9. Clara
Clara
I wake up with paper stuck to my face. Well, this is familiar.
My omega purrs, content and impatient all at once. Oh right. There’s a whole alpha pack in the house. And she’s very upset that we’re not curled up in their scents.
They’d been a heady mix of temptation last night. All spiced heat, crisp apples, warm firewood, and something darker underneath. Autumn in scent form. Keeping myself from perfuming had been agonizing, especially with the asthma attack clawing through my chest.
I’ve always believed in fate. In the universe weaving invisible threads, tugging us toward the people we’re meant for.
My greatest hope has always been scent sensitivity—proof that destiny is real, that love isn’t random but written.
And now, here they are. My mates. In this house, under the same roof, breathing the same air.
Last night was chaos, but after writing and resting, the truth shines through with startling clarity.
The universe didn’t bring me here by mistake.
I’ve found them. And I’m not letting destiny pass me by.
I shuffle to the closet. It’s times like this I feel a flash of embarrassment about my wardrobe. I’ve never been a “neutrals and structure” kind of woman. My closet is full of holiday cardigans, flowy tie-dye dresses, book quote T-shirts, and colors that border on chaotic. Loud, soft, weird. Me.
But now… I only see it through their eyes. The alphas. My alphas. There’s no doubt in my mind anymore. My omega knew the second we scented them. They’re ours.
So, I don’t reach for subtle. I choose the pumpkin dress that's A-line, bell sleeves, embroidered gourds dancing around the hem. I pin my hair back with a moon phase clip and tell myself not to hide. My omega hums in approval.
Downstairs, the house is still. Almost ten, and no one’s awake. I step into the kitchen, then remember I have no groceries. So I opt for the beach instead.
The backyard ends in a sheer drop to the beach below. A winding wooden staircase hugs the bluff, creaking with each step.
At the bottom, I pause, hugging my cardigan tighter around me. Lake Michigan stretches glittering to the horizon, copper and silver in the morning light. The air is crisp, carrying the scent of lake water, damp leaves, and woodsmoke drifting faintly from some chimney in town.
I slip off my shoes and wiggle my toes into the cool sand. Fallen maple leaves, blown down from the bluff above, scatter across the shore like scraps of firelight. The waves lap gently at the edge of the beach, steady and soothing, as if the lake itself is breathing.
I close my eyes and draw it all in—the hush of water, the earthy bite of autumn air, the faint sweetness of apples from an orchard stand somewhere inland. It feels like the whole season has gathered here, just for me.
And then, of course, my thoughts drift back to last night. To the alphas. To how badly I wanted to crawl into their scents and stay.
A figure appears on the beach, walking toward me. Maybe a neighbor? Someone who trekked along the shore from town?
But as the figure draws closer, I freeze. It’s the alpha from last night. The one who had to smoke and trigger my asthma. He smiles and waves. Odd.
Then I see it. No ink. No piercings. No cigarette.
Not the smoker—the other one.
I ’d thought they looked similar, but I was too frazzled last night to notice.
Now I realize they’re not just similar. They’re identical.
Twins. The same brown eyes, the same black hair swept back, the same golden-brown skin.
But this one is softer. He wears a hoodie, low-slung sweats, barefoot like me. A jagged scar cuts across his throat.
My heart picks up. My omega thrums. He stops a few feet away and smiles, slow, warm, like he’s genuinely happy to see me.
“Hi,” I say, breathy and stupid. He waves again, then starts gesturing with his hands. .
Oh. Sign language. Guilt slams into me. I hadn’t even noticed during the chaos if he’d been signing, or if anyone had translated for him.
“I’m sorry,” I blurt. “I don’t know sign. Can… can you understand me?”
He nods, crouches, and writes in the sand. Dagan.
“Dagan,” I echo.
His lips twitch, like I’ve just whispered something sacred. He bends again. I can hear a little but can’t speak.
I nod. He straightens, still smiling. Silence stretches between us.
“Can I ask you something?” His expression shifts, serious now.
“Do you…” My face burns. “Is my scent… are we…”
God, how do I say this?
Dagan steps forward, close enough I forget how to breathe, and inhales. Deep. Reverent.
Then he scoops my hands into his, presses his forehead to mine, and nods. His scent floods my senses. Fresh pumpkin and nutmeg. Delicious. I have the insane urge to climb inside him like a hollow pumpkin.
He scent-marks me with a gentle rub of his forehead against mine. It should feel strange, but it doesn’t. My omega sighs in relief. I gently mark him back.
His grin lights the entire beach.
We walk hand in hand toward the house, slow and golden in the morning light. But the moment we reach the porch, the world shifts again.
Dagan’s brother lounges there, cigarette smoldering between his lips. His gaze drops to our joined hands, expression tightening. Even through the smoke, I catch the edges of his scent. Pumpkin like Dagan’s, but sharper. Scorched cinnamon.
He exhales a plume my way, and I hold my breath. I take a cautious step back. Dagan stiffens.
“Don’t,” I murmur, resting a hand on his arm.
Too late. Dagan strides forward, yanks the cigarette free, and flings it over the railing.
Victor watches him, unbothered. “Not my fault the spooky girl can’t deal with a little nasty.” The gaze he rakes across me is both suggestive and disgusted.
I don’t know what his deal is, but I decide then and there not to let it affect me. That’s clearly what he wants.
So, I walk inside.
Two more scents greet me. One is caramel apples—not the store-bought kind rolled in wax paper, but bubbling and sticky, the kind from early autumn festivals. Warm sugar and tart juice. I’ve been told my own scent has an apple note.
The other is roasted marshmallows—gooey, molten chocolate, cinnamon graham crackers. Both scents make my mouth water and slick pool at my center.
I follow the trail into the kitchen.
The other two alphas are there. One sits at the island, staring at a pad of paper. Thick, wavy blond hair cropped short. Wire-rim glasses. Shirtless, thank the fates. Sun-kissed muscle, sweatpants slung low. The caramel apples belong to him.
The second is at the stove, tall and broad-shouldered, the tallest of the four.
His deep brown skin glows in the morning light, long dreads tied neatly back, dark beard framing a quiet smile.
A black tank clings to him, loose pants hanging low on his hips.
The kitchen is filled with his scent—gooey marshmallows and melted chocolate—but now it’s braided with the real aroma of sizzling butter, cinnamon, and maple syrup from the skillet in front of him.
Steam curls from a pan of spiced apples he’s stirring, the sweet-tart scent mingling with toasted bread and coffee drifting from the counter.
It’s autumn itself, warm and cozy, like the best kind of breakfast on a chilly morning.
My omega practically sighs at the hominess of it, as if he’s already taking care of us just by standing there.
Before I can panic about how to announce myself, the man at the stove turns, catches my eye, and smiles. Wide. Open. My omega squeals with delight. I smile back, trying not to let the porch moment color this one.
The back door slams, and Dagan stomps in, hands flying with signs. I wish so badly I understood him. I’ll learn. At least some basics to hold me over until I’m fluent. Not being able to talk to my mate already hurts.
The two men glance at each other, unsettled. That’s not good. My omega aches to smooth it over. Dagan stops signing and stomps over to the drawers, rifling. When he doesn’t find what he wants, he moves to the next.
“We’re sorry about Victor,” the blond says. He looks truly contrite.
“Victor?” I ask.
“Dagan’s brother. Seriously? He didn’t even give you his name?” He scrubs a hand through his messy blond hair.
“Well, it’s nice to meet you. I’m Jack,” says the man at the stove.
I take his hand. Would it have killed Victor to do the same? “Clara,” I say again. His hand engulfs mine. Warm, soft. No calluses. Definitely not a laborer. None of them look it.
The blond—who’d been writing at the island—steps closer. “I’m Bram. I'm the dominant alpha of the Ember Pack."
He looks oddly familiar. I’ve definitely seen him before, but I can’t place where.
“Have we met before?” I ask. It’s a silly question. If we had, I would’ve noticed meeting my mate, but I can’t shake the feeling.
He rubs the back of his neck, looking almost bashful. “I don’t know if you like horror books…”
And it clicks.
“You’re Bram Razor. The horror novelist.” I know where I've seen him before. Dust jackets.
I’d thrown one of his books at him and the pack last night. It’s our book club pick—Rose’s pick. My God, she would die if she knew Bram Razor was in town. He’s one of her favorites.
“Guilty,” he admits with a shrug. My eyes feel as round as saucers.
“I’m reading your latest book for my book club.”
He smiles. “What do you think?”
My mouth snaps shut, which he immediately clocks. “You hate it.”
Heat creeps up my cheeks. “I don’t love horror. The writing’s great—it just scares the shit out of me. Sorry.” Why am I apologizing?
He chuckles, thank God. “We like what we like. I don’t always love horror either.” He winks. “You’re the little ghost from the window.”
Something in my face makes him chuckle again. “When we first arrived, I thought the place was haunted. Then when we scented you, I thought maybe I was right.”
“I… what do you mean?” I try to sound casual, but last night’s fear bleeds through.
“Yeah, I saw you up in the omega suite window…” Bram trails off. Realization flickers across both their faces.
“ But you were asleep when we found you in there,” Jack finishes.
I nod slowly. “The reason I didn’t need to call the cops last night is because I’d already called them earlier.”
I explain what I’d seen and scented. By the end, they look murderous.
Dagan signs something no one translates. Suddenly all four men are in motion.
“Victor!” Bram shouts.
Victor strolls in moments later, cigarette blissfully absent. They give him the cliff-notes version of what I told them.
“Apple,” Jack says, turning back to me. “We want to look around. Would you mind waiting on the porch for a bit?”
Jack looks serious. Bram looks concerned. Dagan looks murderous. Victor looks annoyed. Great. I’m already struggling with Victor, and now they’re treating some random details like a blood oath threat.
“The police already searched. I’m sure it’s fine. The wind probably knocked the crystals over,” I say.
Bram levels a flat stare. “You said they were lined up to your nest. That’s not wind. That’s someone breaking in.”
Victor snorts. “Or maybe it’s just an omega having a little spooky-girl spiral.”
I glare. “I could just—”
“No.” All four at once. Even Victor. He studies the floorboards.
“If there’s a psycho in your nest, we’re not letting you go in alone,” Bram says, like it’s obvious.
And he’s right. Nests are sacred. Private. Omegas use them when we’re overwhelmed, overstimulated, during heats. They’re asking permission. Without it, they wouldn’t go near.
I look at each of them. “Dagan can. If you really think you have to.”
Dag an grins. Shit-eating. Almost sinister. For a moment, he looks exactly like his brother.
Victor rolls his eyes. Jack nods like it’s the most reasonable thing in the world.
I head to the porch to wait.