Page 7 of A Pack of Pumpkins
At the top waits a whitewashed door. I turn the knob, slow. It creaks. The room beyond is as immaculate as the rest, dressed in early 1900s style. A sliver of moonlight cuts across a pack-sized bed.
A small lump shifts under the covers. I’m about to warn the others—to back off, to reassess—when Victorblurts—
“What the fuck?”
The lump stirs. A woman. An omega.
I open my mouth to reassure her when she screams.
Clara
Therearemeninmy room. Alphas, from the height of them.
What the hell!
How did they even get in?
I think all this while I hurl everything within reach at them.
My crystals go first. Then my earbuds. Then the book I was reading before bed. Eventually I run out of ammo and end up standing on my bed, brandishing my phone like a sword.
“Don’t fucking come near me! I’m calling the cops!”
My hands are shaking so badly the phone won’t even register my face. When I try to punch in the passcode, my mind blanks. I know there’s a way to make an emergency call, but in blind panic I can’t figure it out.
A bang downstairs makes every man in the room whip toward the door.
“Police!” Deputy Henry and Sheriff Corbin’s voices thunder up from below.
The alphas glance at each other.
“She hasn’t even called,” says the one who spoke first. His gaze pins me. “What are you, telepathic or some shit?” He’s slim, sharp-edged, in a black leather jacket and dark jeans. His voice is dry, amused, and beneath it lingers the faintest trace of warm spice.
“Police!” Henry roars again.
“Here!” I shout.
I snap my gaze back to the alphas, gripping my phone tighter. “You’d better put your hands up.” My voice doesn’t shake. If anything, I sound almost confident.
They lift their hands just as the Sheriff and Henry appear behind them.
Victor
Twoofficershadgunstrained on us minutes ago, and of course, my alpha's response was to fight. Thankfully, I didn't, and now we're downstairs talking about this like civilized alphas.
But I still want to fight. Especially because one of the officers is looking at the omega with the delicious scent just a little too intently.
I grit my teeth.
I shouldn't give a fuck. But I do.
I'm staring straight at the side of her face while she talks to Mister Mcbadge.
Her olive skin glows under the light of these stupid deco lamps. Her hair, which I couldn't make out in the dark, falls around her shoulders in soft waves.It's dyed an ombré. Black at the roots, fading to orange at the ends. Did she do that just for October? Or does she keep it that way year-round?
Who gives a fuck! I internally scream.
I donotbelieve in scent sensitivity. I do not Goddamn believe in it.
