Page 10 of A Pack of Pumpkins
"Iwaitedahundredyears, Darlin'. And I’d wait a hundred more.”
Clara
Iwakeupwithpaper stuck to my face. Well, this is familiar.
My omega purrs, content and impatient all at once. Oh right. There’s a whole alpha pack in the house. And she’s very upset that we’re not curled up in their scents.
They’d been a heady mix of temptation last night. All spiced heat, crisp apples, warm firewood, and something darker underneath. Autumn in scent form. Keeping myself from perfuming had been agonizing, especially with the asthma attack clawing through my chest.
I’ve always believed in fate. In the universe weaving invisible threads, tugging us toward the people we’re meant for. My greatest hope has always been scent sensitivity—proof that destiny is real, that love isn’t random but written. And now, here they are. My mates. In this house, under the same roof, breathing the same air. Last night was chaos, but after writing and resting, the truth shines through with startling clarity. The universe didn’t bring me here by mistake. I’ve found them. And I’m not letting destiny pass me by.
I shuffle to the closet. It’s times like this I feel a flash of embarrassment about my wardrobe. I’ve never been a “neutrals and structure” kind of woman. My closet is full of holiday cardigans, flowy tie-dye dresses, book quote T-shirts, and colors that border on chaotic. Loud, soft, weird. Me.
Butnow… I only see it through their eyes. The alphas. My alphas. There’s no doubt in my mind anymore. My omega knew the second we scented them. They’re ours.
So, I don’t reach for subtle. I choose the pumpkin dress that's A-line, bell sleeves, embroidered gourds dancing around the hem. I pin my hair back with a moon phase clip and tell myself not to hide. My omega hums in approval.
Downstairs, the house is still. Almost ten, and no one’s awake. I step into the kitchen, then remember I have no groceries. So I opt for the beach instead.
The backyard ends in a sheer drop to the beach below. A winding wooden staircase hugs the bluff, creaking with each step.
At the bottom, I pause, hugging my cardigan tighter around me. Lake Michigan stretches glittering to the horizon, copper and silver in the morning light. The air is crisp, carrying the scent of lake water, damp leaves, and woodsmoke drifting faintly from some chimney in town.
I slip off my shoes and wiggle my toes into the cool sand. Fallen maple leaves, blown down from the bluff above, scatter across the shore like scraps of firelight. The waves lap gently at the edge of the beach, steady and soothing, as if the lake itself is breathing.
I close my eyes and draw it all in—the hush of water, the earthy bite of autumn air, the faint sweetness of apples from an orchard stand somewhere inland. It feels like the whole season has gathered here, just for me.
And then, of course, my thoughts drift back to last night. To the alphas. To how badly I wanted to crawl into their scents and stay.
A figure appears on the beach, walking toward me. Maybe a neighbor? Someone who trekked along the shore from town?
But as the figure draws closer, I freeze. It’s the alpha from last night. The one who had to smoke and trigger my asthma. He smiles and waves. Odd.
Then I see it. No ink. No piercings. No cigarette.
Not the smoker—the other one.
I’d thought they looked similar, but I was too frazzled last night to notice. Now I realize they’re not just similar. They’re identical. Twins. The same brown eyes, the same black hair swept back, the same golden-brown skin. But this one is softer. He wears a hoodie, low-slung sweats, barefoot like me. A jagged scar cuts across his throat.
My heart picks up. My omega thrums. He stops a few feet away and smiles, slow, warm, like he’s genuinely happy to see me.
“Hi,” I say, breathy and stupid. He waves again, then starts gesturing with his hands. .
Oh. Sign language. Guilt slams into me. I hadn’t even noticed during the chaos if he’d been signing, or if anyone had translated for him.
“I’m sorry,” I blurt. “I don’t know sign. Can… can you understand me?”
He nods, crouches, and writes in the sand.Dagan.
“Dagan,” I echo.
His lips twitch, like I’ve just whispered something sacred. He bends again.I can hear a little but can’t speak.
I nod. He straightens, still smiling. Silence stretches between us.
“Can I ask you something?” His expression shifts, serious now.
“Do you…” My face burns. “Is my scent… are we…”
