Page 39 of A Pack of Pumpkins
Clara falls asleep within minutes, but I stay awake, savoring the feeling of my omega in my arms. She doesn’t move a muscle all night
Clara
Walkingthroughtownona crisp autumn morning is one of my favorite things. It’s surprisingly busy for mid-October because it’s farmers market day. Light filters through trees full of multicolored leaves, making the whole town feel like the inside of a pumpkin. Stalls line the street, overflowing with apples, squash, baked pies, and cider. The cool air carries the scent of baked goods and wet leaves, and I breathe it in until my chest feels warm.
People I serve at the café every day wave and wish me good morning. It’s too bad Jack had to work—he would love this.
Pretty sequined purses with jack-o’-lanterns on the front catch my attention. I wander over to the stall and trail my fingers across one, calculating whether I have enough in my bank account to buy it.
“Don’t touch things unless you’re planning on buying them,” snaps a wheezy voice.
I nearly jump out of my shoes.
Stella, the local boutique owner, sits on a rickety chair in the corner of her stall, half-hidden in shadows and attached to an oxygen tank. Her thin white hair is permed within an inch of its life, and her spotted hands clutch the armrests.
“Jesus, Stella, you scared the shit out of me.”
She grins, all dentures and mischief. “Boo.”
I shake my head, turning back to the purse. “What’s the price?”
Shenames a sum that would take me a week of tips at the café. I drop the purse like it’s hot.
“Why’d you stop looking?” a deep voice asks from behind me.
My heart leaps, hoping it’s one of my alphas. When I turn, it sinks. Henry.
“Hi, Henry.” I try for casual. “It’s just a little out of my budget.”
Honestly, I love the purse. It’s my style. But not enough to spend that much.
“What, the fancy pack at the house won’t buy it for you?” His smile doesn’t reach his eyes, and the way he says it—the fancy pack—makes me bristle in defense.
“I didn’t ask them. And that’s not why I’m with them. They’re the Ember Pack, by the way.”
He smirks. This is not the Henry I know from the café.
“I’ll take the purse,” he says abruptly, snatching up the one I’d been admiring.
“Oh, no, it’s all right. I don’t need—”
But he’s already pulling out a card and swiping before I can stop him. Stella, completely unhelpful, beams at the big sale.
I glare. Henry hasn’t said or done anything outwardly threatening, but there’s an edge to him I’ve never felt before. I’d noticed it when I told him about my scent sensitivity with the Ember Pack and turned him down—but it had been so brief I thought I’d imagined it. Looking at him now, clearly I hadn’t.
He pushes the purse toward me, dangling it from his fingers. I take a step back. “Henry, that’s too much. You didn’t need to do that.”
“Of course I did. We’re friends, after all. Right?” His tone is sharp under the sugar.
Before I can answer, another voice cuts through—low, firm, and familiar.
“That’s very nice… for afriend.”
Bram.
He steps up beside me in his elbow-patch cardigan and slacks, looking every inch the caricature of a professor-writer. His caramel-apple scent drifts over me, easing the tension Henry left behind.
Henry’s own scent sours, bitter and sharp. He tosses the purse toward me, but Bram catches it midair with one large hand. Tucking it under his arm, Bram pulls out a thick wad of bills that makes me blink.
