33. Clara
Clara
Walking through town on a crisp autumn morning is one of my favorite things.
It’s surprisingly busy for mid-October because it’s farmers market day.
Light filters through trees full of multicolored leaves, making the whole town feel like the inside of a pumpkin.
Stalls line the street, overflowing with apples, squash, baked pies, and cider.
The cool air carries the scent of baked goods and wet leaves, and I breathe it in until my chest feels warm.
People I serve at the café every day wave and wish me good morning. It’s too bad Jack had to work—he would love this.
Pretty sequined purses with jack-o’-lanterns on the front catch my attention. I wander over to the stall and trail my fingers across one, calculating whether I have enough in my bank account to buy it.
“Don’t touch things unless you’re planning on buying them,” snaps a wheezy voice.
I nearly jump out of my shoes.
Stella, the local boutique owner, sits on a rickety chair in the corner of her stall, half-hidden in shadows and attached to an oxygen tank. Her thin white hair is permed within an inch of its life, and her spotted hands clutch the armrests.
“Jesus, Stella, you scared the shit out of me.”
She grins, all dentures and mischief. “Boo.”
I shake my head, turning back to the purse. “What’s the price?”
She names a sum that would take me a week of tips at the café. I drop the purse like it’s hot.
“Why’d you stop looking?” a deep voice asks from behind me.
My heart leaps, hoping it’s one of my alphas. When I turn, it sinks. Henry.
“Hi, Henry.” I try for casual. “It’s just a little out of my budget.”
Honestly, I love the purse. It’s my style. But not enough to spend that much.
“What, the fancy pack at the house won’t buy it for you?” His smile doesn’t reach his eyes, and the way he says it— the fancy pack —makes me bristle in defense.
“I didn’t ask them. And that’s not why I’m with them. They’re the Ember Pack, by the way.”
He smirks. This is not the Henry I know from the café.
“I’ll take the purse,” he says abruptly, snatching up the one I’d been admiring.
“Oh, no, it’s all right. I don’t need—”
But he’s already pulling out a card and swiping before I can stop him. Stella, completely unhelpful, beams at the big sale.
I glare. Henry hasn’t said or done anything outwardly threatening, but there’s an edge to him I’ve never felt before.
I’d noticed it when I told him about my scent sensitivity with the Ember Pack and turned him down—but it had been so brief I thought I’d imagined it. Looking at him now, clearly I hadn’t.
He pushes the purse toward me, dangling it from his fingers. I take a step back. “Henry, that’s too much. You didn’t need to do that.”
“Of course I did. We’re friends, after all. Right?” His tone is sharp under the sugar.
Before I can answer, another voice cuts through—low, firm, and familiar.
“That’s very nice… for a friend . ”
Bram.
He steps up beside me in his elbow-patch cardigan and slacks, looking every inch the caricature of a professor-writer. His caramel-apple scent drifts over me, easing the tension Henry left behind.
Henry’s own scent sours, bitter and sharp. He tosses the purse toward me, but Bram catches it midair with one large hand. Tucking it under his arm, Bram pulls out a thick wad of bills that makes me blink.
“Let me take care of that for you.” He presses the money into Henry’s chest—just a little too hard to be friendly.
Henry doesn’t take it. Bram leaves it on the table instead, then turns fully toward me.
I half-expect him to be angry, but his face is only soft—fond, maybe even concerned. He offers me his arm, and I take it gladly.
Out on the street again, Bram says quietly, “I’m sorry about that.”
I blink up at him. “Sorry for what?”
“I know he’s a sort of friend of yours. But you looked… uncomfortable. If I stepped where I wasn’t supposed to, I apologize.”
I squeeze his arm lightly, feeling the solid muscle beneath his sweater. “I don’t know what’s going on with him. We’ve always been friends—or at least friendly. But he’s been acting strange since…”
Bram’s gaze holds mine, steady, understanding. “Since he found out you’re scent sensitive to someone else?”
I nod.
“Maybe he’s just having a bad day,” I say, though the words feel hollow.
I like Henry, I really do. But whatever tenuous scent match might’ve existed between us has been completely eclipsed by my bond with the Ember Pack.
I’m not interested in him—not that way. I’d hoped we could still be friends, though.
I glance back toward Stella’s booth.
Henry is still there. Watching us walk away.