Chapter 25
Cole
THREE MONTHS LATER
If there’s a world record for most pasties baked in a twenty-four-hour period, I’m pretty sure Helena and I could put up a serious challenge.
My flour-caked fingers move on autopilot, folding and crimping and glazing, while the front of the house ripples with the unyielding hum of tourist season.
Seamuse Bakery smells like a mix between cinnamon and egg wash with a hint of the sea, the latter of which clings to every old stone in town.
Helena floats through it all with the grace of a party hostess and the grit of a dockworker. She’s put up her glossy, black hair with a tortoiseshell clip—a little wedge of elegance above the blue bakery polo—and her face is dusted with a thin veil of flour and a bright smile.
In short, Helena looks like a natural at work in her favored habitat.
It’s been three months since she returned from the city without her father’s blessing.
With every day that passes, Helena settles in just a little bit more.
Zane, too, as he hops between assisting here in the bakery and lifeguarding classes.
But Helena, she’s really taken to working here amongst the community.
And sometimes, when she brings back empty pastry baskets for refills, I catch her peeking into the kitchen just to check if I’m watching.
I always am.
“Don’t burn the saffron buns.” She bumps her hip into mine as she passes. “The eight-top by the window says if you do, they’ll riot.”
I glance at the clock. “Three minutes ahead of schedule, Your Majesty.” It’s a joke between us, leftover from the first time she wore the bakery’s paper crown for a children’s party. She does a little mock-curtsy and gives me a wink before vanishing back to the front.
Lucas is manning the counter with the single-minded focus of a racehorse.
He’s traded lifeguard red for a Seamuse Bakery T-shirt, but it’s cut tight and does nothing to hide the fact that he could probably bench-press me and half the staff.
He’s good with people—too good, sometimes.
When a couple of teenage girls giggle their way through an order for two dozen Chelsea buns, Lucas manages to serve them, charm them, and squeeze in a joke about Cornish versus Devon cream before ringing them up.
I hear Zane’s low, measured voice from the corner table, where he’s perched with a laptop and a mug of black coffee that never seems to empty.
He’ll need it for the full bakery inventory he’s doing today.
Ravenwood Shield Security let him go before he could resign from his role, but he still frequently takes position where he can easily watch Helena.
I understand. It’s hard not to want to guard our omega, even if you know she could handle herself.
She’s not exactly anonymous here—never was, even before the Royals Anonymous thing went viral.
Now, it’s an open secret among locals that the “Omega Nobility” of social media is working full-time at the pasty shop.
She’s not exactly royalty, but every third tourist wants a selfie or an autograph, anyway. It’s harmless, mostly.
Most importantly, it doesn’t stop her from jumping in with both feet.
If there’s a special, she’s the one who names it and designs the flyer.
If the shop’s slow, she lures in customers with Instagram stories or flash sales.
She keeps an idea book in the back thick with scribbled notes and crossed-out ideas.
It sits right beside my grandmother’s faded recipe binder, and sometimes Helena flips through both at once, dreaming up new flavors.
I love her for it. For all of it. Especially her ridiculous optimism and seemingly bottomless appetite for cinnamon rolls.
The bell over the door jingles for the hundredth time today. I’m halfway through shaping sausage rolls when Helena’s voice filters in from the front. “Oh, no, I couldn’t possibly be her. I’ve just got one of those faces.”
It’s always the same: a hopeful customer, an awkward laugh, and then Helena spins the whole thing into a joke about doppelg?ngers. She’s had practice. But this time, there’s a flicker in her voice, like she’s bracing for something.
A sudden shift in air pressure and a predatory snap of camera shutters.
I know what’s coming even before the pack of reporters crowd the bakery window, waving telephoto lenses like pirate cutlasses.
It’s not just the locals, or the influencer hounds—this is full-on national media, and there’s no doubt they’re here for Helena.
I wipe my hands and head for the front. Lucas, bless him, tries to block the door, but the news crews are relentless.
A woman in a pantsuit sidesteps him, phone held high. “Helena! Helena Starling! Are you staying in Cornwall permanently, or is this just a fall thing?”
Another shout: “Is it true you’re dropping out of Omega Selection Day? Are the rumors about you and the Seamuse Bakery alphas true?”
Helena holds up her hands palms out. “If you’re here for the lemon tarts, the line starts at the register. Otherwise, you can kindly leave.” Her voice is smooth and firm. She may as well be fielding complaints about the weather, not a swarm of international press.
But they don’t stop.
Zane’s on his feet in the next second. He looms between the press and Helena with a glare that could strip paint. “The lady has asked you to leave. I advise you do so.”
One of the male reporters, with thick-framed glasses, steps up despite Zane’s warning. “Did your brother Ranier set such a stain on the family by packing up with a commoner omega that you are now allowed to do whatever you want?”
Zane seethes and steps toward him.
Helena flashes him a look—a don’t-even-think-about-it warning—and he backs off.
She steps out from behind the counter, tucks a stray hair behind her ear, and plants her feet. The press circles her like gulls. It’s impossible not to stare. Her jaw is set, her eyes bluer than the Channel on a clear morning.
When she speaks, the entire bakery falls silent.
“I know you all have questions, although I don’t entirely understand what entitles you to be asking them besides your own lack of creative, substantive stories for your outlets, so let’s make this quick.”
Well, damn that was hot.
“Yes, I’m Helena Starling,” she continues.
“And yes, I’ve been in Seamuse Village for the summer.
No, I don’t intend on participating in Omega Selection Day or leaving Seamuse Village anytime soon.
I’ve made other commitments, and I’m happy with them.
That’s all I’ll say on the matter.” She gestures toward the door.
“Now that you have your soundbites, please kindly leave. I won’t ask a third time. ”
Helena gestures to me. I move toward the bakery’s phone and ready to call the police if the press doesn’t exit as she ordered.
A beat of confusion passes and then a dozen hands shoot up, and the shouting resumes.
“What about the monarchy and tradition? Aren’t you betraying your legacy?”
“Who are the lucky alphas? Names, please!”
“Are you pregnant? Is that why?”
Helena’s cheeks flush, but she stands her ground.
“I appreciate your interest, but my life is not a public commodity. There are plenty of more interesting stories in this town. May I suggest the lifeguard who singlehandedly rescued an entire fishing boat’s worth of people last week, or the baker who just won an award for his saffron buns? ”
The crowd laughs a little uncertainly. My ears burn, but I can’t help grinning.
Someone in the back shouts, “Are you denouncing the noble tradition, then? Is this a protest?”
Helena looks straight at the reporter. “It’s not about protest. It’s about choice.
For centuries, omegas have been told whom to love, where to live, and what to do with their own bodies and hearts.
I won’t pretend that I’m special or above it.
Royal and noble families have legacies that are important.
I just think maybe it’s time someone said, ‘No, thank you.’ If I want to bond with a lifeguard, or a baker, or a security chief”—she flashes a pointed look at Zane—“that’s my decision, and I intend to own it rather than sitting for Omega Selection Day. ”
The bakery is so quiet, I hear a kitchen timer go off somewhere in the back.
A man in a puffer vest asks, “So, just to confirm, you’re officially bonded to a pack prior to Omega Selection Day?” His voice is giddy, like he’s breaking a sports scandal.
Helena’s gaze softens. She glances at each of us in turn, and there’s a warmth there I can’t put words to. “I’m bonded to the people who treat me like I’m more than a headline. That’s all anyone should want.”
A murmur runs through the press group. There’s a beat where I think it’s over, but then a woman shoves her way forward and thrusts a microphone nearly into Helena’s mouth. “Helena, if you could send a message to all the other omegas out there, what would you say?”
Helena doesn’t hesitate. “I’d say find your own path, even if it scares you. No, especially if it scares you.” Then she turns on her heel and looks directly at me. “Cole? Do we have any of the cinnamon bites left, or did you eat them all again?”
Laughter bubbles up from the customers and even some of the reporters.
The spell is broken. Zane steps forward and, with a little nod from Helena, starts politely but firmly shepherding the press out the door.
Lucas leans against the counter, arms crossed and grinning.
I hurry back to the kitchen, heart thumping like a dropped rolling pin.
The bakery is back to its regular din by the time the last camera is gone. Helena disappears into the staff room for a minute, and when she comes out, her hair is a little messier and her cheeks are brighter than before.
She heads straight for me. “Sorry about the scene. They just never give up.”
I shake my head. “You were brilliant. Like, gladiator-level brilliant.”
She smiles, then lowers her voice. “You know, you can just say you’re proud of me.”
I pretend to think it over. “I am, but don’t let it go to your head.”
She laughs and leans into me. I hook a finger under her chin and guide her mouth to mine. Lucas and Zane join us in back. This is far too public a venue for what I think we’d all really like to be doing after that, so instead we settle for taking turns kissing our omega.
All while thinking of the future ahead.