Page 12 of A Pack of Pumpkins
He rubs the back of his neck, looking almost bashful. “I don’t know if you like horror books…”
And it clicks.
“You’re Bram Razor. The horror novelist.” I know where I've seen him before. Dust jackets.
I’d thrown one of his books at him and the pack last night. It’s our book club pick—Rose’s pick. My God, she would die if she knew Bram Razor was in town. He’s one of her favorites.
“Guilty,” he admits with a shrug. My eyes feel as round as saucers.
“I’m reading your latest book for my book club.”
He smiles. “What do you think?”
My mouth snaps shut, which he immediately clocks. “You hate it.”
Heat creeps up my cheeks. “I don’t love horror. The writing’s great—it just scares the shit out of me. Sorry.” Why am I apologizing?
He chuckles, thank God. “We like what we like. I don’t always love horror either.” He winks. “You’re the little ghost from the window.”
Something in my face makes him chuckle again. “When we first arrived, I thought the place was haunted. Then when we scented you, I thought maybe I was right.”
“I… what do you mean?” I try to sound casual, but last night’s fear bleeds through.
“Yeah, I saw you up in the omega suite window…” Bram trails off. Realization flickers across both their faces.
“But you were asleep when we found you in there,” Jack finishes.
I nod slowly. “The reason I didn’t need to call the cops last night is because I’d already called them earlier.”
I explain what I’d seen and scented. By the end, they look murderous.
Dagan signs something no one translates. Suddenly all four men are in motion.
“Victor!” Bram shouts.
Victor strolls in moments later, cigarette blissfully absent. They give him the cliff-notes version of what I told them.
“Apple,” Jack says, turning back to me. “We want to look around. Would you mind waiting on the porch for a bit?”
Jack looks serious. Bram looks concerned. Dagan looks murderous. Victor looks annoyed. Great. I’m already struggling with Victor, and now they’re treating some random details like a blood oath threat.
“The police already searched. I’m sure it’s fine. The wind probably knocked the crystals over,” I say.
Bram levels a flat stare. “You said they were lined up to your nest. That’s not wind. That’s someone breaking in.”
Victor snorts. “Or maybe it’s just an omega having a little spooky-girl spiral.”
I glare. “I could just—”
“No.” All four at once. Even Victor. He studies the floorboards.
“If there’s a psycho in your nest, we’re not letting you go in alone,” Bram says, like it’s obvious.
And he’s right. Nests are sacred. Private. Omegas use them when we’re overwhelmed, overstimulated, during heats. They’re asking permission. Without it, they wouldn’t go near.
I look at each of them. “Dagan can. If you really think you have to.”
Dagan grins. Shit-eating. Almost sinister. For a moment, he looks exactly like his brother.
