Chapter 8
Sable
The week started normally enough. Monday brought coffee with Beau at six in the morning, the routine that had become essential without either of us acknowledging it out aloud.
Tuesday meant lunch with Silas at The Brew, his terrible stories making me laugh in ways I hadn’t in years.
Wednesday was another morning coffee session where Beau and I talked about nothing and everything in the comfortable quiet we’d developed.
By Thursday afternoon, I should have realized something was wrong.
The first sign was Mrs. Patterson catching me at the general store. I’d stopped in after work for groceries, exhausted from a long day of coordinating a multi-county emergency response drill. All I wanted was to grab apples and bread and maybe some cheese, then go home and collapse.
Mrs. Patterson had other plans.
“Sable, dear,” she said, somehow materializing beside me despite being seventy-five and supposedly having bad knees. Small towns had a way of defying physics when gossip was involved. “I’ve been meaning to ask how you’re settling in.”
I’d been in Hollow Haven for five years. The settling in question had long since been settled. But Mrs. Patterson wasn’t actually asking about settling in. She was fishing for information, and we both knew it.
“Fine, thank you.” I reached for apples, hoping she’d take the hint.
She didn’t.
“It’s just that I’ve noticed you’ve been spending quite a bit of time with our sheriff lately.
And the Calder boy from the fire station.
And that charming paramedic with the dimples.
” Her eyes gleamed with the particular joy of someone who’d found fresh gossip in a town that recycled the same stories every six months.
“Three very eligible alphas, all suddenly very interested in our emergency coordinator.”
My hand tightened on the apple I was holding, hard enough that my thumb pressed into the skin. “We work together. Professional coordination is part of my job.”
“Oh, of course, dear. Professional.” She patted my arm with the kind of condescension that made my teeth grind.
“Though I will say, it’s lovely to see you finally opening up to people.
You’ve been so closed off since you arrived.
A young omega needs an alpha, you know. It’s not healthy to be alone. ”
The words hit harder than they should have. Maybe because they were true. Maybe because I’d spent five years convincing myself that being alone was the same as being safe.
“I’m not alone,” I said, more sharply than intended. “I’m independent. There’s a difference.”
“If you say so, dear.” But her expression said she didn’t believe me for a second. “Though between you and me, if I had three handsome alphas paying me that kind of attention, I wouldn’t be so quick to dismiss it. Not at your age.”
I set the apple down with more force than necessary. “Have a good evening, Mrs. Patterson.”
I abandoned my shopping and left the store with my jaw clenched and my suppressant patch suddenly feeling too tight against my skin.
This was exactly what I’d been trying to avoid. Small town gossip. People making assumptions. The idea that I needed a pack, needed alphas, needed anything other than the carefully controlled life I’d built for myself.
Except the gossip wasn’t entirely wrong, and that was the problem.
I walked toward my car with my head down, trying to ignore the way my suppressant patch felt like it was burning against my skin. The dose I’d been using for five years had always been enough before. Strong enough to keep my omega dormant, my scents muted, my biology firmly under control.
But lately, control was getting harder.
My phone buzzed before I reached my car. A text from Kit Morrison, the photographer omega who’d been trying to befriend me since she’d moved to town.
Coffee this week? I promise I won’t ask about your love life. Much.
Kit was kind. Perceptive. Exactly the kind of friend who’d see through my carefully maintained walls.
Who’d ask questions I didn’t want to answer about why three alphas were suddenly part of my daily routine.
Who’d probably already heard from her pack mates about the emergency coordinator spending suspicious amounts of time with Beau, Silas, and Dane.
I typed back quickly. Busy. Maybe next month.
The lie sat heavy on my screen. I wasn’t busy. I was avoiding anyone who might make me examine too closely why my life had suddenly gotten complicated.
I sent the message anyway and climbed into my car, grateful for the enclosed space where no one could ambush me with observations about my personal life.
Except I couldn’t escape my own thoughts.
Mrs. Patterson was right about one thing.
I had been closed off since arriving in Hollow Haven.
I’d moved here specifically to be closed off, to build a life where no one knew about the humiliation of being rejected mid-ceremony.
Where I could be competent and professional and completely self-sufficient.
For five years, it had worked.
And then three alphas had somehow worked their way past my defenses through coffee and lunch dates without me even realizing it, and now my carefully controlled life felt less like protection and more like a cage.
I drove home slowly, taking the long route because I needed time to clear my head before facing my empty apartment. The evening was cool, autumn settling into the valley with the kind of crisp air that made everything smell sharper, clearer.
The route took me through downtown, past all the places that had become landmarks in my daily routine.
The fire station came first. I could see lights on in the bay, could make out figures moving inside. Beau was probably still there, running equipment checks or reviewing protocols. The scent of cedar smoke and charcoal drifted on the evening breeze, and my omega stirred despite the suppressants.
I kept driving.
Past the medical clinic where Silas worked. The building was mostly dark now, but I could smell vanilla and cardamom lingering in the air, sweet and warm and making my suppressants work harder than they should need to.
I kept driving.
Past the county sheriff’s office where Dane would be finishing paperwork before heading home. Leather and gunpowder and sandalwood, distinctive even from across the street, making something in my chest ache with want I absolutely could not afford to feel.
By the time I reached my apartment, my suppressants were barely holding.
I made it inside and leaned against the door, breathing carefully through the wave of want that threatened to overwhelm me. My skin felt too warm. My apartment smelled wrong, empty, lacking the scents my omega was suddenly insisting I needed.
Cedar smoke. Vanilla and cardamom. Leather and gunpowder.
All three of them.
The realization settled over me like cold water. I wasn’t just attracted to them individually. I was scent-compatible with all three. The odds of that were astronomical. Most omegas never found one perfect match in their lifetime, let alone three.
And they were compatible with each other. I’d noticed it during that emergency coordination last week, the way their scents layered together without clashing, complementing instead of competing. The way they worked together like they’d been designed as a unit.
Pack-compatible. All four of us.
My biology knew what it wanted before my brain had caught up, and now that I’d recognized it, I couldn’t unknow it.
Couldn’t pretend I didn’t notice the way my suppressants were struggling harder every day.
Couldn’t ignore the way my omega was waking up after five years of forced dormancy, crying out for something I’d sworn I’d never want again.
I checked the suppressant patch on my arm. Still secure. Still delivering the correct dose. But my body was fighting it harder than it ever had before, and I knew what that meant.
I was going to need stronger suppressants. Either that, or I needed to stay away from all three of them until my biology settled down.
Except I didn’t want to stay away. That was the problem.
I wanted the morning coffee with Beau. Wanted the lunch conversations with Silas. Wanted the quiet safety of knowing Dane was watching out for me.
I wanted things I’d sworn off five years ago, standing in a white dress while Nathan explained to two hundred people why I wasn’t enough.
The suppressant patch itched against my skin. I pressed my palm against it, willing it to work harder, to do its job, to keep my biology locked down the way it had for five years.
But I could feel it losing the fight.
I called in sick to work the next day. Not because my suppressants had failed completely, but because I needed time to get them back under control. Time to reinforce the walls before I saw any of them again and my omega decided to stage a complete rebellion.
I spent Friday researching stronger suppressant options and trying not to think about how empty my apartment felt. Spent Saturday replacing my patch with a higher dose and pretending the headache that came with it was worth the extra control.
By Sunday evening, the suppressants were holding again. Barely. But enough that I could face Monday morning without my biology overwhelming my common sense.
I dreamed about them that night. Not sexual dreams, though my body was definitely interested in that direction.
Just domestic ones. Waking up to Beau’s quiet presence and morning coffee.
Laughing at Silas’s terrible jokes while making dinner.
Falling asleep feeling safe because Dane was watching over everything.
Pack dreams. The kind I’d had right before my bonding ceremony with Nathan, before he’d rejected me and taught me that biology was a liar.
Monday morning came too quickly. I forced myself out of bed and back to reality. The new suppressants were holding, but I could feel the strain. Could feel my omega pushing against the chemical barriers, insisting this wasn’t sustainable.