21. Emma
Emma
T oday is the first time I’ll face a crowd without a patch since I escaped the city and discovered who these three men truly are to me.
I adjust my extra-large cozy sweater nervously. Without my usual scarf to hide the patch, my neck feels bare.
“Ready for this?” Rowan asks, appearing at my side with two travel mugs of coffee.
I accept one gratefully, “as I’ll ever be.”
His eyes search mine. “Just tell us if you need a break or feel overwhelmed.”
“I know,” I say, appreciating the concern. “I’ll be fine.”
The first visitors begin trickling in around ten.
I position myself near the entrance, my phone camera ready, capturing their delighted expressions as they take in the autumn wonderland Harvest Home Farm has become.
Children squeal at the sight of the hay slide, couples pose beneath the archway of cornstalks, and families hop on board a truck for a hayride.
With each passing minute, my anxiety builds. I keep waiting for that moment when an unbonded alpha catches my scent and reacts. But oddly, nothing happens. People smile, ask directions, compliment the decorations—but no one gives me a second glance.
I can’t smell them.
At least, not in the way I feared.
There’s the general human scent of bodies and perfumes and the occasional whiff of someone who needs a shower, but the distinctive alpha pheromones are muted, almost non-existent.
Even more so than before.
The extra-strength suppressants I took for years were efficient, but I could still smell the slight lingering scent of alphas.
Now it’s gone.
Confused, I make my way toward the petting zoo, where Liam is introducing children to the animals. His tall figure is unmistakable, and as I approach, his scent—bourbon and smoke—washes over me with startling clarity. He spots me immediately, his expression softening.
“How’s it going?” he asks when there’s a lull in visitors.
“Great. The suppressants are working well. But it’s strange,” I admit, lowering my voice. “I can smell you perfectly, but other alphas’ scents are nonexistent.”
Liam’s mouth quirks in that almost-smile. “Dr. Mitchell mentioned this might happen. When compatible mates find each other, their scents… adapt. Makes them less attractive to others.”
“Like biological camouflage,” I murmur, amazed.
He nods. “To anyone else, you probably just smell claimed.”
The word sends a thrill through me that I’m not ready to examine too closely. Instead, I focus on the practical implication—I’m safe.
For the first time in months, I don’t need to hide.
“Want to help with the rabbits?” Liam asks, nodding toward the pen where several children are waiting excitedly. “They respond well to you.”
For the next hour, I work alongside Liam, introducing visitors to the gentlest of the farm animals.
I snap photos of children’s faces lighting up when they hold a baby bunny for the first time and of Liam patiently teaching a little boy how to approach the miniature pony without startling her.
Watching his large, calloused hands move with such gentleness, his deep voice softening as he explains to the children how to respect the animals’ space, is mesmerizing.
“You’re good with them,” I tell him quietly. “The children, I mean.”
He shrugs, but I catch the pleased note in his scent. “Animals are easier,” he says. “But kids are okay. They tend to say whatever comes to mind—no filter.”
I snap a candid shot of him kneeling beside a small girl as she tentatively strokes Maple’s head. The contrast between his size and the child’s, the gentleness in his expression, captures something essential about him that you would not expect from such a large alpha.
“I should check on the other areas,” I say reluctantly after another group moves through. “Get a complete coverage of the day.”
Liam nods. “Come back if you need a break—some Maple therapy time.”
I go to the farm stand next, where Theo has drawn a crowd with his baking demonstration. He’s in his element, flour dusting his forearms as he explains the secret to perfect apple hand pies.
“And the key,” he’s saying to his rapt audience, “is keeping everything cold until the last possible moment.” He looks up, spotting me at the crowd’s edge, and his whole face brightens. “Ah! Our social media genius has arrived. Everyone smile for Instagram!”
The crowd chuckles and obliges, and I capture the moment—Theo in mid-demonstration, visitors leaning forward in anticipation, the golden-brown pies cooling on racks behind him.
“How’s it going?” he asks when the demonstration ends and people move to purchase his creations.
“Better than expected,” I admit, accepting the warm hand pie he presses into my hand. “I can smell the three of you perfectly, but no one else seems to notice me.”
Theo grins, leaning closer. “That’s because you’re ours,” he says, his voice dropping to a whisper that sends a shiver across my skin. “And everyone can tell.”
The simple statement makes my omega practically purr with satisfaction. “Want to help me sell these? I could use an assistant.”
I work the farm stand for the next hour with Theo, packaging pies, accepting payment, and chatting with customers.
This partnership feels natural—he handles the baking and charm, and I manage the transactions and packaging.
Between customers, I snap photos of the colorful produce displays and the rustic wooden counters laden with homemade goods.
“You’re a natural at this,” Theo says as we finish serving a large family.
“I should check on the main activities,” I say eventually. “Get some shots of the corn maze, hayrides, slides, and everything else.”
“Come back if you get hungry,” Theo says, pressing an apple cider into my hands. “I’ll save you the best ones.”
The main activity area is bustling with happy visitors.
I position myself on a hay bale, capturing the scene from different angles—children emerging triumphantly from the corn maze, others giggling down the hay slides. People are sipping hot cider while others eat Theo’s delicious baked goods. Staff in matching Harvest Home shirts guide visitors.
Rowan spots me and makes his way over, his burnt-sugar musk deepening as he nears.
“Getting good material?” he asks, settling beside me on the hay bale.
I show him some shots I’ve taken throughout the day—Liam with the animals, Theo’s baking demonstration, the general atmosphere of autumn joy.
“These are perfect,” he says with appreciation. “You capture the heart of this place.”
The compliment warms me. “Part of the job.”
“It’s more than that,” he says, his eyes meeting mine. “You see the good in people. The things that make them special.”
I’m unsure how to respond to the intensity in his gaze, so I change the subject slightly. “The farm is thriving. You’ve created something really wonderful here.”
“We have,” he corrects gently. “You’re part of it now, Emma.”
Part of it.
Part of them.
We walk together through the crowds, and people naturally step aside for Rowan, responding to his alpha presence without him saying a word. Yet there’s nothing aggressive about it; he carries his authority with a confidence that commands respect rather than fear.
“How do you do that?” I ask as we reach a quieter area.
“Do what?”
“Lead without intimidating. Most alphas I’ve known use fear or dominance to get what they want, but you don’t.”
He considers my question seriously. “My father taught me that real leadership isn’t about making people smaller so you can feel bigger.
It’s about helping others recognize their own strengths.
” He glances at me. “That’s what we try to do here—create a place where everyone feels valued, even the four-legged creatures. ”
“You succeed,” I tell him honestly. “I’ve never felt more… seen than I do here.”
Something shifts in his expression. “That’s all we want for you, Emma. To feel seen and valued. To feel safe. To be happy.”
We reach the pumpkin patch, where families wander between rows of orange globes, searching for their perfect specimens. I raise my phone camera, capturing a father lifting his small daughter to reach a pumpkin, her face alight with joy.
“That’s the shot,” Rowan says, watching over my shoulder. “The one that captures what this place is about.”
I lower my phone, turning to look at him. “And what is this place about?”
“Family,” he says. “Creating memories that last. Giving people a place to belong, even for an afternoon.” His eyes meet mine. “Some for longer.”
“I should get some shots of the pumpkin patch before the light changes,” I say, standing perhaps a bit too quickly.
Rowan rises, too, his hand briefly touching the small of my back in a protective and possessive gesture.
I linger a moment and nod, making my way to the pumpkin patch. For the next hour, I lose myself in the work, capturing families selecting their perfect pumpkins, the late afternoon light gilding the orange globes with gold, children comparing their finds with proud expressions.
As the day ends, I relax into a rhythm I haven’t felt in months—perhaps years.
This work is joyful.
It documents moments of genuine happiness and creates an experience that people will remember.
And more than that, there’s a growing sense of belonging. With each interaction, I feel less like an outsider looking in and more like someone who has found her place.