1. Elowen #2
I smile. “This is kind of a family heirloom.” It feels weird talking about it to someone I only just met.
She pulls away as if scared to damage the bag. "Seriously though, I'm right next door. Don't be a stranger. Or do. I respect boundaries." She crosses the room and turns to face me at the door. “The health checks. Is that what you were going to say?”
I nod. “It makes it feel more real.”
“Real as in…?”
As in… before I came to Elderwood, they were names mentioned in all solemnity on the Elderwood website. The school held memorial services for them, the students were offered counselling, life went on. But now…
“As in… that could’ve been someone we knew.” It doesn’t begin to cover the uneasiness swimming around inside my tummy.
Lila inhales deeply. “Hard to believe it happened three times in the same school. In one year. Tragic. But we can’t let it ruin our experience, Elowen.”
“You’re right.” I told Mira I wasn’t anxious about it because I didn’t want her to worry.
I lied.
The room feels different now that it has embraced Lila’s presence. Like a peacock that lost its luster.
So, I take the key and Mira’s bag, step back outside, and follow the map.
The greenhouse waits.
And for the first time since I arrived, I know exactly where I'm going.
The greenhouse door is glass and wood, the handle warm even in the cool air.
I push it open.
The contrast is immediate. Outside, the early September afternoon is pleasant but cooling. Inside, retained warmth from the day's sun creates a different microclimate entirely. Heat spills out, damp and alive, smelling of soil and something else…
Deep breath. My heart performs a jumpy little dance when I pick up on smoky cedar and cold air, something sharp beneath it.
Alpha.
I freeze in the doorway, pulse racing, eyes scanning the abandoned tables covered in dust, the dried leaves and clumps of soil littering the floor, the shriveled hanging baskets.
He's sitting against the far wall, one knee drawn up, arm resting across it. Dark jeans, worn but well-kept. A charcoal henley with sleeves pushed up past his forearms, revealing tanned skin and what looks like ink along his inner left arm: a tattoo, though I can't make out the design from here.
No books. No tools. Just him, alone in the warmth, shoulders loose in a way that suggests he wasn't expecting company as he tosses a tennis ball from one hand to the other. He looks like a movie star, that’s my first thought. My second thought is that he doesn’t want to be disturbed.
But before I can reverse back the way I came, the door clicks shut behind me, and his head lifts.
Dark eyes find mine. Storm-dark eyes, framed by dark lashes.
For a moment, neither of us moves, and all I can hear is the thud-thud-thud of my heart as I familiarize myself with his scent. My face grows hot. While he remains super-cool, my scent clearly having no effect on him.
He’s tall, I can tell, even sitting, with broad shoulders that speak of strength held in check. Everything about him is controlled. Intentional. And so beautiful, my teeth bite together with a jolt that I feel in every part of me when I realize I’m gaping.
"Sorry, I didn't know anyone used this place," I say.
"They don't." His voice is low, even.
I glance around at the cracked pots and wonky workbenches. He isn’t here to grow anything.
"Then why are you here?"
He tilts his head slightly, considering. "Same reason you are, probably."
I blink. I want to stay, but the greenhouse suddenly feels too small.
He rises then, with the kind of deliberate ease that suggests he's giving me time to adjust to his presence.
He's taller than I expected, easily a head above me.
As he shifts his weight, the sleeve of his henley pulls slightly, and I catch a clearer glimpse of the tattoo on his inner forearm: a compass rose, simple and precise, rendered in clean black lines. North pointing toward his elbow.
He stays near the back wall. "Just arrived." His gaze flicks briefly to the bag at my side. It's not a question.
"That obvious, huh?"
He almost smiles. Almost. And part of me wishes he had because I’m trying to picture his face beaming although, at this rate, I’d probably melt into a puddle of gooey omega instincts on the floor if he did. "You walked in like you were looking for somewhere quiet."
"I was." I lick my lips. It’s a tough habit to crack.
"So was I." He shrugs. “I’m Calder.”
I take one small step further inside. "Calder.” I like how it sounds on my tongue. “Am I interrupting?"
His jaw tightens. "No." But the way he says it sounds like yes.
He doesn't look at me directly as he moves to the door, but I feel the weight of his awareness anyway. The air shifts when he's close, his scent dizzying, like standing in the middle of a tall forest and straining to see beyond the treetops.
Up close, I notice details I couldn't see from across the room. A small scar through his left eyebrow. The way his dark hair falls slightly over his forehead, like he's pushed it back more than once today. His hand rests on the door frame, fingers spread slightly.
"It's yours if you want it," he says. His gaze meets mine, and heat pools somewhere deep inside my core.
I try to ignore it. "You were here first. I don’t want you to leave because of me."
"I’m not." Blunt. But something in the stormy gray of his eyes softens the edges. "I was leaving anyway."
It's not true. He’s leaving so that I can stay.
"Why?" I ask before I can stop myself.
I have the bizarre notion that if he leaves now, something will be broken. A spell. A moment we’ll never be able to recreate. I don’t know why I’m clinging to it, but it’s almost as if the greenhouse brought us both here for a reason.
He doesn't answer right away. Just looks at me—really looks—like he's measuring something I can't see. Then, "Because you need it more than I do."
The door closes softly behind him.
I stand there, pulse ticking unevenly, warmth settling back into the silence.
A soft sound breaks the stillness, a low, rasping purr.
I look down. A cat. Small, black sprinkled with gray, one clouded eye. She's sitting in the corner, watching me with her one good eye, utterly unbothered by the fact that an alpha just walked out.
She pads over slowly, winding once around my ankles before sitting at my feet.
I crouch down, offering my hand. “I guess you didn’t catch his scent, huh?”
She sniffs. Considers. Then leans in, head butting gently against my palm. A worn leather collar circles her neck, a small silver nameplate catching the light: Juniper.
"Hello, Juniper," I murmur.
Her purr deepens, as if she approves of being properly addressed. I sink onto the floor, letting her settle into my lap, her warmth grounding me.
The greenhouse smells like soil and cedar now. I tell myself it's just the wood.
But I know better.