Chapter 6 Wren
CHAPTER SIX
Wren
I wake with my cheek pressed into fabric that doesn’t belong to me.
Levi’s hoodie is soft and worn at the edges, too oversized around my arms, and loose at the waist. It still smells like him—cedarwood and smoke and something warmer, richer like leather seats heated by the summer sun.
I should’ve taken it off. I meant to. But the scent made something in my chest quiet last night, like the static in my brain finally dialed down to a whisper.
I’m too warm now. Restless. And there’s this dull buzz under my skin—irritability, soreness, every scent in the air amplified like I’ve been dropped into some sensory torture chamber.
Pancake is curled at my feet, snoring gently. Even his fur smells stronger today. Or maybe I’m just… off.
God. Not now.
I roll out of bed, padding barefoot to the kitchen to feed him. His tail flicks with impatience until I dump his usual chicken blend into the bowl, and he digs in like he hasn’t eaten in a week.
I rub my eyes and lean against the counter, trying to shake the heaviness pressing behind them.
The fire. That must be it. Too much smoke. Too little sleep. A stress hangover.
Right.
I grab a change of clothes and take the fastest shower I can manage—lukewarm water, unscented soap, and my hair twisted up in a towel. I’m too fragile to deal with the chaos that is drying it.
I dress in a light olive T-shirt and my favorite loose jeans, the only pair that doesn’t irritate my skin today. Everything else feels like sandpaper.
Back in the living room, I tug the hoodie over my head again. Instantly calmer.
It’s ridiculous. I barely know Levi Maddox, and yet his scent has become my safe zone.
I shove the thought aside and call Norah.
“Morning, Red,” she chirps. I hear the flutter of bags and the familiar clang of her shop’s bell in the background. “I’m at the flower shop setting up. You okay?”
“Yeah,” I lie. “Mostly. I was wondering—do you know anyone who could maybe look at the café? The structure? I want to know what can be saved.”
“Of course. Pack Built’s still the best in town. Jude and Ryker are working on the Fernbridge cabins this week, but I can call Jude. See when they’re free.”
I hesitate. “You sure that’s okay? Aren’t they… kind of close with Dorian?”
She pauses, just for a second. “Used to be. Don’t worry. I don’t let that man color my perception of his friends. Meet me there?”
I grab my bag and slip into my sneakers. “On my way.”
Pack Built’s office is a converted barn on the south edge of Fox Hollow, the kind of place that looks like it smells of cedar shavings and engine grease—and probably does.
Jude answers the door, all wire-frame glasses and shy smile, juggling a clipboard and a cell phone. Ryker appears behind him, bearded and flannel-clad like a walking lumberjack fantasy.
“Ladies,” Ryker says with a nod. “You’re early. I like that.”
Norah grins. “Wren’s thinking of fixing up her grandma’s café.”
“Fox and Fern?” Jude’s eyebrows lift. “We wondered if someone’d try to reopen it.”
“I just want to know if it’s salvageable,” I say quickly. “After the fire.”
“Totally doable,” Ryker says. “We’re doing a roofing job at Fernbridge right now—old romantic cabins near the trailhead—but we can squeeze in a walk-through tomorrow.”
“Fernbridge is still standing?” I blink. “I thought the blight last spring ruined half the trail.”
Jude chuckles. “Elias whipped it back into shape. He’s the caretaker; he practically lives there.”
I glance at Norah and laugh. “Remember when we played truth or dare in those woods?”
Norah snorts. “I dared you to kiss Grady Abbott.”
“And I did. He ran away.”
“Because you bit him.”
I groan. “He tasted like orange Tic Tacs.”
We’re both laughing when we step out into the sun, the barn door clicking shut behind us.
“Thanks for coming with,” I say.
Norah heads back to the flower shop, and I detour toward the café, hoodie sleeves rolled up, hair piled into a bun that’s more stubborn than stylish. It’s hotter today, or maybe I’m running a low fever.
I push open the back door and grimace at the smell—ash, old sugar, and something sharp that reminds me of melted plastic. I kick off my sneakers and step carefully over the buckled tile, surveying the damage.
Some smoke up the back wall. The counter’s warped and split in one corner. Most of the baking equipment is ruined.
I change into a tank top and cutoff shorts from my emergency laundry bag and set to work. Sweeping, clearing fallen boards, piling ruined trays into the trash bins I’ve dragged in from out back.
I’m mid-sweep when the front door creaks.
“Careful,” comes a voice. “There’s an unreasonably sexy firefighter on the premises.”
I blink through the haze and turn toward the voice. Beau Rhodes.
He’s carrying a tray with two coffees and a small paper bag. Tucked under one arm is my blue sweater—clean and folded.
“Levi told me you left this in the ambulance,” he says, handing it over. “I figured I’d return it properly. With bribes.”
I take the coffee gratefully. “You didn’t have to.”
“Sure, I did. These are cinnamon scones from Lorelai’s. And they’re still warm, so clearly, I deserve a medal.”
I smile despite myself. “Thanks.”
“What are you doing in here without a mask?” he asks, squinting toward the broken back wall. “Hang on.”
He jogs to his truck and returns with an N95 and a pair of gloves. He hands them over, then moves around the counter and eyes the damage like he’s sizing up a battlefield.
“Shift starts at three,” he says. “So I’ve got time. Let me help.”
I hesitate. “Beau…”
“Don’t worry. I won’t flirt.”
“You literally opened with a line.”
“A great one,” he points out, grinning. “But seriously. No weird intentions. Just don’t want you choking on soot alone.”
I nod, sliding the mask over my face. “Okay. Thank you.”
We work side by side for the next hour. He lifts the busted counter while I sweep up debris. At one point, he crouches low, his shirt riding up to reveal a strip of golden skin and toned abs that look as if they have been carved rather than built. My mouth goes dry.
He catches me looking.
Smirks.
“You sure you don’t want me to flirt?”
“I’m sure,” I say quickly. Too quickly.
He chuckles, but it’s not mocking. “Friends, then.”
“Friends.”
“Cool. Because I’m excellent at friendship. I bring snacks, and I look good sweaty.”
I snort. “Modesty. A lost art.”
“I’m trying to revive it—slowly.”
He tosses a splintered board into the trash pile and wipes his forehead. His scent wafts through the air again—honey and cinnamon, warm and spicy and just a little too rich for my current equilibrium.
My skin prickles.
I turn away. Try to focus on reorganizing the shelves beneath the coffee bar.
But he steps closer.
Close enough that I feel the heat of him at my back.
Close enough that I want to lean.
This is not good.
I pull away too fast, nearly knocking over the stool beside me. “I think I need a break.”
He steps back immediately, hands up. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to crowd you.”
“It’s okay,” I lie, voice breathy.
“Wren…”
“I’m just hot,” I mumble, retreating to the open door and gulping fresh air like I’ve been drowning. “I really appreciate the help.”
He nods, gaze cautious now. “Sure. Anytime.”
I watch him go, his broad shoulders disappearing around the side of the café. The silence he leaves behind hums with tension I don’t want to name.
Back inside, I sit on the cool tile and press my palms to my cheeks.
I cannot do this.
I will not be the kind of Omega who melts just because an Alpha smells like sugar and sin. I’m not some delicate thing waiting for a bond to snap into place.
I am Wren Aldridge.
And I came back to rebuild. Not unravel.
Especially not for a man like Beau Rhodes.
Even if he is dangerously easy to smile at.
Even if his voice already makes me want to throw away all my rules about staying away from Alphas.
I exhale.
Hard.
And remind myself—again—that reacting isn’t the same as choosing.
And I don’t choose him. Not today.
Not yet.
Pancake pads over from where he’s been lounging under one of the tables, stretching long and dramatic like this is just another regular day.
His tail curls lazily around my leg before he hops up onto the newly cleared counter and blinks at me like I’ve been a mild disappointment. Typical.
I sink next to him, brushing sawdust from my tank top and feeling the burn of exertion in my arms. The room is now brighter and cleaner. The busted paneling’s stacked, the broken shelves dismantled.
Beau did more than help—he made it feel possible. Even if, by the end, I couldn’t think straight with him standing that close, or smelling like that.
Cinnamon and honey. Heat and danger.
I glance over at Pancake, who lets out a low chirp and stretches again, smug in that way cats have perfected.
“Don’t look at me like that,” I mutter. “I didn’t do anything. I didn’t even touch him.”
He flicks his tail. Doesn’t buy it for a second.
The scent of cinnamon still lingers. It’s soaked into the air now—alongside the lemony cleaning wipes, a faint hint of smoke, and beneath it all, the earthy smell of this place—old coffee beans and warm wood and ghosts.
For a moment, I think I hear her humming. My grandmother. A melody from the old country that she used to play on the radio while kneading dough.
I close my eyes and the memory drapes around me like a soft shawl: the clatter of pans, the pop of boiling sugar, her voice singing along off-key.
Safe. Everything used to feel safe here.
Then the ringtone pierces through it, sharp and shrill, making me flinch. I wipe my hands on a rag and reach for my phone. The screen lights up with a name that makes something inside me twist.
Mom.
She’s already on the cruise. I swipe to answer, keeping my voice soft. “Hey.”
There’s a slight rustle on the other end. Whispering. “Wren? Are you alone?”
I frown. “Yeah. Where are you?”
“I’m in my cabin. Your father went down to the dining hall.” Her voice is too low, too thin, like she’s trying not to be heard. “What’s this I’m hearing about a fire at the café?”
Damn it! I knew they would hear about it sooner or later. “Who told you?”
“Willa! What the hell happened?”
Of course. Willa. Nothing ever stays quiet in this town.
“It’s fine,” I say quickly. “Minor fire. I put it out. There’s some damage, but it’s manageable. I’ve already spoken to a construction crew about coming to look.”
“Oh, sweetheart…” There’s a pause. A long, aching one. “Are you okay?”
I hear the edge in her voice, and suddenly, I know—she’s been crying.
I press the heel of my hand to my forehead. “Mom, I should be asking you that. What’s going on?”
“Nothing. I’m fine,” she says too fast. “I just—well—Willa made it sound awful, and I wanted to hear from you directly.”
“No. Not about me.” My voice softens. “About you. You’ve been crying.”
She goes quiet. The kind of quiet that breaks my heart.
“I just fought with your father.”
I sigh. “What happened?” I already have a feeling it’s not her fault. It’s hardly ever her fault.
“It’s no big deal, honey. We were supposed to have dinner together,” she says after a beat. “And he… he was flirting with one of the waitresses. She couldn’t have been older than twenty-five.”
I clench my jaw. “Did you ask him?”
“I did,” she says, and her voice sounds even smaller now. “He said I was overreacting. That it was just… friendly.”
Just like always. The same script. Different country, different cruise, different girl.
It’s the same lie he told when I was twelve and found lipstick on his collar. The same lie when he came home from some vague work retreat with the scent of another woman on his skin.
It’s the same fucking lie he tells every time he chases whatever Omega looks at him twice, then blames her for tempting him.
“Mom,” I whisper, my voice shaking now, “you know what he does.”
“I know.” Her voice trembles like glass cracking under the weight of years. “I know, Wren. But I’m bonded to him. And he… he says it’s biology. That Alphas are just wired differently. That it doesn’t mean anything.”
I stare at the mess of the café around me, heart thudding.
“I hate that excuse,” I say, my voice fierce. “You deserve better.”
She doesn’t reply right away, but I can hear her breathing. Slow. Shallow.
“I wish I’d left,” she whispers eventually. “I wish I’d taken you and just… started over.”
“I do too,” I say before I can stop myself.
Then, as if a switch flips inside her, her voice lifts. Polished. False. “Well. Anyway. What does the repair look like? How much will it cost?”
“I don’t know yet,” I say slowly. “But I’ll figure it out. I’ve got savings. I’ll make it work.”
“I have some money,” she says. “Not a lot, but… I haven’t touched my retirement money yet. If it helps—”
“Mom.” I shake my head even though she can’t see it. That’s money she saved up for years working as a teacher in the local high school. “That’s your safety net.”
“It’s fine,” she says. “If I can’t use it to help my daughter rebuild her future, what’s the point? Plus, once we sell the café, you’ll pay me back.”
My throat thickens. My mom—meek, sad, married to a man who has broken her in quiet, subtle ways—offering me everything she has left. It guts me.
“I’ll think about it,” I whisper. “But promise me you’ll take care of yourself, too.”
“I always try,” she says. But there’s no conviction in her voice.
Then footsteps. Low. Heavy. The telltale thud of him returning.
Her voice lifts again, suddenly brighter. “Alright, honey, I’ll let you go. We’ll talk later, okay?”
“Mom—”
“I love you, sweetheart.”
“I love you too.”
She ends the call before I can say anything else.
I stare at the phone like it’s betrayed me. I feel sick.
This is why I don’t date Alphas. Why I don’t trust them.
They say they’re made for you. That they’ll bond, protect, and cherish. But what they mean is: control, own, ruin.
I saw it growing up. In my father’s eyes, every time he blamed my mom’s insecurity for his wandering hands. In her forced smiles, her quiet shame. In the way he excused himself repeatedly.
“It’s nature, sweetheart. Don’t tempt me if you can’t handle the fire.”
He was bonded. Married. And still, he strayed.
Still, he made her believe it was her fault.
Just like Everhart did. Just like all of them do, eventually.
I curl my legs up under me, pressing my back against the cold counter. Pancake jumps up beside me and settles with a slight grunt, resting his head against my thigh.
“I’m not doing it,” I whisper, more to myself than to him. “I’m not going to let an Alpha in just because he makes my body react.”
They always smell good.
Until they don’t.
I brush Pancake’s fur back, breathing deep. “I’ll fix this place,” I tell him. “I’ll do it myself. No bond. No mate. Only you and me.”
He lets out a faint, sleepy meow, as if to agree. And I pretend that’s enough.