Page 52 of Pumpkin Patch Pack
“Our pack works because we choose each other, every day,” Rowan continues, his voice deepening. “Because we see each other fully and still want to be connected.”
“What Rowan’s trying to say in his roundabout way,” Theo interjects, his tone lighter but his eyes serious, “is that we were not actively seeking an omega to complete some biological checklist. But now we’ve found someone who fits. If she’ll have us.”
My cheeks burn, and I’m grateful for the firelight that hopefully hides my blush. But there’s no hiding the way my scent shifts, sweetening with desire, deepening with emotion. All three men notice; I can see it in the dilation of their pupils, the subtle flaring of nostrils, the way they each lean closer to me.
The moment stretches between us, charged with possibility. My mind races with caution—reminding me of past betrayals, of reasons to guard my heart—but my body, my omega, knows with bone-deep certainty that this is right—that these men are safe, and they are mine, as I am theirs.
“Yes,” I whisper. My voice grows stronger as I continue, “I’ll have you.”
The words hang between us, and I watch as they register on each man’s face; Theo’s breaking into a brilliant smile, Rowan’s eyes darkening with intensity, Liam’s arms tightening around me.
My omega instincts howl with triumph, rightness, and the recognition of finding home somewhere so unexpected, these three men who somehow complete me in ways I never knew I needed.
23
Rowan
My hands are covered in pumpkin guts, and I’ve never been happier.
Emma sits across from me, the tip of her tongue caught between her teeth in concentration, utterly unaware of what she does to me.
We’re seated at one of the picnic tables, newspapers spread beneath our pumpkins, carving tools scattered between us.
“I haven’t done this since I was a kid,” Emma says, looking up. There’s a smudge of pumpkin on her cheek that I’m dying to wipe away. “My mom wasn’t big on holiday traditions.”
“Well, you’re atHarvest Home Farmnow. We take our pumpkin carving very seriously.” I gesture to my half-finished creation, an intricate design of twisted vines and leaves that I’ve been perfecting over the years.
Emma leans forward to examine it, and her apple pie scent washes over me, making my head swim. “Show-off,” she teases.
“What are you making?” I ask, trying to peek at her pumpkin.
She covers it protectively with her hands. “No peeking! It’s a surprise.”
The playfulness in her voice does something to my chest, squeezing it tight. It’s been three days since our bonfire, three days since she said those simple, world-changing words: “I’ll have you.” Three days of cautious touches, lingering glances, and the maddening dance of wanting to rush forward while knowing we must move slowly.
“Fine, keep your secrets,” I say, returning to my carving with exaggerated focus. “But fair warning, Theo will demand a full viewing and detailed critique of everyone’s pumpkins. He takes Halloween judging very seriously.”
Emma laughs, the sound like music. “Of course he does. Let me guess, Liam carves the same design every year?”
“A circle,” I confirm with a grin. “And it is done in under 5 minutes so that he can get back to work.”
“And Theo’s is elaborate and completely over the top?”
“Last year, it was a detailed recreation of the farmhouse. Took him six hours and three pumpkins.”
She shakes her head, still smiling. “You three are so different.”
“Complementary,” I correct gently.
A blush creeps up her neck at the reminder, and her scent sweetens, making my alpha instincts stand at attention. I force myself to focus on the pumpkin, not on how her sweater slips off one shoulder or how her teeth worry at her bottom lip when thinking.
We work in companionable silence for a while, the only sounds being the scrape of knives against pumpkin flesh and the distant noises of the farm: Theo singing off-key, the animals in their pens, and the rustle of leaves in the autumn breeze.
“Ouch!” Emma suddenly jerks her hand back, dropping her knife.
I’m around the table instantly, taking her hand in mine. “Let me see.”
A small cut crosses her finger, beading with blood. It’s minor, but seeing her hurt sends my protective instincts into overdrive.
