5. Mara
Mara
The bell above the café door chimes and laughter spills in, bright and easy. It hits me before I even see them—low rumbles of amusement, boots scuffing against the wood floor, the deep hum of masculine voices filling the space like it belongs to them.
The sound shouldn't make my chest tighten, but it does. Something deep inside me goes pliant, traitorous.
I glance up from the tray I'm wiping down. Leo is in front, shaking snow from his hair, cheeks flushed from cold. Behind him are Daniel and the doctor, Gray, and all three of them look wind-chapped and alive in a way that makes the room feel smaller.
The scent follows them in: pine, frost, cedar, and a bright thread of citrus. My skin prickles as their pheromones roll through the air, brushing against the edges of my control.
Margaret straightens from behind the counter and greets them with that effortless warmth of hers. "There you are. I was beginning to think you got lost in a snowdrift."
"Almost did," Leo says, grinning as he pulls off his gloves. "Turns out Gray's better on skis than he thought."
Gray makes a sound that's half a laugh, half a groan. "That's debatable."
They keep talking—voices overlapping, teasing—but I can't quite focus. I've been with Margaret since four. Tess left to help Henry at the lodge, which means it's just the two of us left to handle the dinner rush.
Not that there's much of one; it's quiet tonight, the snow coming down thicker by the hour.
I've cleaned the counters, restocked the pastry case, refilled the sugar jars, and prepped the batter for tomorrow's muffins.
I even double-checked the espresso machine because Margaret worries about leaving things plugged in.
Everything is done. I should feel satisfied. Instead, there's a jitter under my skin, the kind that doesn't come from caffeine. I can feel their attention, subtle but unmistakable.
Gray's gaze flickers over me once as he thanks Margaret for the coffee she's already sliding toward him.
Daniel's eyes catch mine for a fraction of a second before he looks away, polite but unreadable.
And Leo—he's the kind who looks without shame, like taking in the room means taking in everyone in it.
I tuck a stray strand of hair behind my ear and try to ignore the way my pulse kicks.
They've been gone all day, skiing, shopping, doing whatever packs like them do on vacation.
It shouldn't matter. I shouldn't care. But the sound of their laughter has shaken something loose, and I can't seem to steady it again.
Margaret asks about their day, about the slopes and the weather and the stores, and I stand there nodding in all the right places while I think about excuses. My throat feels tight, my palms damp. If I stay here any longer, I'll give myself away.
"I think I'm going to head upstairs," I say finally, my voice softer than I intend. "I've finished the cleanup, and I've got a bit of a headache. I can come back down later to run the dishwasher."
Margaret frowns. "Honey, you've been on your feet all day. I'll take care of it."
I shake my head quickly. "It's fine, really. I'll just rest a bit and finish up later."
She studies me for a second, that motherly concern of hers searching my face. "All right. Go on, then. Don't stay up too late."
"I won't," I promise.
I can feel the three men watching as I untie my apron and hang it on the hook behind the counter. Their gazes aren't invasive exactly, but they're too heavy all the same. I force a polite smile, keeping my eyes down. "Good night," I say, directing it somewhere between all of them and none of them.
Leo lifts his cup slightly in a silent toast. "'Night, Mara."
Gray nods. Daniel murmurs something under his breath that I can't quite catch.
I don't look back. The warmth of their attention follows me all the way to the stairs, wrapping around my ribs like a hand.
By the time I reach my tiny apartment above the café, my breathing is uneven.
The moment the door clicks shut behind me, I sag against it, pressing my palms to the cool wood.
My whole body feels too warm, my heartbeat too loud.
It's ridiculous—infuriating—how easily they can do this without even trying.
The apartment is small but cozy: slanted ceiling, a kitchenette that barely fits two cabinets, a couch that doubles as a bed when I'm too tired to make it to the bedroom. I used to love this space, the quiet of it, the safety. Tonight it feels like a cage of my own making.
I pace across the floor, trying to out-walk the heat pooling low in my belly. "Get it together," I mutter. "You're fine."
But I'm not. The air still holds their scent, faint but persistent—cedar, smoke, something clean and wild that doesn't belong here. It clings to my sweater, to my hair, to the soft edges of something that thrums faintly beneath my skin.
My body reacts on instinct, helplessly attuned to Alpha pheromones. My throat tightens, my hands tremble, and for one dizzying heartbeat I almost let myself imagine what it would feel like to stop fighting it.
To lean in. To belong.
"No," I whisper, shaking my head. "Not again."
I force myself toward the small sink, splash cold water on my face. The shock helps. Barely. My reflection in the darkened window is a mess—flushed cheeks, eyes too bright, mouth trembling in a way that makes me angry. I look like a girl on the edge of something foolish.
Pathetic.
I fled Denver to escape this exact feeling. The pull. The way a bond can twist you up until you don't recognize yourself. I came here to start over, to be free of the contracts and the promises and the pretty lies that end with an Omega's heart in pieces.
And yet…
Of course Daniel Hartwell would show up here, of all places. Tess's older brother—the one who used to bring her home from school in his parents' car, the one who was always three steps ahead of us, too old and too serious to do much more than tell us not to get into trouble.
Back then, he'd been all sharp lines and quiet disapproval, the kind of boy who carried the weight of everyone's expectations without ever flinching. I remember thinking he'd never break. Now he's here, older, broader, and absolutely the kind of Alpha I swore I'd never let near me again.
And he's brought a pack.
A doctor and a mountain guide. The three of them together are a wall of power and scent and unspoken connection, and I hate how my body reacts to it. How part of me recognizes them. Not individually, but collectively—as if something inside me has been waiting for them all along.
I press my fingers to the base of my throat, where the bond-gland hums faintly. It doesn't matter. I'm not falling again. Not for Daniel, not for anyone.
I cross the room and grab my phone off the counter. Distraction. That's what I need.
Scrolling through social media is the worst kind of self-punishment, but I do it anyway. Jason's face fills the screen first—still perfect, still smiling that easy smile that once made me believe I was safe.
He's standing on a rooftop in Denver, the city skyline behind him. Jonathan's tagged in the post, arm slung around Jason's shoulders. Mason's there too, holding a drink, the caption something about "the boys are back together again."
I scroll further. They look happy. Carefree. Untouched.
There's no mention of me. No trace of the Omega who ran. No whisper of the contract I left unsigned.
It should make me feel lighter, knowing I'm gone from their world like I never existed. Instead, the hollowness yawns wider.
I spent weeks convincing myself that leaving was strength—that walking away before they could discard me was victory. But staring at their smiles, I can't shake the ache that I was nothing more than a temporary amusement.
They'll move on without consequence, while I'm here still carrying the weight of it.
I drop the phone face down on the table and drag in a shaky breath. The faint hum of the café below filters through the floorboards: dishes clinking, Margaret's voice, a burst of laughter. Probably Leo again.
It shouldn't sound so comforting.
It's better this way, I tell myself. Better if they never look for me. Better if I stay here where no one knows, where the worst part of me—the part that craves belonging, that wants to be claimed—can stay quiet.
I sink onto the couch and hug my knees to my chest. The scent of cinnamon from the café mingles with the lingering hint of Alpha musk, an impossible combination of safety and danger. My skin still buzzes. I close my eyes and try to breathe past it, but every exhale brings them back.
A tremor runs through me, and I hate that my body can't tell the difference between attraction and fear. The bond doesn't care about logic or history; it only knows the echo of something old and primal, something that whispers, mine.
But I'm not anyone's. Not anymore.
I stand again, restless. The floor creaks under my bare feet as I pace to the window. Snow is falling harder now, the streetlights turning each flake into a sliver of gold. Down below, the world is soft and quiet. The kind that makes you want to believe in new beginnings.
My reflection catches me again—pale, tired, but alive. I trace a fingertip over the glass, over the outline of my own face.
"You're okay," I whisper. "You've survived worse."
My head aches dully behind my eyes, and exhaustion seeps in like fog. I peel off my sweater, trade it for one of the oversized flannels I sleep in, and sink onto the bed. The scent of coffee and woodsmoke still clings to my hair.
I let myself remember what it felt like to laugh without flinching. To trust. To wake up in the morning without bracing for the next disappointment.
Maybe one day that won't feel like a memory.
Maybe one day I'll stop running from ghosts with familiar eyes.
But not tonight.
Tonight, I'll close my eyes and pretend the ache is just the headache I told Margaret about. I'll pretend I don't still feel them downstairs—three men whose laughter has unsettled everything I've spent months rebuilding.
And when morning comes, I'll go back to being the girl who keeps her head down, who bakes and cleans and never lets anyone too close.
Because falling again? That's not an option.
Not for Daniel Hartwell.
Not for his pack.
Not for anyone.
Never again.