10. Sterling
STERLING
A fter the girls left, I spent last night trying to forget Pack Redgrave.
I didn’t need or want another Alpha. I didn’t need to think about how good they smelled.
I didn’t need to picture strong muscles, inked skin, or gravel-rough voices.Definitely filing that away in my DO NOT THINK ABOUT folder.
Locking it up tight. Throwing away the key.
I finally convinced myself it was just a crush, a fleeting moment, a chemical fluke, nothing more. I told myself I was over it and I’d never think of them again.
And yet, as I snuggled into my nest, burrowing deep, my body finally relaxing, I drifted off to sleep wrapped in their scent. And slept better than I have in years.
I woke up before the sun rose, practically buzzing with energy. I can’t believe it’s the first day of school already. I’m nervous, excited, and on my way to becoming definitively over-caffeinated. There’s a jittery, restless energy vibrating through me, like I swallowed a jar full of fireflies.
I spend way longer than usual trying to tame my thick hair, finally settling on a side braid because it feels marginally more controlled.
Then I waste another twenty minutes waffling between makeup or no makeup.
Natural or polished? Cute or professional?
I end up opting for no makeup: if I end up in a puddle of tears, at least I won’t look ridiculous.
The drive to school takes all of ten minutes, and I mentally promise myself that once I’m more organized, I’ll walk. It’s one of the things I was looking forward to about Twilight Harbor—the fresh air, the quiet streets, the freedom of living somewhere small enough that I can actually walk to work.
I arrive early, hoping to have a few quiet moments in my classroom before my students arrive—just me, my freshly decorated space, and a deep breath before the chaos.
But so far, that hasn’t happened.
Well-meaning staff members have been checking in on me, not once, not twice, but four times in the thirty minutes before students arrive.
First, my grade-level team: a sweet Beta named Sara, who’s been teaching for a few years, and a middle-aged Omega named Jess, who will retire after this year.
With tears in her eyes, Jess tells me about her plans to travel, how her pack encouraged her to retire, and how, after years of teaching, she’s finally ready.
They’re both so welcoming, making sure I know I can ask them anything.
Sara, in particular, gives me the warmest smile, squeezing my hand as she tells me, “I’m so happy to be working with you this year.”
Then, just before my students are due to arrive, the principal pops in, asks if I need anything, and brings me my new badge.
He’s an older Alpha, tall and broad like they all seem to be, but his scent—a faint trace of hay, fresh-cut grass—is barely noticeable to me.
And thankfully, my scent isn’t doing anything embarrassing to him, either. A small comfort settles over me—relief threading through the nerves. Whatever that madness was on the boat, it’s definitely not happening here.
Honestly? I like him instantly. He’s abrupt and to the point, no unnecessary small talk. He’s got this smart, older-brother energy, calm competence and no-nonsense vibes that make me feel like as long as I do my job, everything will be fine.
I have started calling him Mr. Hayfield in my head. His scent is just so wholesome—like freshly mowed fields. It reminds me of summer as a kid. And, I’m incredibly grateful we don’t send each other into a pheromone-fueled fury.
I like being unnoticeable as far as my scent goes. Invisible, forgettable. Safe.
He introduces me to the kindergarten educational assistant, another Beta who smells faintly of tea and cream. Having grown up with a Beta mom, I’m used to picking up their delicate scents.
His name is Joe, and I can tell this is probably his first position as an adult.
The way he says, “Hi, ma’am,” is so earnest and polite that it makes me feel a million years old instead of just twenty-six.
And then—the first bell rings. My classroom floods with energy and children.
Excited, bouncing five-year-olds, tiny bodies in motion, backpacks half their size, voices high with barely-contained excitement.
Some parents linger at the door longer than necessary, reluctant to let go, giving last-minute reminders— “Be good, listen to your teacher, don’t forget your lunch!”
It’s chaotic and loud, full of giggles and nervous chatter.
And I love it.
I take a deep breath, grounding myself.
“Alright, kiddos,” I say with a bright smile, clapping my hands to get their attention. A dozen tiny heads turn toward me, wide-eyed and eager.
“Welcome to your first day of kindergarten!”
A chorus of excited giggles and squeaky voices erupts.
I know that by next week, they’ll be comfortable enough to get rowdy, but for now they are like little ducklings.
The morning flies by in a blur of introductions, name tags, and minor crayon catastrophes.
It’s during one of these tiny disasters that a student approaches me, his lower lip wobbling, clutching a broken pencil in both hands like it’s the worst thing that’s ever happened to him.
Blake. I met him and his grandmother during our soft start last week.
He’s tall for his age, his eyes wide with curiosity, and I can already tell from his earnest, open look that he’s going to be one of my favorites.
“Miss Hart,” he says, voice small, devastated, holding out his broken pencil. I kneel down, to take a look.
“Easy peasy, kiddo,” I say and walk back to my desk to grab the tape. Quickly taping the pieces together, I walk back to him. He takes the pencil and I’m rewarded with a hug for turning his broken pencil into something whole again.
The moment his little body presses against me, a scent wraps around me—strong and unmistakably recognizable.
My stomach drops.
Not because of him—he’s adorable, with a wild mess of black curls and bright, intelligent blue eyes.
I inhale subtly, and there it is—a faint mix of salt air and fir trees, laced with licorice and spice, crisp and bold.
And underneath that, a bright, sharp scent—mint and citrus, like summer mountain fields and freshly peeled mandarins.This one I’m unfamiliar with, but it’s intoxicating, nonetheless. It feels like an anchor to the spice and salt air, a grounding element that secures the others to the earth.
I know precisely who those scents belong to—my Alphas. My? Where did that come from? The realization hits me all at once: This must be their kid. I had no idea.
Holy shit.
I crouch down, offering him a reassuring smile. “Here you go, Blake. Just be careful; it won’t be as strong as before.”
He nods enthusiastically. “Yep! Thanks, Miss Hart. I love to write, and my dad got this special for my first day!”
“That’s so cool.” I glance down at the paper in his other hand, then lower my voice. “And I see you’re already rocking some excellent handwriting there, buddy.”
He grins proudly. “My dad helped!”
I have no idea which one he means, and I really shouldn’t care. But I’m suddenly so curious and fascinated trying to reconcile the Alphas I met on the North Star with Blake. It takes a herculean effort to push Pack Redgrave out of my mind and get back to focusing on the day.
We spend the day learning routines, practicing lining up, and figuring out how not to glue things to ourselves or cut our fingers with scissors.
But through it all, I can’t stop thinking about the scents that wrap around Blake. They have a kid. I don’t know why the idea of that makes me feel so buoyant.
It’s not my normal. And it’s not fair. Because curiosity is already burning through me like a fever. And damn it, I wish I wasn’t so curious. I wish I wasn’t still replaying the feel of JP’s arms around me, his warmth seeping into my bones, his scent twining around me like velvet.
I wish I wasn’t wondering what he’d smell like pressed against my skin. Or how Cass would look if he actually smiled. Or what it would be like to have their scents fill my nest.
I grit my teeth, shoving those ridiculous thoughts out of my head. They’re Alphas. They’re not mine. They’re not anything to me except trouble.
And yet, no matter how hard I try to shove them from my mind, I can’t help but wonder how today’s going to go. If I’ll see them at all. If they’ll acknowledge me or just act like I don’t exist.
And what about the other Alpha? The one whose scent clung to Blake, like fresh citrus and cool mint, crisp and invigorating, making my heart stutter and my pulse race. Will he be curious about me?
I wish I wasn’t so damn intrigued. And I really, really wish my stupid Omega instincts would just chill the hell out.
I tell myself it’s okay. That it’s just a coincidence, I won’t even have to think about it again. It won’t be a problem seeing the Alphas at pickup. Business as usual. I will be cool and collected and professional. And I forget about it…
Until the day ends and parents start showing up. I’m wrangling a few stragglers into their backpacks, chatting with a set of parents, and getting the last of the bus riders into the TA’s hands when I feel it.
A decidedly heavy sense of anticipation sets in as I turn just in time to see them step through the door.
And not just one, but all three of them.
Lily’s words from last night are suddenly the only thing I can think of.
“Very attentive when they want to be.” The sheer magnetism of Pack Redgrave is outright criminal.
I stop mid-reach, my limbs and brain suddenly forgetting how to function. Everything inside me goes still. Because all my brain can do is chant, very attentive , very attentive , over and over.
Cass, with his wild blond curls and that whole Norse demigod aura—broad shoulders, towering height, eyes like a storm rolling in over the sea. He looks like he should be wielding an axe on the cover of a romance novel, not standing here with his arms crossed and his gaze assessing.