Chapter 2 #2
My brain immediately supplies a montage of romantic neighbor scenarios. Coffee. Baked goods. A pack dinner invitation. Someone leaning close to murmur, Let us take care of you.
My mouth opens.
My common sense screams.
My omega says, Yes.
“I…” I swallow. “No. It’s fine. Just…quiet is fine.”
It comes out soft. Uncertain. Like I’m asking permission to exist.
The strawberry-blonde’s grin returns, slow and delighted, like he just heard a joke he’s been waiting for. Smirk Twin huffs a laugh like he’s amused by me.
The beta’s eyes darken, just slightly, like the sound of my voice did something to him. He catches himself, jaw tightening as if he’s snapping his attention back into place.
“Okay.” His voice is still rough. “Quiet. We can do that.”
“Thank you.”
He steps closer, staying behind the line of the doorway like he’s careful not to crowd me. “If your power goes out or you need anything,” he shrugs, “tools, extension cords, whatever, just knock,” he says.
That’s such a neighbor thing to say that it almost makes me feel normal again.
Almost.
Because the alphas are still there, moving closer now to fill the doorway like a wall. Their scents are thick in the air, stirred up by sweat and work and the sudden pause of them focusing on me.
My omega starts paying attention despite me.
The Beta: steady, controlled, exhausted, dangerous in the quiet way.
The Strawberry-Blonde: bright, playful, reckless, the kind who would make me laugh and then ruin me in the same breath.
The Twins: a matched set of intensity, watching me like I’m something they could take apart piece by piece.
I need to leave.
I need to say goodnight.
I can’t stand on their porch in my sleep shorts inhaling alpha scent like it’s oxygen.
“I’ll…go,” I say, because my brain finally finds the exit.
The beta nods. “Goodnight.”
The strawberry-blonde lifts a hand in a smaller wave this time, like he learned his lesson about dropping expensive equipment. “Night!”
One of the twins says nothing. His gaze follows me as I turn away, heavy and unwavering. The other shifts like he might speak, then doesn’t.
I turn and walk back across the grass, forcing myself to keep a steady, polite pace, even though every instinct I have is screaming at me to run.
The night is quiet. Too quiet.
I’m halfway to my porch when the sound of a voice carries across the lawn.
Low. Male.
“Did you smell her?”
“Strawberries,” another voice answers.
My foot catches on a sprinkler head. I stumble, barely catching myself, but I don’t stop. I keep walking, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs.
Then the beta’s voice answers. He’s not whispering, either. He sounds rough, tired.
“Everyone in a three-block radius smelled her. Now focus before you screw up that server.”
Heat scorches up my neck, hot enough to burn.
They smelled me.
Of course they did, Mia. You walked over there in sleep shorts like an idiot; your scent was practically waving hello.
I reach my front door and fumble with the handle, practically throwing myself inside before I shut the door firmly. Leaning back against the wood, I press my palm to my stomach.
My house smells like lemon cleaner and cardboard. But now there’s something else clinging to me. Alpha scent. Three of them. Plus the beta. Like I walked through a room full of smoke and can’t pretend my clothes don’t carry it.
I press my fingers to my throat, feeling my pulse hammering there. Like my body is paying attention to possibilities even when my brain is yelling.
“No,” I whisper to the empty hallway. “Absolutely not.”
Pushing off the door, I march back to my laptop and sit down, cracking my knuckles. The cursor blinks patiently.
Instead of work, all that flashes into my mind is an image of the beta in that doorway. Shirtless, sweaty, drill in hand. The way he looked at me. The way he shut down the alpha’s commentary with a single sentence.
I squeeze my eyes shut.
“Focus.” I force my fingers to the keyboard.
Outside, the noise next door shifts. No more drilling. They’re keeping their promise. But the silence feels different now. It feels charged.
I force myself to type. “Step one: Ignore the shiny red flags, no matter how good they look in a t-shirt.” Or without.
The words come easier now, fueled by adrenaline and spite. I write about setting boundaries and why boring is actually beautiful. I write about the benefit of sticking to the plan while my body hums with something that has nothing to do with productivity.
I write until 1:10 AM.
When I type the final sentence, I hit send hard.
The email whooshes away and relief hits me, but it’s thin. Closing my laptop, I sit there in the quiet, just breathing. The neighborhood is still. Even next door has gone silent now.
Standing, I stretch, my muscles aching from unpacking and stress. I turn off the lights and head to my bedroom. The room feels stifling, so I shove the window up, needing the cool night air to settle my skin.
When I crawl into bed, the sheets feel cool.
I should be asleep instantly.
Instead, I lie there staring at the ceiling.
My omega is restless, prowling the edges of my thoughts like she’s searching for something. Pack, she whispers. Strong. Capable. Close.
“No,” I tell her silently.
I roll onto my side and pull the sheets up to my chin.
But they stopped the drilling, she whispers. The beta made them stop.
It doesn’t matter.
I close my eyes, willing my heart rate to slow down, willing the memory of those scents to fade.
They are messy. They are intense. They are the exact opposite of the peaceful life I’ve storyboarded.
I am going to wake up tomorrow, finish unpacking, and be perfectly, politely distant. I will bake cookies for the elderly couple across the street. I will find a coffee shop. I will not look out the side window.
I am not going to fall for the pack next door just because they know how to handle a power tool.
I drift off to sleep with my jaw set tight, determined to dream of white picket fences.
It doesn’t work.
As soon as I slip under, I’m back on that porch, surrounded by the heat of three alphas. But it’s the beta’s voice that follows me into the dark, rough and tired and impossibly intimate.
“Can we make it up to you?”