctured lung, his throat cut. Lost his voice forever and his hearing was damaged.”
I ache to touch him. To soothe. But I don’t interrupt.
“I walked away with barely a scratch. And maybe Dagan doesn’t remember much before the crash. Just bits and pieces.” His voice cracks. “I remember everything.”
That breaks me. I step forward and wrap my arms around him. He folds me into him instantly, arms iron-strong, head tucked over mine.
