Chapter 24 Beth
Beth
A pair of beady orange eyes lock onto mine from the center of Arthur's bedroom floor, and for one full second my brain cycles through every reasonable explanation.
Then the thing opens its beak and makes a sound that no inanimate object could ever make as it breaks into a full trot toward me.
I scream. A full-bodied, hands-in-the-air, final-girl scream and bolt.
I round the corner into the living room at a dead sprint, still screaming my lungs out. Maren and Luna are already on their feet, eyes wide and panicked.
"THERE'S A CHICKEN," I shriek. "IT'S COMING."
And then it appears behind me. Wings half-spread, head bobbing, little orange feet pattering against the hardwood at a pace that should not be possible on legs that short.
Luna screams. Her notebook going airborne. Maren screams and scrambles up onto the couch.
"Is that real?" Luna shrieks, teetering on the upholstery. "Beth, is that a real chicken?"
"Does it look fake to you?" I yell, vaulting up onto the couch right beside them.
The bird skids to a halt at the edge of the living room rug. For one blissful, wildly naive second, I think we've established our dominance and it's going to retreat. Instead, it slowly cocks its head, lets out a little cluck, and charges the couch.
All three of us scream again in unison, the sound probably carrying through every wall in this building.
"The bathroom," I gasp. "Go go go—"
Luna vaults off the couch with an athleticism she has never once demonstrated in our entire friendship. Maren is somehow already halfway there.
We pile in and I slam the door, hands shaking.
For a moment we just stand there, panting, crammed between the sink and the shower stall, Luna with one hand pressed to her chest, Maren gripping the towel rack.
Soft scratching sounds comes from the other side of the door, then a quiet cluck.
"Shhh," I whisper.
Luna clamps her hand over her own mouth.
"If we're quiet," I breathe, "maybe it'll leave."
Maren stares at me. "What if it doesn't?"
"Then we live here now," Luna whispers.
Maren closes her eyes. Opens them. Nods once, like she's accepting a fate she never anticipated but has decided to meet with dignity.
We wait.
The scratching stops. Silence. Long, fragile silence. Luna pressed against the shower door. Me on the closed toilet lid with my knees drawn up. Maren in the corner.
One minute passes. Then two. Maybe three. It's impossible to keep track of time when the rush of adrenaline is pounding so loudly in your ears.
"I think it's gone," Luna mouths.
I hold up a finger. Wait.
More silence. My shoulders start to come down from my ears. Luna lowers her hand. Maren lets out a long breath.
Then the door swings open.
All three of us scream. Luna grabs the showerhead. I grab a bottle of conditioner. Maren grabs a towel.
Arthur.
He's standing in the doorway. One hand on the knob, the other already reaching for his belt buckle. He freezes.
We freeze.
"What," Arthur says slowly, "are you all doing in here?"
***
Maren and Luna left shortly after that. They decided the bachelorette prep had been productive enough for one evening, and Luna added, with the strained cheerfulness of someone who has recently survived a home invasion, that they'd had "enough adventure for one night."
So now it's just me and the alphas. Arthur is walking in from the hallway with the chicken cradled against his chest, one broad palm smoothing down its feathers, murmuring to it like it's a newborn.
"Oh, Clementine," he says softly. "Why were you hiding?"
She'd hidden, apparently. After we barricaded ourselves in the bathroom, wedging herself under the couch.
"Clementine," I repeat.
"She's our mascot," Mason says, leaning against the kitchen island. "For the rugby team."
"She belongs to Old Bill," Knox adds, reaching for his glass of water. "He's got a farm past the ice rink. Everyone knows Bill."
"Old Bill... And you guys have a rugby team," I say.
"Yeah, we play a match once a quarter for the Lake's Edge Cup," Knox says from the couch, stretching his legs out.
"We basically just split the local guys into two squads and beat the hell out of each other for bragging rights.
And Clementine here comes to celebrate with us at every victory. We all love her."
"How did she end up here though?" I ask.
Arthur is still petting Clementine with the focus of someone performing surgery.
"Bill couldn't make the match today, so I offered to pick her up this afternoon.
I set up everything in my room, her food dispenser, her water, the blanket she likes.
She was sleeping so deeply I didn't want to wake her, so I let her rest while I got ready, and then I was late for the match, and I—" He trails off.
Rubs the back of his neck. "Forgot her."
"You forgot you left a chicken in your bedroom," I say.
"I feel terrible," he says.
He looks it, too. The flush on his ears has spread to his cheeks, and he's holding Clementine like she's the only thing keeping him grounded.
"And Knox and I were out all day and didn't even know Old Bill couldn't make it today," Mason says, shaking his head.
"But in Arthur's defense, he built her a little corner," Knox says, grinning. "With a towel nest."
"She likes the towel nest," Arthur says quietly, and the sincerity of it does something to my chest that has nothing to do with leftover adrenaline.
I look at Clementine, who is tucked against Arthur's collarbone with her eyes half-closed, looking about as threatening as a cotton ball. Which is infuriating, given the T. rex energy she was channeling forty-five minutes ago.
"Does she usually come at people like a velociraptor?" I ask. "Because that was—"
"She doesn't attack," Arthur says, like I've insulted a family member. "She's very cuddly. She probably saw you and wanted to be petted."
"She wanted to be petted," I deadpan.
"She does that," he says. "Runs up to people. It's how she says hello."
"That is objectively terrifying," I tell him.
"Only if you don't know her," Arthur says, with genuine pain in his voice.
Clementine ruffles her feathers and settles deeper into the crook of his arm. Docile. Content. Nothing like the tiny dinosaur that barreled toward me down the hallway.
"Can I—" I start, surprising myself. "Can I pet her?"
Arthur's face opens up. "Yeah. Of course. Just—slow, and along the feathers, not against."
I step closer. Clementine's beady eyes track me, and for a moment she turns her head away.
I blink. "Is she... ignoring me?"
"She's probably a little offended," Arthur says. "That you ran."
"She's offended? I'm the one who—"
"Just give her a second," he murmurs, his large fingers gently scratching the base of her neck.
I reach out and rest my fingers lightly on her back. She holds the sulk for another beat and then slowly leans into it. A low, vibrating sound starts up in her chest. Somewhere between a purr and a coo.
"Is she purring?" I whisper, surprised. I didn't know chickens could do that.
"She does that when she's happy," Arthur says, his voice gentle.
I stroke along her feathers and Clementine's eyes drift shut. Warm under my hand. Impossibly soft.
"See?" Arthur says. "She likes you."
"She had a funny way of showing it."
"Like someone else I know," Knox murmurs from the couch, not looking up from his water.
"What?" I say.
"What?" he replies.
Mason stands up. "We should get her back. Take her down to the Lake's Edge before Bill arrives to pick her up."
It seems like a lot of effort for an old farmer to come all the way to a bar just to pick up a chicken, but looking at Clementine, I get it. She's clearly the star of the show, and Bill must be devastated he couldn't attend the after game.
Arthur nods, wrapping Clementine more securely. She makes a small, disgruntled sound but doesn't open her eyes.
Knox drains his glass and stands. "Alright, Clemmie. Road trip."
As they start moving toward the door, a sudden, sharp ache blooms in my chest. It's my stupid omega biology throwing a tantrum because her alphas are leaving her. Which is ridiculous, considering I'm the one actively considering leaving them for real.
I watch Knox and Mason walk past me, and my heart pinches.
I feel like the physical distance between us mirrors the emotional wall that appeared since my confession.
I can feel how much they've pulled back, giving me space.
I can't blame them—honestly, it's probably the safest thing for them to do if I really am selling the shop—but damn, that distance still hurts.
"T—Thanks," I manage as Arthur passes me on his way out. "For, the heroic chicken rescue."
He stops and turns. The soft, impossibly fond way he looks down at me makes the frantic buzzing in my brain just... stop.
"You don't have to thank me," he says.
"I just..." I swallow hard, looking down at the floorboards. "I've been causing you guys nothing but stress lately. I don't know if I really deserve to be rescued."
He shifts Clementine to one arm, reaching out with his free hand to gently tip my chin up.
"Well, saving you makes me feel quite good about myself." A small smile touches his lips. "That has to count for something."