Stuck with my Pack (North Coast Omegaverse #2)

Chapter 1

SOPHIE

The road to Twilight Harbor winds through towering evergreens before the Pacific Ocean overtakes the horizon. Long before you see the ocean, the smell of salt and pine lets you know you’re close.

The old, familiar smell, sharp and fresh, wafts around me as I roll the window down. Every bend reveals a memory come alive, each one the kind that clutches at my chest and won’t let go.

When the town comes into view, it’s like stepping back in time. The same cobblestone streets, the same cottages with slate roofs, the Book Shop nestled between the café and florist, its windows filled with books.

For a moment, I smile. Nothing has changed. Not here, at least.

But under the surface, there’s a tension I can’t shake—a hum in the air that pulls at something deep and instinctive inside me. It’s been months since I felt my Omega instincts stir, and now, driving into the town that raised me, they prickle just under my skin.

I follow the signs for the Everhart Inn, the driveway hidden behind a wild tangle of trees. The crunch of gravel under my tires is familiar as well, and my stomach twists as I approach the property.

Then, something catches my eye—a cottage nestled just past the trees. It’s small, cozy, and well-kept, with golden light spilling from the windows and a thin trail of smoke curling from the chimney.

The landscaping around it is tidy, with trimmed hedges and flower beds that look recently tended. It’s such a stark contrast to the overgrown chaos of the rest of the property that I can’t help but slow down and stare.

Someone’s living there.

The thought hits me hard. I wasn’t expecting anyone to actually be on the property. As far as I knew, the place had been abandoned since my Aunt passed away. But the caretaker’s cottage, once a quaint but neglected little place, now looks…cozy.

The faintest trace of scent hits me through the open window—pine, ocean breeze, and something sharper, warmer. Alpha.

My chest tightens, and I grip the steering wheel. Of course, someone’s living here. The property would’ve needed an Alpha’s touch to keep even a fraction of it maintained.

I shake my head, forcing myself to focus on the road ahead. The cottage will have to wait. Right now, I have bigger problems—like the massive Victorian looming at the end of the drive.

The Everhart Inn.

It’s exactly how I remembered it, and yet entirely different. The bones of the house are still beautiful—the tall, narrow windows, the wraparound porch, the gingerbread trim.

I spot the old porch swing I spent many summers in while gorging on ice cream. But the years of neglect have left their mark on the rest of the property. The paint is dull and flaking, and ivy snakes up the stone foundation.

It’s still standing, looking as if it’s waiting for me. I try and make myself feel better. The house isn’t crumbling, at least.

I wonder again why it took me so long to come home. And was it even home after so many years?

I park and step out of the car. The cool evening air caresses my skin, and the faint sound of the ocean can be heard behind me. The porch steps creak as I climb them, the sound sharp in the quiet. I hesitate at the door, taking a breath before pushing it open.

“Hello?” My voice echoes in the dim entryway.

Dust motes dance in the slanted light from a tall window, and the air smells faintly of mildew and something sweeter—like lavender, faint and fleeting. The house isn’t falling apart. It’s abandoned, yes, but it’s not the ruin I feared.

The wallpaper is faded but intact, and the wood floors are scuffed but solid beneath my feet. It feels…tired, not broken.

I walk deeper inside, my footsteps stirring the stillness. The grand staircase rises before me, its polished banister dulled with age. My gaze catches on the faint scratch marks near the bottom, and I smile, remembering how I’d slide down it as a kid, much to my Aunt’s dismay.

The memories hit harder than I expected. Her laughter, her scolding, how she’d roll her eyes but still spoil me with homemade cookies afterward. My Aunt never treated me like an Omega who needed coddling. To her, I was just Sophie, her stubborn, strong-willed niece.

The burn of tears is sharp, but I blink them away and move deeper into the house.

The sitting room is dusty but orderly, the furniture draped in sheets.

The kitchen still smells faintly of wood smoke, though the stove is cold.

I try the faucet, and water sputters out—red-brown from sitting too long in the old pipes.

“First order of business,” I say out loud, starting my mental list of repairs.

Upstairs, I explore the guest rooms. Each door creaks as I push it open, revealing spaces steeped in memories, now blanketed in dust and shadows.

The beds are stripped down to bare mattresses, the fabric yellowed with age and sagging in the centers. Dust clings to the headboards, ornate carvings dulled by years of neglect. A cobweb stretches from one post to the ceiling, glinting faintly in the dim light.

The floors groan under my weight, their once-polished planks now scuffed and uneven. Here and there, a board bows slightly as I step, and I make a mental note: lots of floorboards will need replacing or at least securing.

The wallpaper peels at the edges, curling like paper from a message in a bottle. A damp stain mars the ceiling in one room, a faint ring of brown spreading outward. I run my hand along the windowsill, and flakes of old paint come away under my fingers.

The original glass panes are intact, though streaked with grime, their wooden frames softened by years of exposure to the ocean air. The locks on a few are rusted shut, and I spot a tiny crack in the corner of one pane, no doubt letting drafts in during the colder months.

The primary guest bathroom is another story. The porcelain sink is stained, its once-white basin streaked with rust from a leaky faucet. The mirror is fogged with age, its edges tarnished like a fading photograph.

Tiles have come loose from the wall and floors, exposing the grout beneath, and the tub is speckled with grime and mildew. I test the faucet, and the pipes groan before a weak stream of water sputters out, brown and metallic-smelling.

Even with its flaws, the house feels alive beneath the dust and decay. It’s more than salvageable—it’s waiting, full of potential. My chest tightens as I glance back down the hall, imagining what it once was and what it could be again.

I swallow hard, pushing down the growing weight of responsibility.

There’s so much to do. Can I really manage this on my own?

The thought is overwhelming, but as I pause at the top of the staircase, running my hand over the banister again, something stirs deep in my chest. An ache. A flicker of determination.

This house was my Aunt’s heart and soul. Now, it has to be mine.

Finally, I reach my Aunt’s room.

The door creaks open, and the scent of lavender hits me harder here. It feels like I'm wrapped in her warm arms again, her Omega scent of lavender and buttercups wrapping around me. The room is almost untouched—her bed is still made, and the quilt is slightly yellowed but otherwise pristine.

Dust coats all the surfaces, but it’s thinner here, like this space has been protected somehow. I set my bag down on the floor, running my fingers over the edges of the quilt.

I shake it out, sending a cloud of dust into the air, and look around for fresh linens as I sneeze. The closet door sticks, but with a little force, it pops open to reveal stacks of bedding.

I pull out a cleaner set of sheets and set to work changing the bed. The process is oddly grounding, the simple act of smoothing fabric and tucking corners easing some of the tension in my chest.

As I finish, a sound pricks at the edge of my awareness—a soft creak, distant but distinct.

I freeze, my heart thudding. I tell myself it’s nothing—just the house settling. Old houses make noises. But then it comes again. Louder. Closer.

Footsteps.

That scent hits me again, undeniably Alpha, it's refreshing, like summertime, citrus and sunshine, the same scent from earlier, faint but unmistakable.

My instincts sharpen, adrenaline flooding my veins. Whoever’s here, they’re not a stranger to the property.

I scan the room, my eyes landing on a candlestick sitting on the dresser, its silver tarnished but sturdy. I grab it, my hand trembling as I grip the cool metal.

“Who the hell is in my house?” I whisper, stepping toward the door.

I can hear the footsteps coming up the staircase, deliberate and heavy. My breath catches as I edge the door open a crack so I can see into the hallway.

The afternoon sun streams through the window at the end of the hall, illuminating the dust motes swirling in the air, my candlestick raised like a weapon. My pulse pounds in my ears as I prepare to throw open the door.

Whoever’s here is about to regret it.