Chapter 3 #3
Levi laughs again, slapping Rowan. "Better keep her away from anything sharp."
I realize I'm trapped—three Alphas in formation, blocked in by pie displays and occult romance novels.
My body's response is... not helpful. Pulse skipping, mouth dry, scent spiking with pumpkin cream and vanilla, but underneath, that honeyed note that screams interested despite every logical thought.
Caramel crackle and smoldering cinnamon, the kind of pheromone signature that says yes when your brain says run.
I am literally the main course at my own disaster.
This was supposed to be business. Not three Alphas looking at me like I'm dessert and they've been fasting.
Panic mode: ACTIVATED.
"Um, I should—" My eyes dart toward the back, anywhere that isn't Levi's practiced heat, Rowan's weighted regret, or Luca's surgical analysis. "Check the gluten-free table. Scones don't... self-promote."
I grab a basket and flee, muttering about inventory, escaping toward the safety of a secondary display where I can pretend to arrange ghost cookies and not think about how adrenaline tastes like copper in my mouth or how my face feels like it's melting.
Don't look back. Don't look back. Don't—
I look back.
Rowan's gaze finds me instantly, even across stacks of "Fanged Lovers: A Paranormal Anthology."
Those impossible eyes catch light, reflect it back changed. There's something raw there—sorrow mixed with hunger, soft wrapped around sharp edges. The apology hangs between us, tangled with history that shouldn't matter but does. Always does.
I'm not looking at him. I'm definitely, absolutely, bravely focused on cookies and—
My hand shakes again. Perfect.
Across the shop, Levi's already demolished another cinnamon roll, holding court with two Betas who look ready to offer themselves as tribute. Luca positions himself at an endcap—close enough to monitor, far enough to deny involvement.
None of them blend. The attention's not solely on me anymore, but it is. Always will be.
Rowan hasn't moved his eyes in what feels like minutes.
My heart pounds. My cheeks burn October-orange. My stomach is a mix of nausea and something worse—want.
This is why I bake. Dough doesn't stare. Flour doesn't remember.
I take my time. Breathe in, out, pretend no one notices I'm dissolving behind "Seasonal Specials." These cookies aren't special, but I fuss anyway. Each adjustment is safer than looking up.
It doesn't help. Every time I peek, those eyes—Rowan's constant, Levi's calculating, even Luca's peripheral assessment—track me like I'm prey that might bolt.
If pheromones were visible, we'd all be choking on the fog.
I adjust, stack, repeat. Promise myself I'll survive with dignity intact.
Next disaster, fewer witnesses. Please.
I haven't even fixed half the gluten-free display before the volume spikes—gossip uncorked and flowing.
Dottie James holds court near the register, arm linked with Mrs. Finch, stationed like they have box seats to my humiliation.
Dottie's white curls defy gravity, backlit by pumpkin lights like an aggressive dandelion halo.
Her pastel cardigan shouldn't exist in nature, pearls so tight they're keeping secrets in.
She leans in but projects for the entire store:
"Did you see that, Nora? Hazel Holloway just baptized Rowan Cambridge!"
Mrs. Finch's eyebrows attempt escape velocity. "You don't say?"
Dottie preens, milking her moment. "Not just a commotion—a spectacle. She doused him, and now the Maddox twins are circling like wolves. Coffee everywhere, his poor shirt ruined. If you ask me..." she pauses for effect, "it was probably a mating ritual."
She says this with the authority of someone who's read every explicit omegaverse romance twice and taken notes.
The commentary escalates. Dottie waves her pumpkin clutch like a weapon, nearly taking out a passing librarian.
"And those Maddox boys... have you seen them?
Standing there like they're guarding territory!
Three eligible Alphas and one freshly returned Omega baker, all crowded around a table like a claiming ceremony waiting to happen.
" She exhales, delighted. "Maple Street hasn't seen this kind of drama since the Great Strudel Incident of '19. "
Kill me. Kill me now.
Mrs. Finch covers her smile, but she's devouring every word. "Hazel didn't look at any of them when she fled to the cookies. Poor thing looked ready to bolt."
Dottie's eyes narrow with predatory glee. "Mark my words, there's something brewing hotter than that spilled coffee. I have theories about which Alpha will make the first move, but..." she taps her nose, "you didn't hear it from me."
Every word carries, pumpkin-spiced and poisonous, straight to my hiding spot.
My knuckles go white on the cookie tray.
It's an out-of-body experience—half humiliation, half PTSD flashback. I've spent three years trying to disappear, to never be the story, never catch an Alpha's attention. Now I'm center stage with three of them lined up for the show.
Should have stayed broken. Should have stayed gone.
I try not to listen, but the bookstore has paper walls and selective hearing isn't in my skill set.
A teenager at the kids' table: "Do you think she likes the firefighter or the ranch guys?"
Grandmother by "Haunted Home & Garden": "Always thought she and Rowan had history. You know, before. But Omega girls, they keep their options open."
History. If only they knew what kind.
I arrange pumpkin cookies into obsessive rows. My fingers shake—little earthquakes threatening to scatter everything.
The room buzzes, but nothing covers the weight of Rowan's stare—a brand across my shoulder blades.
Background orchestra: pages turning, nervous giggles, pens scratching sign-ups for next month's Book & Bake. Spoons against pottery, October wind tapping windows like it wants in on the gossip.
The walls pulse with opinion. Some discuss cookies and early pumpkin season, but most dissect the "show"—who'll walk me home, who'll win, whether new pack dynamics mean fresh opportunities for claiming.
They're talking about me like I'm territory. Like I'm something to be won.
I flatten my palms against the table. Force breath into my lungs. Don't let them see. Never let them see.
But it's sensory overload, system failure, complete omega breakdown barely contained.
The Alphas are the problem. The solution. The problem again.
Rowan doesn't break eye contact even when Levi nudges him. Levi's collected three phone numbers already—I don't ask how. Luca gets handed a spooky latte that he inspects like it might be poisoned.
But Rowan? Just me and the line between us—cut with regret, longing, the muscle memory of an Omega who survived and an Alpha who let it happen.
I straighten a ghost cookie.
It immediately falls.
Even inanimate objects know I'm a disaster.
Another explosion of laughter from the front: "—and then she said, 'Nobody takes down an Alpha like Hazel Holloway!'"
Dottie's cackle goes off like a warning siren. I make myself invisible behind truffle samples, praying for spontaneous combustion.
The universe isn't done with me. It never is.
Candlelight softens nothing—it's a spotlight picking out every flaw, every shake, every skipped heartbeat for public consumption.
The only thing less stable than me is this entire situation.
At least with cookies, the worst that happens is calories.
Reverie materializes beside me with a frosted muffin and misplaced optimism.
"They're jealous," she whispers, conspiratorial. "Also, you looked cute spilling coffee. Adorable even."
"You're lying," I hiss, then freeze—a grandmother and Beta accountant are absolutely within earshot.
Reverie grins, eating muffin crumbs. "Mean it. You're the main event, Hazel. Prime time." Her voice drops, genuine. "It's good. Don't let them win."
I want to believe that. Want it more than air.
But even as I hustle through the next round, the chatter never stops.
Three Alphas in a room and somehow I'm the dangerous one.
The night unravels like a wound—messy, painful, impossible to ignore.
Book clubbers chatter. The twins work the room like they're running for office.
The air reeks of competing pheromones, spiced candles, and whatever chemical keeps fake cobwebs from spontaneous combustion.
The pressure never drops, but when I meet Rowan's eyes one last time, it feels less like judgment and more like a promise.
Maybe I want the attention. Maybe I want to burn.
But three years of conditioning scream louder.
Tonight, I grip the table, brace against the heat in my chest, and hope someday I'll remember how to want things without them destroying me. How to be seen without feeling flayed. How to exist in a room with Alphas without calculating exits.
My hands finally stop shaking.
That has to mean something.
Even if it's just exhaustion.
Outside, the October wind howls like it knows secrets.
Inside, I'm still standing.
We'll call that survival.
For now.