Page 81 of The Knotheads Next Door
Unlike some people I could name.
I've been carefully avoiding the three alphas all day, which is challenging in a town this size during its biggest event of the season. I've glimpsed them from a distance—Wells coordinating with security near the main pavilion, Theo at the veterinary clinic's informational booth, Jasper helping with some last-minute repairs to one of the stage platforms.
Each sighting sends a jolt through me, a combination of want and wariness that leaves me off-balance. I don't know how to face them after what happened. After I let Theo hold me, scent-mark me, comfort me in my most vulnerable state. After I nearly begged for more, for all of them, in the depths of my heat-induced delirium.
The memory alone makes heat rise to my cheeks, and I duck behind a display of apple-themed crafts to collect myself. This was a mistake. I'm not ready to be around people, to maintain this façade of normalcy when everything has changed.
I should leave, go back to the house, hide until—
"Rowan?"
The voice stops me cold, a voice I would know anywhere, that I've heard my entire life. A voice I never expected to hear in Vineyard Groves.
I turn slowly, hoping I'm hallucinating, a leftover symptom of my heat.
But no. There she stands, five feet away, looking exactly as she has my entire life—practical bob haircut, sensible shoes, smile lines around her eyes. My mother.
"Mom?" I say, the word feeling strange in my mouth after weeks of silence. "What are you doing here?"
She takes a step closer, her familiar scent—lemongrass and laundry detergent—reaching me even through the festival's olfactory chaos. "You didn't answer our calls. Or texts. Your dads and I were worried."
"So you, what, tracked me down?" I ask,the anger that bubbles up is unexpected and hot.
"How did you even find me?"
"Your former land lord told us you'd mentioned a place called Vineyard Groves," she admits.
"It wasn't hard to figure out the rest."
Betrayal stings, though I can't really blame The Jerk. He has no loyalty to me, and my parents can be persuasive when worried.
"Well, you've seen me. I'm fine. You can go now." I turn to leave, not caring how rude it is, not wanting this confrontation in the middle of a crowded festival where everyone seems to know everyone else's business.
"Rowan, please." Her hand catches my arm, gentle but insistent. "We need to talk. About James. About... everything."
"Now?" I gesture around at the festival, at the curious glances already being thrown our way.
"Here?"
"You've been avoiding us for months," she points out. "If not now, when?"
She has a point, but I'm not feeling particularly reasonable. Especially not with the last remnants of my heat making my skin too sensitive, my emotions too raw, my defenses too thin.
"Fine," I relent, moving us toward a slightly less crowded area near the edge of the square.
"Talk."
She takes a deep breath, visibly steeling herself. "James contacted us again. He has information about your... condition. Why you've been latent all these years. It's genetic, on his side. He thinks he can help."
The words hit like physical blows. Genetic. On his side. The implication being that my biological father—this stranger who contributed DNA and then vanished—might hold the key to the mystery that's defined my life.
"And you couldn't have told me this, I don't know, twenty years ago?" My voice rises despite my efforts to control it. "Instead of dragging me to doctor after doctor, test after test, making me feel like I was broken?"
"We didn't know!" she protests. "We had no contact with him after... after everything happened. He only reached out recently."
"And how did he find out about me?" I demand, suddenly suspicious. "How does he know anything about me at all?"
She has the grace to look guilty. "Your father—Pops—he reached out to him first. After your last appointment with Dr. Shepherd. When they suggested the hormone therapy might have long-term risks."
