Page 2 of Stuck with my Pack
The floors groan under my weight, their once-polished planks now scuffed and uneven. Here and there, a board bows slightly as I step, and I make a mental note: lots of floorboards will need replacing or at least securing.
The wallpaper peels at the edges, curling like paper from a message in a bottle. A damp stain mars the ceiling in one room, a faint ring of brown spreading outward. I run my hand along the windowsill, and flakes of old paint come away under my fingers.
The original glass panes are intact, though streaked with grime, their wooden frames softened by years of exposure to the ocean air. The locks on a few are rusted shut, and I spot a tiny crack in the corner of one pane, no doubt letting drafts in during the colder months.
The primary guest bathroom is another story. The porcelain sink is stained, its once-white basin streaked with rust from a leaky faucet. The mirror is fogged with age, its edges tarnished like a fading photograph.
Tiles have come loose from the wall and floors, exposing the grout beneath, and the tub is speckled with grime and mildew. I test the faucet, and the pipes groan before a weak stream of water sputters out, brown and metallic-smelling.
Even with its flaws, the house feels alive beneath the dust and decay. It’s more than salvageable—it’s waiting, full of potential. My chest tightens as I glance back down the hall, imagining what it once was and what it could be again.
I swallow hard, pushing down the growing weight of responsibility. There’s so much to do. Can I really manage this on my own? The thought is overwhelming, but as I pause at the top of the staircase, running my hand over the banister again, something stirs deep in my chest. An ache. A flicker of determination.
This house was my Aunt’s heart and soul. Now, it has to be mine.
Finally, I reach my Aunt’s room.
The door creaks open, and the scent of lavender hits me harder here. It feels like I'm wrapped in her warm arms again, her Omega scent of lavender and buttercups wrapping around me. The room is almost untouched—her bed is still made, and the quilt is slightly yellowed but otherwise pristine.
Dust coats all the surfaces, but it’s thinner here, like this space has been protected somehow. I set my bag down on the floor, running my fingers over the edges of the quilt.
I shake it out, sending a cloud of dust into the air, and look around for fresh linens as I sneeze. The closet door sticks, but with a little force, it pops open to reveal stacks of bedding.
I pull out a cleaner set of sheets and set to work changing the bed. The process is oddly grounding, the simple act of smoothing fabric and tucking corners easing some of the tension in my chest.
As I finish, a sound pricks at the edge of my awareness—a soft creak, distant but distinct.
I freeze, my heart thudding. I tell myself it’s nothing—just the house settling. Old houses make noises. But then it comes again. Louder. Closer.
Footsteps.
That scent hits me again, undeniably Alpha, it's refreshing, like summertime, citrus and sunshine, the same scent from earlier, faint but unmistakable.
My instincts sharpen, adrenaline flooding my veins. Whoever’s here, they’re not a stranger to the property.
I scan the room, my eyes landing on a candlestick sitting on the dresser, its silver tarnished but sturdy. I grab it, my hand trembling as I grip the cool metal.
“Who the hell is in my house?” I whisper, stepping toward the door.
I can hear the footsteps coming up the staircase, deliberate and heavy. My breath catches as I edge the door open a crack so I can see into the hallway.
The afternoon sun streams through the window at the end of the hall, illuminating the dust motes swirling in the air, my candlestick raised like a weapon. My pulse pounds in my ears as I prepare to throw open the door.
Whoever’s here is about to regret it.
2
SOPHIE
The brass candlestick feels solid in my grip, its weight grounding me as I stand outside the guest room door. My heart pounds in my chest, each thud echoing in my ears.
My Omega instincts scream at me to flee—to run far and fast—but I’m not about to let some stranger intimidate me in my house. No, this is my home now, and whoever’s with me is about to learn that.
With a sharp inhale, I tighten my grip on the candlestick and shove the door open with enough force to make it slam against the wall. “Who the hell are you?” I shout, hurtling the candlestick straight at the intruder.
He moves so fast I barely see it—his hand shooting out, catching the candlestick mid-air as if I’d tossed him a set of keys. My breath catches, my Omega instincts flaring to life, torn between awe and panic.
His scent hits me next, sharp and earthy, like cedar and the first rain after a dry summer. It’s intoxicating, wrapping around me and making it hard to think straight.
