Page 39 of Pumpkin Patch Pack
Days?
My heart rate spikes. “How long have I been out?”
“A little over two days. You had a severe suppressant overdose.” He sets the glass down, his expression turning more serious. “Your body was shutting down from the toxic levels in your system. It’s a miracle those boys found you when they did.”
The memory returns in flashes: the fever, Liam, voices filled with concern.
“The boys have been taking shifts watching over you,” Dr. Mitchell continues, making notes on a tablet. “Barely left your side. Even that goat of yours refused to leave. I had to put her outside this morning, finally.”
Their scents linger in the small space, laced with the tang of worry.
And Maple.
I remember her warm weight against me during the fever.
“I—I needed them,” I stammer. “The suppressants. I can’t—they can’t know—.”
“That you’re an omega?” Dr. Mitchell’s eyebrow rises. “I believe that ship has sailed, my dear. Suppressant overdose tends to make one’s designation rather obvious.”
Shame and fear twist in my stomach. “I had to hide it. I can’t—I need more suppressants. Please.”
“You cannot take more than one extra-strength suppressant a day, and no more patches. They were interfering with your body’s ability to regulate temperature.”
“I can’t,” I protest, panic rising. “I can still smell them—the guys. Even with the suppressants, I could smell them.”
Dr. Mitchell pauses, studying me with newfound interest. “That’s impossible,” he says slowly. “The extra-strength formula should completely block your ability to detect alpha pheromones. You shouldn’t be able to smell anything but the most basic scents.”
“But I do,” I insist. “Rowan smells like burnt sugar and musk. Liam is Bourbon and smoke. And Theo, he’s cinnamon and vanilla.” The scents are still vivid in my memory, growing stronger each day I’ve been here.
Dr. Mitchell’s expression softens, and a small smile forms on his lips. “Well,” he says, packing his stethoscope into his bag, “there’s only one reason you’d be able to smell them through pharmaceutical-grade suppressants.”
“What?” I ask, but he’s already standing, heading for the door.
“Get some rest, Emma. I’ll check on you tomorrow. And don’t worry—your secret is safe with me.” With that cryptic statement, he leaves, the door closing softly behind him.
I stare at the ceiling, my mind racing despite my exhaustion. Only one reason I’d smell them through suppressants? What did he mean?
Then it hits me.
Scent compatibility.
True biological matching.
Fated mates, some call it.
The rarest phenomena in our world, where one can detect their perfect match even through chemical barriers.
Not just one alpha, but two. And a beta to boot.
My hands begin to tremble as the full implications crash over me.
They’re not just any alphas.
They’re my alphas.
My perfect biological matches.
My mates.
