Chapter 12
The garden tells me we have new neighbors before the moving truck does.
The air changes first.
I'm on my knees by the back bed, trimming dead leaves off the basil, when I catch it—faint at the edge of the breeze. New people. Not Ragon home from a site, not Eli's tea-and-ink, not Drake's bright citrus, not Marie's sugar-sweet.
These are... nothing.
That's not right. There's scent, technically. But it's wrong in the way hospital corridors and registry offices are wrong—washed, flattened, scrubbed until everything smells like the same generic clean.
One is faintly sharp, like someone who likes juniper soap and laundry powder.
Another is warmer, coffee and detergent.
The third is lighter, more ink and rain and paper.
Underneath all that: static. Like my instincts know there's supposed to be more information and hit a wall instead.
Scent blockers, my brain supplies.
Of course. New pack. New territory. Registry-approved precautions while everyone figures out whether anyone's a threat.
Safe. Sensible.
Also extremely annoying.
I keep snipping leaves like I don't care, dirt under my nails, sun on the back of my neck, knees in the soil. The garden is my safe zone. My small patch of things that don't have rules beyond sun and water.
Over the fence, the sounds are easy to track: a truck gate grinding, boxes thumping, someone swearing as something scrapes. A laugh. The low rumble of one voice giving directions, another protesting.
"Careful with that. If you break my coffee machine, I'm breaking up with you."
"We're not even dating. We're cohabitating with legally binding paperwork."
"Same thing."
A third voice—lighter, quick—chimes in, "If the espresso machine dies, I'm leaving all of you."
I shouldn't be listening this hard. But it's either that or go inside and sit on my bar stool while the walls press in.
Footsteps crunch closer on gravel. The soft creak of the side gate. The click of the latch.
"Hello? Uh... hi. Neighbor? Sorry to bother you, your gate was— oh."
I look up.
There's a stranger in my garden.
He's standing just inside the open gate, hands lifted in a universal I come in peace gesture. Late twenties, maybe early thirties. Brown hair in a messy cut that looks like he did it himself. Dark eyes behind square glasses. T-shirt with a faded band logo, jeans with fresh dust on the knees.
His scent hits my nose and slides right off it. Clean soap, dryer sheets, some bland aftershave. Underneath, something my instincts reach for and can't quite grab.
Beta, I guess, because he doesn't carry that heavy alpha weight. But it's like trying to read a book with half the words blacked out.
"Oh," I say.
"Hi. I'm not trespassing. Probably. I hope. The real estate agent said the yards were technically shared? Or shareable? I don't really remember. There were a lot of disclosure forms."
I blink at him for a beat too long, then remember how to be a person.
I push to my feet, brushing dirt off my leggings. "You're fine. This isn't a sacred omega shrine or anything. Just dirt."
He glances down at the beds. "Looks like more than 'just dirt.' I kill succulents, so I'm impressed by anything that's still alive after a week."
I can't help it—my mouth twitches. "These are hardy. You'd have to try to kill them."
"I believe in myself. I can kill anything if given a chance."
A surprised laugh escapes me, quick and small. He brightens at the sound like that was his goal.
"I'm Finn. Finn Locke. I live next door now. With the other two chaos goblins."
A deeper voice calls from the other yard, "We heard that!"
"I was talking about myself!" Finn yells back. Then stage-whispers to me, "I wasn't. I absolutely meant them."
"Verena. Vee."
"Vee. Nice to meet you. Your herbs are very sexy."
"Don't sexualize my basil."
He grins. "No promises."
His scent is still mostly nothing—clean and vague and wrong—but his presence feels easy. Curious. Not probing. It does something to my shoulders, makes them want to drop half an inch.
"You did all this?" he asks, gesturing to the garden.
"Yeah. Well. The beds were here. I adopted them."
He crouches down beside the nearest plant without touching it, respectful. "Basil, thyme, calendula... marigolds. Polyculture. Nice."
Suspicion flickers. "You know plants?"
"I know enough to pretend I know plants. My grandmother was big on gardening. She'd make me haul bags of soil and then lecture me about Latin names until I cried."
"Sounds nurturing."
"She also fed me pie. It balanced out."
He eyes the spacing and soil level. "You might want to loosen the dirt around the marigolds. They like room. And if you plant some chives over there, they'll help with pests."
"You do know plants."
He shrugs, sheepish. "Knowing and doing are different. I still manage to kill the plants. But I read things when I'm anxious. Gardening blogs. Cookbooks. Registry law. Whatever's around.”
Registry law sends a tiny shiver down my spine.
"Speaking of anxious—" He hesitates, like he's realized that's not a great segue.
"What?"
He chews his bottom lip. "I was going to make a joke about 'meeting the neighbors,' but it feels weird when I know literally nothing about you except your name and your impressive basil."
"That's all there is. Name, basil, crippling neuroses. The rest is filler."
"Same. Except I also bring coffee."
My nose twitches. "You have a machine?"
"Industrial-grade. Malcolm—tall, broody, only alive because of caffeine—insisted. Alex—taller, bossier, smells like... eh..." He waves a hand, then grimaces. "Actually, never mind. You can't smell us properly right now, can you?"
I blink. "Not really. It's like someone put a filter over you. Registry thing?"
His mouth twists. "Temporary. We're on blockers while we settle in. New neighborhood, new territory, all the 'best practices for avoiding scent-based disasters.'" He air-quotes. "You know how it is."
I do. Unfortunately.
It doesn't stop my instincts from pawing at that weird emptiness, irritated they can't read him properly.
"Alex and Malcolm? Alphas?"
"Yeah. Leader and co-leader. I'm the resident beta gremlin."
The phrase fits him too well.
He flicks a quick glance at my throat.
I know what he's looking for.
Marks.
There aren't any.
My skin prickles.
"So," he says carefully. "You, uh. Live with...?"
He tips his head toward our house.
My tongue goes dry.
Yes, I live with three alphas, another omega, and a registry alpha currently auditing our lives. No, I'm not marked. No, I don't know if I ever will be. Yes, I attacked my packmate and spent hours kneeling on hardwood as punishment.
"Yeah," I say instead. "I live here."
Smooth, Vee. Very smooth.
Finn's brows knit. "Cool. They seem... intense?"
"You met them?"
"Just at the fence. Ragon, right? And Eli. Jasper hovered in the background like an ominous cloud. Malcolm is convinced Jasper is secretly an auditor sent to break his spirit."
"Not far off," I mutter.
"What?"
"Nothing. They're a lot. It's an occupational hazard."
"Of being alphas."
"Of being them."
He snorts.
"You bake?" he asks suddenly.
My brain stumbles. "What?"
"You look like someone who bakes. You have baking energy."
"Is that in the DSM?"
"I've done some studies. Garden, soft clothes, tiny smudge of flour on your sleeve—"
I glance down. There is, in fact, a faint dusting of flour from kneading dough this morning.
"Stalker."
"Neighbor. Huge difference. One involves binoculars. The other involves casseroles."
I try not to smile. Fail.
"We're still unpacking. Kitchen's a disaster, but once it's functional, you're welcome to come test the oven. You know. Make sure it works. With cookies. Or pie. Or bread. Whatever your heart tells you."
The invitation hits weirdly sideways.
Bake.
In another kitchen.
One that doesn't feel like a crime scene of my own making.
"I don't know. I'm kind of... banned."
His head tilts. "From baking?"
"From things. From being underfoot."
"That's not how bans work. That's how bad management works."
A sharp, startled laugh escapes me.
He sobers. "Look. No pressure. Really. But if you want... if it would help to have somewhere else to put sugar in the oven where no one will think you’re underfoot... our door is open."
It's too much.
Too kind.
The words choke.
I nod instead. "Thanks."
He takes the hint.
"I should get back before Alex decides I got kidnapped by a rival HOA. Nice to meet you, Vee."
"Nice to meet you too."
He pauses, hand on the latch. "Hey. For what it's worth... you don't look second-hand to me."
My heart slams against my ribs.
"What?"
His expression twists. "Sorry. That was weird. I overhear things. Walls are thin. Someone yelled that phrase about 'Vee' last week when we were here signing paperwork and it's been bothering me ever since."
Heat burns up my neck. "It's—"
My throat closes.
Finn's gaze is gentle. "None of my business. But whoever said it was wrong."
He slips through the gate before I can crack open or shatter.
I stand there with my hand pressed to my bare throat, feeling absolutely nothing where marks aren't and something huge under my skin.
Unmarked. Second-hand.
New neighbors who smell like nothing and still manage to feel a little like air.
***
We hear about the dinner two days later.
"New pack next door," Ragon says at breakfast, like he's reading a memo. "I invited them over for Friday."
The words land like a dropped pot.
"All three?" Drake asks. "At once?"
"That's usually what 'pack' means," Eli says mildly.
Marie brightens. "It'll be nice to have more people over. Less focus on us."
"Less focus on me," I mutter quietly into my tea.
Ragon's gaze brushes over me, clinical. "Vee will cook. Something simple. Enough for everyone."
"Yes, Alpha."
Jasper lifts a brow. "You're volunteering her a lot."
Ragon shrugs. "She likes to cook. And she does it well. It's good for her to have useful structure."
Useful structure.
I stir my tea so hard the spoon clinks against the mug.