2. Clara
Clara
I pull up in front of my new place, and the scene is striking.
The big Victorian style house looms at the edge of a bluff, the land sloping into rolling dunes that spill into Lake Michigan.
It has a wide wraparound porch and ornate woodwork trim.
But unlike most Victorians, usually painted in vibrant colors, this one is midnight black with pops of slate gray and subtle accents of silver.
In the almost-set sun, the house looks like a shadow clinging to the edge of the world.
As I step out of my car, the sound of lake waves lapping gently against the shore instantly relaxes me. I love that sound.
The company that owns the house, Raven Group, hadn’t offered to send anyone to meet me, just a keypad code and a digital layout.
I’ll be alone tonight. My roommates don’t arrive until tomorrow.
I don’t know anything about them. When I’d asked for details, Raven Group emailed back saying they weren’t sure they could release that information and would get back to me. They never did.
The gold handle on the front door gleams against the black paint like treasure in a cave. Beneath the vintage knob sits a sleek, modern keypad. I enter the code. The pad beeps twice, then clicks. The door swings open.
Ins ide, the entry hall is lit by a single overhead light and framed by an ornate wooden banister. To the left is a grand living room. To the right, a formal dining room. Both sit cloaked in shadows.
I flip the switch in the dining room. Light scatters through the chandelier’s crystal teardrops, illuminating a long wooden table. I set my bags down and begin making my way through the house, turning lights on and off as I go. I doubt I’ll come back downstairs tonight.
I’m exhausted. Half from packing. Half from emotional whiplash.
The original wood floors creak beneath my feet as I wander. The layout is circular, drifting through a vintage-meets-modern kitchen, where gleaming countertops and retro appliances meet a proper chef’s island.
Next is a half bath. An office. A two-seasons room overlooking the lake. A back porch. Then, full circle, I’m back in the living room and entry.
It’s like I’ve stepped back in time. The whole place is decorated in an Art Nouveau style so seamless, I wonder why any rental company would go to such lengths. I shrug. Their eccentricity is my gain.
As promised, no one else seems to be here.
I’d been told I could have the omega suite. Apparently, the other tenants hadn’t wanted it. They’re likely all betas. So, I get the biggest bedroom and a nest room for no extra charge. Which… is nuts.
If it’s true.
As Winnie pointed out, this could all be a scam. But judging by the main floor, things look legit. No mold. No creepy stains. No cameras.
What’s not amazing is that the omega suite used to be the attic on the third floor. Which means I have to lug everything I own up two, full flights of stairs. Thankfully, I don’t own much.
I huff up the stairs, a duffel slung over one shoulder and a potted plant cradled in the other arm.
I pause on the landing, where a row of bedroom doors waits, quiet, closed, still untouched.
This floor will belong to my future roommates, but for now, it feels like a hallway in a story I haven’t read yet.
The omega suite is gorgeous. Picture-frame molding spans the focal wall behind a massive bed, framing mural-style florals. The entire room is painted in teals and blush pinks. It's right on the edge of gaudy, but somehow still stunning.
A chandelier with ivy-shaped metalwork makes me squeal. One of the many things I brought for my new home that I can’t live without is my plant babies. I even have a watering can that says Plant Mom. It was a gift from Winnie at our Book Club Christmas exchange last year.
Two tall windows let in the last of the fading light. One overlooks the driveway and treetops, just high enough to glimpse downtown in the distance. The other opens onto the bluff.
And that view? It steals the air from my lungs.
Dune grass grows wild along the edge, which drops abruptly into a sandy beach below. Beyond it, Lake Michigan stretches endlessly, the surface catching the dying light like scattered copper coins.
Before I moved to Lakeside Point a few years ago, I’d known the Great Lakes were big, but thought they weren’t much different from other lakes.
That you could see the opposite shore and maybe even swim it.
I hadn’t understood until I got here that the Great Lakes may as well be oceans for how vast they are.
Not only can’t I see the opposite shore, I couldn’t swim it if I tried. The water goes on infinitely.
A desk with a teal chair sits near one window, and I can’t believe my luck at getting my own writing area. The rug is plush under my feet.
A door on the far wall creaks open into a smaller, dimmer room. It's blank except for a recessed nook and a skylight overhead.
The nest.
Unl ike the main bedroom, this space is undecorated. That makes sense. Omegas usually build their nests alone or with their alphas. They’re private spaces, meant to be instinctual—safe.
A door on the wall adjacent to the nest leads to the en suite bathroom. It has pale green tile that flows from the floor halfway up the wall, a claw-foot tub, and a pedestal sink. Again, it straddles that line between pretty and tacky, but stays just on the right side.
Before I can get comfortable, I unpack my crystals, dream catchers, and a few chimes, placing them strategically around the room to channel the best energy.
Last, I prop the stained-glass panel Winnie gave me against the window. The sun has fully set, letting the moonlight shine through its autumn leaves and jack-o’-lanterns. Warm color spills across the room.
Then I hustle down to my car for the rest of my bags.
When I return to my room, I stop dead in the doorway.
The crystals are no longer where I left them. They sit in a perfect, deliberate line leading straight to the nest.
Not only that, but the scent in the room has changed. Instead of fresh paint and wood, there’s now a distinct and overwhelming smell of baked bread. Thick, spiced, impossible to ignore. It floods my senses, making my mouth water and my knees weak.
Heat pools low in my belly. No one else is supposed to be here. I quietly close the door and speed-walk down every flight of stairs. By the time I reach the front porch, I’ve already dialed the police.
I call the non-emergency police department number.
Sheriff Corbin answers on the first ring. He’s new in town, replacing the last sheriff who retired just last month.
“Sheriff Corbin.” His gruff voice flows down the line.
“ Hi, Sheriff. This is Clara—I, um, I’ve served your coffee at the Evergreen Café.” I remind him quickly, in case the name alone doesn’t ring a bell. My fingers twist in the hem of my dress sleeves while I pace across the porch boards.
“Yes, Clara. How can I help you?”
I shift from foot to foot, eyes darting to the heavy black door of the house. “Well, I just moved into a new place today. You know the big black Victorian on Beach Street?”
He makes a sound of assent.
“Well… I’m supposed to be here alone tonight, but…” My voice wavers. I swallow hard. “There’s a scent.”
On the other end of the line, I hear the faint creak of leather, like the sheriff is leaning forward at his desk.
“What kind of scent?” he asks, his tone sharpening.
“An alpha scent.” My throat goes dry. “Like… bread. It’s distinct. Strong.” My omega stirs uneasily inside me, purring at the memory in a way that makes me feel both hot and sick at once.
“Are you in the house now?” His voice is clipped, concerned.
“No, I’m—I’m outside. On the porch.” I glance over my shoulder at the dark yard, hugging myself tighter.
“We’ll be right over,” he says immediately. “Do you want to stay on the line while I drive?”
I shake my head before realizing he can’t see it. “No. It’s only five minutes.” My voice is steadier than I feel.
“Fine but stay on the porch. Don’t go back in.” I assure him I won’t and hang up.
Less than five minutes later, a police cruiser glides into the steep drive.
The Sheriff is a tall alpha with a scar along his face and grey streaks in his hair.
He seems like a nice guy. He hasn't made me, or any other omega I know, feel silly so far .
Trust me, in this world, it can be hard for an omega to avoid feeling chastised or alpha-splained.
He’s brought Deputy Henry Lowe.
And oh, Henry is handsome. In that Western cowboy movie sort of way. He has a strong jawline, wind-whipped wavy brown hair, and piercing blue eyes. His uniform fits like it was tailored, and it’s hard not to notice the way it hugs his arms.
We’ve danced around each other a few times. We’re scent matches, but not scent sensitive. He smells of fresh-cut pine with light hints of earth—pleasant, but without that addictive edge a scent-sensitive match is supposed to have.
I think of the baked bread scent in the room. Warmth and spice, heat and want. I didn’t even see anyone, but I felt it.
Bottom line, Henry’s scent isn’t it.
And yes, my aunt and therapist have both told me I’m being unrealistic. That scent sensitivity is rare. That I’m holding out for something I’ll probably never find.
But I want what I want.
And I’m not giving up on it.
It’s not like I’ve never dated or hooked up. I’ve just always known it wasn’t permanent, and acted accordingly.
“Hey, Clara,” Sheriff Corbin says as he makes his way up to where I’m sitting on the porch swing. “Me and Deputy Lowe are going to do a sweep, okay? We’ll be opening closets and everything, if that’s alright.”
I nod. “I just got here, so it’s not like you’re invading my privacy.”
He nods back. Henry offers a small smile as they pass, and I return it.
Still handsome. Still not the one. We’ve never acted on anything. We both know that if we started, it wouldn’t feel casual, and I’ve never been willing to pre tend. So, I stick to occasional scent matches from Traverse City dance floors or tourists passing through town.
While they search, I sit. And sit. And sit.
Finally, they return with puzzled expressions. My heart sinks. As much as I’d promised myself I wouldn’t feel embarrassed if I was wrong, saying that and actually feeling it are two very different things.
“I want to assure you,” the Sheriff says, “that we swept the house thoroughly. There’s no way someone doubled back behind us.
We looked everywhere we could.” He crouches so we’re eye level, voice calm and steady.
“That doesn’t mean no one was here. They may have slipped out the back door when you were waiting. Do you have the key code?"
“Good,” he says. “We’ll send a cruiser by all night. We’ll be close if you need to call.”
I nod again.
Henry shifts his weight, watching me too closely.
“Did you smell a scent? Like an alpha scent?” I ask.
The two men exchange a glance.
“We picked it up too,” Sheriff Corbin admits. “But faint. Old. Like someone was here hours ago.”
That doesn’t make sense. The scent had been achingly strong in the house, as if an alpha were standing right beside me. A delicious-smelling alpha.
“Would you like to stay somewhere else while we look into this further? We could watch the house tonight and see—”
I shake my head before he can finish and glance back at the looming house. I don’t feel afraid. Just… perplexed. I’ve always trusted my omega instincts. They’ve never led me wrong.
My omega wants to stay here. She likes it. Crazy bitch.
I decline their offer. They promise again to send cruisers. I wave goodbye as they pull out of the drive.
The moment I open the front door, the scent hits me—deep and warm, full of comfort and warmth. It sinks into my skin.
What the actual fuck.
I stand still straining to hear for any sound or movement. Nothing.
I decide to take a look around for my own piece of mind. I’m sure the officers know how to do their job but I won’t be able to sleep without checking myself.
I walk the entire house, opening every closet, every door, every cupboard. I rip back shower curtains like a lunatic. My heart lurches when a branch scratches across the far corner bedroom window.
I check the omega suite. Then I face the part of the house I’ve been avoiding. No one likes to go into the basement, right?
I stand at the top of the narrow stairs. The light flickers when I flip the switch. A Michigan basement, half stone, half cement, with open joists and a damp chill. The water heater hums in the corner.
I descend carefully, testing each step for rot, and scan the shadows. The space is wide and bare. Just a furnace, a steam trunk, and too many dark corners.
The moment I decide it’s empty, I whirl and bolt back up. The house is empty. But I still feel it. That prickling sense of eyes on me. Watching.
I can’t explain it. I can’t prove it. But it’s there. The scent has dissipated.
I think about calling Winnie, leaving this weird house and then dismiss it.
What would I say? I can’t live in my new place because of one off scent?
That sounds pathetic even in my own mind.
That scent could be explained any number of ways.
Just because I’m too tired to think of all the ways doesn’t mean they don’t exist.
Dragging myself upstairs, I change and put the new sheets on the pack-sized bed. At least the mattress is new, they’d assured me. My old twin had be en so small, I’d roll off it half the time. This one feels endless, swallowing me whole.
I open the book Rose picked for this month’s club. Horror, of course. Fitting, with Halloween only a little over a month away. I need to finish it before the meeting.
I make it three pages before my eyes start closing. Setting the book aside, I turn off the lights and curl into the blankets.
When I wake hours later, I’m screaming.