1. Scarlet Sage #2
A young omega stands beside her alpha and beta near the edge of the stone.
At first, they look perfectly normal. Their body language says they’re familiar with each other in the easy way bonded people usually are.
It’s the unhurried familiarity of people whose bodies have learned to run in tandem.
Then the alpha reaches for her hand but pauses. It’s only for a second, but I feel it.
Pain hits me sharp enough to steal my breath.
Underneath the pain, unease registers without my permission.
Whereas only moments ago, the warmth of the pack frequency that bonded mates unknowingly carry was stable enough to settle my nerves, now the tension grates on them.
My unease builds until tiny fissures crack their connection, and its absence hits nearly as hard as the wrongness.
The omega’s smile flickers. Confusion crosses her face before she smooths it away.
Her alpha notices too. Panic flashes briefly in his expression before he covers it.
Their connection hums wrong beneath my skin, stretched thin like chords pulled too tight.
They still look bonded but my sight says that is already becoming a lie.
My skin prickles. Nausea rolls through me fast and sudden, and I brace one hand against the fountain’s edge until my dizziness passes.
It’s getting worse. Whatever is happening to the bonds in Sweetheart Haven seems to be spreading.
I force myself upright slowly and step away from the fountain before anyone notices my reaction.
The square feels louder than before. Music carries through the heat while tourists laugh beside festival booths. Down the street, someone opens a bakery door, and the scent of warm honey drifts into the air.
Before I consciously decide to do so, my body turns toward Sweet Tooth Bakery with its promise of warmth and familiar faces.
Sweet Tooth Bakery sits near the corner of Lover’s Lane and Main Street, with flowers overflowing beneath every window and a permanent line out the door during festival season.
The moment I step inside, the scents of sugar, coffee, and baked bread close around me. The bakery has the comfort of a room that has held the same people for years. Voices overlap near the counter, cups clink against saucers, and the air itself seems steeped in ordinary comfort.
My muscles loosen. I let go of the tension, just for a moment, before I notice I’m doing it.
Junie glances up from behind the espresso machine, her blonde curls tied beneath a pale-pink scarf. Her blue eyes brighten when she sees me, though the old hurt between us hasn’t faded entirely. “Hey, stranger.”
I arch my brow. “I was here yesterday.”
“That is practically abandonment in bakery time.”
The tension from last bonding season still exists between us, but the roughest edges have worn smooth. At least, we’re trying to let that be the case.
Junie slides a honey cake onto wax paper without asking if I want one. “You look pale.”
“I’m naturally delicate.”
She snorts softly. “You once fought a man at the farmers market over Mr. Woodstork’s last bag of spicy boiled peanuts.”
“He started it.”
“He was eighty.”
“He knew what he did.”
That finally earns a real laugh out of her, and something inside me softens in response. Even hurt, Junie still tries.
I reach for my wallet while she bags the pastry. “How’s your mom?”
“Still trying to talk me into another Sweetheart Challenge.”
“That sounds exhausting.”
“You have no idea.” Her gaze drops. “After what happened the first time, I don’t think I have it in me.”
Silence settles briefly between us, while steam hisses from the espresso machine behind the counter.
“Junie.”
Her hands pause against the paper bag.
“I never wanted you to get hurt.”
She exhales and meets my eyes. “I know.”
Her smile turns small at the edges.
Before I can find an answer that will not sting, the kitchen door swings open.
“There you are,” Honeysuckle announces.
Honey looks exactly like her name sounds: sun-kissed skin, golden-brown eyes, a sunflower-print apron, big blonde curls, and enough energy to keep downtown running through hurricane season.
She points a wooden spoon at me. “You’re trying the new festival coffee.”
“Are you threatening me with treats?”
“I put lavender cold foam on it.”
“You know I don’t like lavender.”
Ignoring my concern, Honey catches my wrist and pulls me toward the café counter. Her grip is warm and automatic, the unselfconscious touch of an omega who has never needed to debate whether she is allowed to reach for the people she loves.
My omega instincts respond before I can stop them. The depleted hum beneath my skin eases. My breathing deepens, and a small, embarrassing urge rises to turn my wrist beneath her palm and keep the contact longer.
Honey releases me to grab the drink, and my body screams at the loss.
Junie shakes her head while wiping down the espresso machine. “You made her weird coffee again?”
“It’s called a Dreamy Lavender Latte,” Honey says. “That is sweetheart seasonal artistry.”
“It sounds fake.”
Honey shoves the iced drink into my hands.
The first sip brings rich espresso, followed by a warm spice that softens the lavender into subtle magic. This drink feels like the comfort of fresh sheets, open windows, and the joy of new beginnings.
Honey has the gift of taste and has always had a way of baking her mood into things. Once, after making cookies while mooning over an alpha, half the bridge club spent the afternoon confessing old crushes and daring each other into the fountain.
I narrow my eyes at her. “I hate that this is good.”
She smiles, her cheeks rounding. “You hate joy.”
“I’m cautious around joy. There’s a difference.”
Honey laughs and leans against the counter beside me.
Between her shoulder against mine and Junie moving nearby, the tightness in my chest loosens enough for a full breath.
Whether they know it or not, Honey, Junie, and my weekly visits to their family’s bakery serve as a life raft.
It’s the closest thing I have to pack frequency, and I ration it carefully.
I also sleep beneath three quilts in summer and spend every heat alone with suppressants, locked doors, and enough towels to make the experience feel clinical.
My body still hasn’t accepted the arrangement.
I’ve only learned that complaining about chronic deprivation changes nothing.
The bell above the bakery door jingles.
Honey’s laugh fades.
A deep cedar scent moves through the room, smokey and warm. It’s carrying the steady authority of an alpha whose instincts are running exactly as they should. He’s a beacon of calm, his frequency radiating a deep hum.
My body goes on high alert, awareness lighting up my skin.
The response is so quick, I’m surprised when heat gathers low in my belly.
My nipples tighten beneath my dress, and my scent threatens to lift in answer before I force it back down.
Every depleted instinct inside me reaches toward the stranger entering the bakery as though it has been waiting for him.
A second scent follows the first. Cardamom, cinnamon, and a grounded beta frequency that settles around the alpha without being swallowed by him. They are pack. My body recognizes it before I see their faces.
Then the alpha steps through the door, and gravity changes.