Chapter 36 Halloween Harvest & Forever
Halloween Harvest & Forever
~HAZEL~
Iwake up to the sound of a cat yowling, a dog barking, and what sounds suspiciously like Levi trying to stuff three grown men into matching t-shirts.
"This is humiliating," Luca's voice, muffled by fabric.
"This is hilarious," Levi counters. "Reverie's a genius."
"Reverie's going to get murdered if I have to wear—what does this even say?"
"'Hot Buns Bakery Security,'" Levi reads proudly. "With little cupcakes on the back. It's perfect."
"It's ridiculous."
"Ridiculously perfect."
I burrow deeper into the nest of blankets on my living room floor, trying to hide from consciousness and the fact that we have approximately two hours before the Halloween festival starts, and I'm supposed to be a functional human being who can walk and talk and not spontaneously combust from emotional exhaustion.
"She's awake," Rowan announces, because apparently, my breathing pattern changed, and he notices everything. "I can tell by the way she's pretending not to be awake."
"I'm sleep-breathing very convincingly," I mumble into a pillow that smells like cedar smoke and safety.
"You're talking," Levi points out. "That's the opposite of sleep."
"Maybe I'm sleep-talking."
"You're sleep-avoiding."
"That too."
A warm hand slides under the blankets, finding my ankle, thumb rubbing circles that are both soothing and deliberately distracting.
"We let you power nap for three hours. Any longer and you'll miss your own festival."
"Can't I miss it?" I peek out from the blankets to find three Alphas standing over me wearing matching shirts that say "HOT BUNS BAKERY SECURITY" in glittery letters with cartoon cupcakes flexing tiny frosting biceps on the back.
I burst out laughing so hard I snort, which makes Levi grin triumphantly.
"See? She loves them!"
"I didn't say that!" I'm wheezing now, clutching my stomach. "I'm laughing at you, not with you!"
"Same thing!" He strikes a pose, flexing. "We're officially your bakery security now. Protecting buns and taking names."
"That's not how that phrase works!"
"It is for buns!"
Rowan pinches the bridge of his nose in the universal gesture of 'why did I agree to this?' but he's smiling, and when he catches me looking, something warm and intimate passes between us that makes my chest tight.
"Come on," Luca offers his hand, hauling me up from the nest. "You need to get into costume. The festival starts at seven, and you're the guest of honor."
"I'm what now?"
"Guest of honor," he repeats patiently. "For standing up to your abuser in court this morning and then feeding half the town celebratory pie. You're basically Oakridge royalty now."
"That's not how royalty works!"
"It is in small towns!"
Forty-five minutes later, I'm standing in my bedroom trying to figure out if I made a terrible mistake.
The costume seemed like a good idea three weeks ago when Reverie dragged me to that Halloween store in Riverside. A witch—classic, recognizable, easy. Except the "classic" witch costume she picked out is less "Wizard of Oz" and more "Pinterest fever dream."
The dress is burgundy velvet—because apparently I'm committed to this color now—with a fitted bodice that does things to my curves that should probably be illegal and a skirt that's short enough to show off the striped stockings that match the ones from the photoshoot.
There's a cape—crushed velvet, dramatic, definitely a tripping hazard—and a hat that's less pointy cone and more stylish autumn accessory.
"I look ridiculous," I announce to Muffin, who's watching me from her perch with the judgmental energy of a cat who knows she's about to be subjected to costume indignity.
"You look hot!" Reverie bursts through the door in her own witch costume—sugarplum purple, somehow even more extra than mine, complete with glittery makeup that makes her look like a fairy-tale villain in the best way. "Like a sexy witch who bakes cookies and destroys ex-husbands in court!"
"That's a very specific aesthetic!"
"It's YOUR aesthetic now!" She's already adjusting my hat, fluffing my curls, adding some kind of glittery powder to my cheeks that smells like cinnamon and probably costs more than my rent. "The pack's going to lose their minds."
"They're wearing shirts about buns!"
"And they're going to see you in this dress and forget about the shirts entirely!" She steps back, admiring her work. "Perfect. Now for the familiars!"
"The what?"
She produces a tiny cape from her bag—purple velvet to match her costume—and advances on Muffin with the determination of someone who's forgotten that cats have claws and opinions.
"Reverie, she's going to murder you—"
But Muffin, traitor that she is, sits perfectly still while Reverie fastens the cape around her fluffy neck. Then she preens, actually preens, like she's been waiting her whole life for this moment.
"See? She loves it!" Reverie crows, then pulls out more capes. "I made ones for all the pets! Ember's is gold to match her fur, Biscuit and Whiskey are getting matching black ones—"
"You made costumes for four animals?"
"Five! I made one for Gerald the duck, too, but Levi says Gerald's shy about public appearances."
"Gerald is a wild duck who happens to like bread!"
"Gerald is part of the extended pack family and deserves costume representation!"
I can't argue with that logic, mostly because I'm laughing too hard.
Downstairs, the bakery has been transformed yet again.
Candles flicker in the windows—the fake ones, because fire safety with Rowan around is non-negotiable—casting warm golden light onto Maple Street.
Orange and black streamers twist with fairy lights, creating patterns that look like magic captured in wire and bulbs.
And the smell.
Oh god, the smell.
Fresh pumpkin cookies cooling on racks, cinnamon-sugar coating still warm, caramel apples arranged in pyramids that Mila spent two hours perfecting, and underneath it all, the scent of my pack—cedar and gingerbread and honey butter mixing with my own vanilla cinnamon until the whole bakery smells like home.
"You're crying again," Levi observes, appearing beside me in his ridiculous security shirt and matching witch hat that Reverie definitely bullied him into wearing.
"I'm not crying, I'm expressing moisture!"
"Through your tear ducts!"
"Shut up and give me a caramel apple!"
He does, and when I bite into it—perfect tartness, sweet caramel, just a hint of sea salt—I might actually cry for real.
"Mila's a genius," I mumble through caramel.
"You're a genius," Rowan corrects, emerging from the back in his security shirt and dark jeans that should not look that good with glittery cupcakes.
"You hired her. You built this." He gestures at the bakery, at the decorations, at the line already forming outside even though we don't open for another ten minutes. "This is yours."
Mine.
My bakery. My business. My success that nobody can take away or claim credit for, or use to make me feel small.
The festival is chaos in the best possible way.
Maple Street has been closed to traffic, transformed into a pedestrian wonderland of booths and games and enough sugar to send an entire town into hyperglycemia.
There's a pumpkin carving station where children are creating jack-o'-lanterns that range from adorable to terrifying.
A costume contest that's already descended into a heated debate about whether store-bought counts as homemade if you add glitter.
And my bakery at the center of it all, doors open, music spilling out, people flowing in and out like we're the heart beating life into the celebration.
"HAZEL!" A small superhero—maybe six years old, definitely wearing his cape backwards—barrels into me, clutching a ghost cookie. "You made this and it's the BEST COOKIE EVER!"
"Thank you!" I catch him before he face-plants into my skirt. "Did you get extra frosting?"
"SO MUCH FROSTING!" He shows me his face, which is indeed covered in purple icing. "Mom says I'm gonna be sick, but it's WORTH IT!"
His mother appears, looking apologetic and exhausted in equal measure.
"Sorry, he's had about seven cookies already—"
"It's Halloween," I say, kneeling down to the kid's level. "That's what it's for. Being a little bit sick from too much candy is part of the magic."
"You're my FAVORITE BAKER!" he announces, then runs off to terrorize the pumpkin carving station.
"You're good with kids," Rowan observes, and something in his voice makes me look up.
He's watching me with that expression—the one that makes me feel seen and wanted and like maybe I'm not the disaster I've always thought I was.
"I like kids," I admit, standing and brushing ghost cookie crumbs from my dress. "When they're sugared up and returning to their parents."
"So our kids will be feral?"
"Our—what?"
But he's already walking away, smirking over his shoulder, and I'm left standing there processing the casual way he just said 'our kids' like it's inevitable instead of theoretical.
"He just implied future children!" I hiss at Luca, who's appeared beside me with a tray of cider.
"He's been implying that for weeks," Luca says mildly. "You're just now noticing?"
"I've been busy!"
"You've been oblivious!"
"Same thing!"
The festival continues, a blur of costumes and laughter and people stopping me every five seconds to congratulate me on "that thing in court" with varying degrees of detail about how they heard the story.
"I heard you punched him!" Mrs. Patterson says, eyes gleaming.
"I didn't punch anyone!"
"That's not what I heard!"
By the eighth retelling, I apparently delivered a roundhouse kick while declaring myself an independent woman, and the judge gave me a standing ovation. Small-town gossip is a beautiful, terrifying thing.
"Your legend grows," Levi says, appearing with Ember on a leash. She's wearing her golden cape and attracting a crowd of children who want to pet the "princess dog."
"I just want to sell cookies in peace!"