1. Eliana
ELIANA
PRESENT DAY
H mm , there’s nothing more satisfying then the smell of coffee first thing in the morning.
Well, it’s not quite first thing in the morning, I’m a writer so morning tends to be whenever I roll out of bed and decide to be part of civilization. Like I’m doing now in the The Spring Perk coffee shop at ten o’clock sharp. When the moms have dropped their kids off at school, eager to gossip or meet before they rush off to yoga. The rich kids hang out here too, drifting between university, life, and travel—living a luxury I’ve never had.
The retirees gather, laughing about the husbands they've left at home, while the men relish their newfound freedom as their wives gossip about them, talking about their true loves: cars, sports, and anything but their daily reality.
I’m a writer, who hasn’t written a word in other two years.
Not quite.
I’m an author who has published books, that used to be successful.
I try to conjure a scene—any scene—where two lovers meet in a place like this. Devin stirs his caramel macchiato clockwise , like any self-respecting Alpha, then his nostrils flare dramatically at the scent of cinnamon and moonlight, trying to forget his unpaid student loans . Across the coffee shop, Eliza senses a disturbance in the atmosphere, so she pauses, then dismisses it as she stirs her lavender latte— counterclockwise . Their eyes met over the rim of a "Live, Laugh, Howl" mug, and Devin growls "Mine" , and then seventeen people turn and stare.
"You smell like my forever," Devin declares. And then what? This is where I get stuck. It all sounds simple. So easy. So unreal and really, really boring.
If anyone were to go on a date here, I suspect they'd regret it. This is where the book club meets—the nosy moms, the elderly chatterboxes, and those who linger over pastries as if they're life's greatest joys. It's a haven for gossip—not the gyms, where only the rich go; not the country club, Blossom Ridge Country Club because that's reserved for the elite; and not the laundromat, frequented only by nannies and students. But here, whether you're working class, middle class, upper class, or upper-upper class, you're sure to end up having a coffee or a pastry. Because if the coffee or pastries don't entice you, the gossip will. Anyone daring to go on a date here would have to be prepared for an interview on Spring Hope Radio by the end of the day, complete with an update.
If I were single—and I am—I have been for a long time. This would be the last place I'd choose to find romance. My thoughts drift restlessly, tracing back to the past—and the thrill of being an omega, the longing for an alpha and the sense of belonging within a pack. But now? I'm just a dried-up author, my scent dulled to something barely perceptible. I catch myself smoothing my fingers over the soft, oatmeal-colored cable-knit of my well-worn sweater, inhaling the faint traces of vanilla and chamomile that still cling to the fabric from better days. My black leggings have grown thin at the knees. No makeup, no real sleep. I've let it all slip away, and it frightens me more than I care to admit—especially when I notice how other omegas' scents seem to bloom around me while mine withers.
When I first moved to Spring Hope, it helped me with my series, Hopeful series. Yeah, I don't have much of an imagination, naming the series after the town that I live in. The air here carried something different then—pine and possibility, the warm bread-scent from the bakery mixing with the coffee shop's rich aroma in a way that made my omega senses come alive. I published a book every year, with characters that readers cried over as if they were real. They were. The Spring Perk and the bakery, Blossom populated by too few people and repetitive scenarios—boredom inevitably set in. The villagers grew restless, and so did my readers.“Boo!” someone shouts directly into my ear.
I jump, the coffee in my hand sloshing dangerously close to the rim. I turn, heart pounding.
“Rebecca?” I blink in surprise.
“Sorry, Eliana. I didn’t mean to scare you. You just seem to be in your own world,” she says.
I clutch my chest, checking to make sure my heart is still beating.
She peels off her oversized faux-fur coat, revealing a fitted burnt-orange turtleneck dress that clings to her curves with black heeled boots that click sharply on the tiled floor. Her deep wine lipstick amplifies her dramatic look.
When I was a USA bestselling author and I won award for my series, I used to get my nails and eyebrows done professionally, hit the gym religiously, and buy new clothes every year. Now I paint my own nails—badly—and I can't afford a gym membership. My right hand always looks like a toddler did it since I'm right-handed, and after one eyebrow-shaping disaster, I've sworn off DIY grooming forever. My old clothes are like Christmas decorations that never come out of storage.
It’s hard to believe I participated in the marathon—not just once, but twice—because now, I don’t run at all. These days, my daily walk consists of coming to The Spring Perk, since I can’t afford the Spring Brew Café, which charges twice as much as this place.
“I didn’t meant to just show up like this,” she says, her grin unapologetic as she slides into the seat across from me. “You weren’t answering your phone.”
I glance at it, face-down on the table. Twenty-seven missed calls. I don’t want to know who’s been trying to reach me.
“You’ve been dodging me,” she says, her voice low and tinged with concern. “They pulled your contract.”
Wow, that’s exactly why I’ve been avoiding phone calls, I thought this news was coming, and I had a feeling that day would be today. I was right.
My stomach drops like a lead weight. “What?”
“Midnight Finch. Gone. Poof. Your agent tried calling you, too,” she says.
I rub my brow, trying to make sense of the two things she just said: that they'd dropped me when I'd hoped and prayed they wouldn't. I really need to improve my manifestation techniques—and the other thing about an agent.
“I thought you were my agent.”
“I am,” she replies, jaw tense. “And I begged them not to do it. But your last book flopped. You’ve ghosted your deadlines for eight months. They said, and I quote, ‘It’s best for both parties to move on.’”
I let out a laugh, dry and brittle. “Of course they did.”
do when you feel as if your world is falling apart? Run around the coffee shop, screaming and tearing your hair out like a crazy person? Head to the nearest cocktail bar you used to visit every three months with your BFF to celebrate your latest book hitting number one on The New York Times list? Or head to The Spring Tap to drown your sorrows? I don’t know what to do because I can’t afford any of those things. But running around the coffee shop? I could do that for free.
“That’s it? No breakdown? No throwing coffee in my face?” She asks.
Hmm, I never considered throwing coffee in her face. But that would mean hurting her, which wouldn’t be fair—and buying another coffee? I really can’t afford that, especially since I’ve lost my publishing deal. The one for the book I can’t write.
I blink back at her. “Do you want me to throw coffee in your face?”
“Might feel more normal than this,” she says.
I rub my fingers along the rim of my cup, pretending the rough ceramic is a comfort. “What do they want from me, Rebecca? More books about sunshine and small towns with perfect love stories? I’m done with that.”
“You used to believe in that stuff,”she confesses.
“I used to believe in a lot of things, but let’s face it—after the last four interviews, the stories started to die. The fifth book hit number twenty on the charts, and the last one didn’t even reach the top 100. I’ve lasted a lot longer than I should have,” I mutter, looking out the window. My world is painted in the cold palette of early winter. I’m a writer, yes, but what if the stories I should be telling are about my past—the painful past I keep hidden not so well.
“Write what you’re passionate about,” she urges. “Don’t you remember what you wanted?”
“I can’t.”
She tilts her head, studying me with those penetrating eyes that seem to see right through me. “Try thrillers. You always wanted to write those.”
I recall Stephen Alpha, the renowned thriller and horror author, writing a book about the necessity of reading to be a successful writer. So, I've always read—not only to write, but because it's one of my favorite pastimes. I love reading thrillers; I can finish a book in a day. But when it comes to romance, I struggle. I used to think it was because I don't have my own happily-ever-after, so how could I write about it? But now, I realize it's much deeper than that. Perhaps I've never been able to write romance because thrillers have always been my true calling.
“I can’t write thrillers, Rebecca. I am the thriller.”
She frowns, perplexed. “What do you mean?”
I can’t spill my past to her—the reason I ended up in this village in the first place. My thoughts drift back to the past and how the betrayal led to my pack’s downfall, and how I lost it all.
“Talk to me. It’s like I don’t even know you anymore. We used to talk all the time. Go out and do things. And now nothing. You don’t even pick up my call. Maybe you need to go away,” she says.
I chuckle. “I can’t even afford a Happy Deal from Ronald’s.” It’s the local burger joint, and the kids love going there because they always put a toy in their Happy Deal box.
She sighs as her eyes scan the special menu above. It is then that I realize I have been rude; I haven’t even offered to buy her a coffee.
“Do you want a coffee or something?”
She tuts. “Nah. I’m trying to decide what to get. I know! What about going to the mountains and writing some mystery up there? You can go there for inspiration.”
“The last place I should go is the mountains,” I say suddenly. “A place where things happen that never get documented, because everything that happens there is bad.”
Rebecca leans back slowly, curiosity painting her features. “So, naturally, that’s where you’re going?”
“I go a cabin, where there’s a snowstorm, and a pack rescues me and we live happily ever after. It’s so cliche. I know!” I sip my coffee, now cold and lifeless.
Maybe it is time to throw it in her face. She did offer for me to do it before! I sigh at the idea of it. Throwing the coffee will not make me feel better, besides she’s not the reason I lost my contract. I am.
“Maybe I’ll find my muse up there and a bit more. I hear that in Millbrook they’re looking for an omega. I could put in a word for you?”
Or maybe I’ll disappear just as I’ve tried to for years, swept away by shadows of despair.
“You’re serious,” she states. “It sounds drastic. If you head to Millbrook, then you don’t have to worry about paying for accommodation and…”
“A pack?” I question, wondering if Rebecca thinks that my loneliness is more of problem than my writing block.
She doesn’t, because I get distracted as my gaze drifts back to the window, glancing at the frost that etches the glass.
Hope—or maybe just the scent of something long buried within.
A familiar scent washes over the café, cutting through my suppressants like a knife through butter, and all at once, my heart races. An Alpha. The rich, woody musk hits my senses with such intensity that I have to grip my coffee cup to steady myself. My suppressants, usually reliable, seem utterly useless against the raw power of his presence.
My breath catches as I glance toward the door, and he walks in. Tall, broad, with a thick beard that suggests both ruggedness and strength. His jacket is unzipped, snow dusting his broad shoulders as his eyes sweep the room—casual yet purposeful. He moves through the space with a predator's grace, a quiet confidence that radiates danger and allure. His scent grows stronger with each step, pine and leather and something distinctly him that puts my omega radar on high alert despite years of chemical suppression.
And then—her.
An omega tucked against his side, her sweet floral scent perfectly complementing his darker notes, belonging completely in a way that makes my heart ache. Her natural fragrance blooms uninhibited, confident in her claim and his protection. Because in the moment he looks down at her, something in his body eases, his alpha pheromones gentling around her like a protective embrace, and they fit together, seamlessly. A bonded pair.
I press my hand to my chest, feeling my suppressants war against the instinctive response his presence triggers. The medication that's kept my scent muted for years suddenly feels like a prison.
"I think they're just passing through," Rebecca murmurs, her gaze following mine, though I notice her beta nose doesn't pick up the full symphony of pheromones that's currently overwhelming my senses.
“Of course they are. No alpha-omega pair lives in Spring Hopes. It’s too tame. Too boring. Too safe for them.”
But they exist here, if only for a fleeting moment, and that sight undoes me in a way I can’t fully grasp yet.
In that moment, I remember what it was like—to belong, to be scented and claimed and held through storms. To have someone know you from the inside out, without the need for words.
I remember the warmth of a bond that felt electric under my skin, the comfort of waking up tangled in limbs, knowing I was finally home.
And then blood, screams, and smoke curling through the air as my world crumbled—fear rushing me in waves. The betrayal of a beta I’d trusted with my life, pulling our pack apart from within.
As they shift past me, the feeling of warmth and belonging fades, leaving a sharp ache in my chest—the kind that settles in deep, almost unbearable.
Maybe I’m not meant to write another romance. Perhaps I’m not meant to write anything at all. But something is calling to me—something primal, urging me to seek beyond the confines of my fears and the mundane.
The mountains.
That’s where an unmated omega shouldn’t go, especially one who hasn’t let herself feel in years. Then again, maybe that’s a good reason to go—to confront my lingering doubts, to reclaim the pieces of myself I thought were lost forever.
Not for a book. Not even for a story.
Maybe for something I didn’t even realize I was still missing.
“I’ll go tomorrow,” I say, with a sense of determination. “I’m a bestselling author. I’ve written and published eight books. Most of them have been successful. I can do this.”
I’m trying to convince myself more than Rebecca. She believes in me, unlike my inner spirit, but perhaps it’s time I change that.
Rebecca tilts her head, surprise replacing disbelief. “You’re serious?”
I nod, grounding myself in the commitment. “Even if I don’t come back with a book, maybe I’ll return with…”
“A pack? Are you going to Millbrook then?” Her teasing tone cuts through the tension.
“Maybe it’ll be a good reason to stop suppressing myself and start living again,” I say with a big smile on my face. “What’s the worst that could happen?”
There I go again, dwelling on the past and undermining my new adventure. I need to stop this, or I'll end up joining the country club just to find myself a Sugar Alpha. They're the worst of their kind—old, out of touch, and stuck in outdated gender roles. Sugar Alphas often expect traditional roles, which can be stifling for an independent Omega, especially one who's been on suppressants so long that she's forgotten what her natural scent even smells like. Especially one like me, in my thirties, who's spent most of her adult life alone, chemically muting the very essence of what I am. Their outdated views and expectations can make them unsuitable partners for those seeking equality and mutual respect—not to mention they'd probably expect me to go off my suppressants immediately, to be some docile, scent-drunk omega who exists solely for their pleasure and convenience.
The thought makes me shudder. I've worked too hard to build my independence, even if it meant dulling my omega instincts with daily pills. Some days I wonder if the suppressants have done more than just mask my scent—they've helped me forget how to be vulnerable, how to trust, how to let another person close enough to truly know me. But the alternative—being seen as nothing more than biology and pheromones—feels even worse.