Page 9 of A Pack of Pumpkins
"I'll call you guys if I need you," she says to the officers, pulling her hand out of the Deputy’s. She never once grasped his hand back, I note with far too much satisfaction.
She shows them out with a clipped nod; they promise to keep a cruiser nearby. Then, silent and unbothered, the omega brushes past us and heads for the stairs.
"Wait, what's your name?" Jack calls after her.
She hadn’t had to give it to the cops since she knew them.
“Clara,” she says.
We listen to her light footsteps as she climbs two flights of stairs.
Silence spreads like a thick cloth. I drag on the cigarette. Good God, that helps.
Her scent is everywhere. But at least now it’s tinged with something I understand. Smoke.
“We all feel this, right?” Jack asks, standing in the archway, staring up the stairs.
"Feel what?" I ask, just to be a dick. I'm not doing this.
"I am."Dag signs. And just like that, denial dies. If one identical twin is scent-matched, the other is too. That’s just biology. Same goes for packs. If one feels it, we all do.
I scoff.
"We all are, clearly," Bram says, glaring at me.
Fuck it.
"I'm claiming a room." I announce. I flip him off and head upstairs.
Clara
Idigthroughthefew boxes in my room, hands fumbling. Please tell me I didn’t forget it.
Finally, at the bottom of the last box, my fingers close around the small, L-shaped tube.
I don’t usually need it anymore. I outgrew most of my childhood asthma years ago. But smoke is still a trigger.
Normally, it wouldn’t matter. Most people don’t smoke these days, not since DARE and those awful commercials with wheezing grandmas dragging oxygen tanks behind them. But apparently, no one told the leather-jacket alpha downstairs.
I check the expiration date, then place the inhaler to my lips and draw a deep breath. The elephant that had started sitting on my chest suddenly gets off. Cool air fills my lungs, and I nearly sob with relief.
I hate feeling like this. This helplessness. I basically ran away from them just to get up here.
Asthma has always been a sore spot. Either people assume I can’t do anything because of it, or they think I’m being dramatic for attention. Or worse, they treat me like I’m breakable. Like I should live wrapped in bubble wrap and tucked out of the way. When I stopped needing the inhaler regularly in my mid-teens, I was so proud.
I don’t want to bring it back as a constant feature in my life.
Still, I tuck it into my bedside drawer. I’ll use it if I have to. I’m not trying to die for the sake of pride. But I’ll be damned if I let some smug alpha see how much his actions affect me.
I think about trying to go back to sleep but it’s a lost cause.
Instead, I open the tall window overlooking the lake. Listening to the waves lap over the shore is its own form of lullaby, and the cool breeze still feels nice. It hasn’t yet picked up the arctic winds of winter.
I pull out a beautifully clean pad of paper and my favorite brand of pen and start writing. A soft breeze carries a masculine whisper I can't quite make out.
I strain to listen more closely, but it’s already gone.
Finian
