Chapter 10 Theo
Theo
Inotice things. Maybe it's the vet in me—trained to spot subtle changes in behavior. Or more likely the fact that I've always been sensitive to scents— and feelings—around me.
Like a woman who has barely touched her food for three days.
I watch Rowan push her pasta around her plate, making it look like she's eating while actually consuming maybe three bites.
It's the third night in a row she's done this.
Her cheeks look hollower than they did when she first arrived, and there are shadows under her eyes that makeup can't quite hide.
Jasper and Wells have noticed too, in their own ways.
Jasper's response is to glower more intensely, as if her lack of appetite is a personal affront.
Wells keeps making pointed comments about "proper nutrition" and "maintaining energy levels" while sliding extra servings onto her plate when he thinks she isn't looking.
Neither approach is working.
"I'm heading to the clinic," I announce, standing and collecting my plate. "Night shift."
Rowan glances up, relief flashing across her face at having an excuse to end dinner. "I should get ready for bed too. Early morning at the shop tomorrow."
"It's 7:30," Jasper points out bluntly.
She shrugs, already gathering her dishes. "Gerald needs attention."
"I already fed him," Wells says. "And cleaned his box."
A flash of something—annoyance? panic?—crosses Rowan's face before she smooths it away. "Well, he needs... socialization. Cat development. Very important stuff."
She deposits her dishes in the sink and practically flees upstairs before anyone can question her further.
I follow her path with my eyes, concern tightening my chest. Something's not right. And it's more than just the tension that's been building since her heat spike last week.
"This can't continue," Wells says quietly once we hear her door close. "Her scent is getting stronger every day, despite the blockers. And she's clearly not taking care of herself properly."
Jasper's jaw tightens. "Not our problem."
"It is if she passes out from hunger in our house," I counter. "Or if her hormones spike and she goes into full heat unprepared."
The three of us exchange looks, the unspoken tension of the past week hanging heavy between us.
We've all been affected by Rowan's changing scent—Jasper retreating into angry silence, Wells becoming even more rigidly controlled, me feeling a constant, low-level urge to comfort and protect that I'm trying desperately to ignore.
"Two more months," Jasper says finally. "Then the agreement is over, and she can find somewhere else to live."
"And if she presents before then?" Wells asks, ever practical.
Jasper doesn't answer, just stands and stalks out of the kitchen.
"Real helpful," I mutter, reaching into the fridge. I pull out ingredients and quickly assemble a sandwich—turkey, avocado, sprouts, the good mustard that Wells special orders online. I wrap it carefully and stick a note on top: For midnight cravings. Eat me.
Wells raises an eyebrow. "You're enabling her avoidance."
"I'm making sure she doesn't starve," I correct, sliding the sandwich into the fridge. "There's a difference."
"And the line between caring and courting is...?"
I shoot him a look. "Don't start."
He holds up his hands in surrender. "Just be careful, Theo. This situation is complicated enough without you going full alpha-protector."
"Says the man who insisted on driving her to the flower wholesaler because her car is 'unsafe,'" I point out. "We're all walking a fine line here."
Wells doesn't deny it, just sighs and returns to cleaning up dinner. I grab my keys and head out for my shift, trying to ignore the nagging worry about Rowan that follows me all the way to the clinic.
By the time I get home at midnight, the house is quiet and dark. I move through the kitchen by memory, shedding my jacket and kicking off my shoes. I'm tired but wired—night shifts always leave me feeling slightly off-kilter, trapped between exhaustion and alertness.
I open the fridge for a drink and notice the sandwich is still there, untouched. Frowning, I pick it up and head upstairs. Maybe I'll leave it outside her door.
But as I pass the living room, I notice a small glow from the reading lamp in the corner. Rowan is curled up on the couch, Gerald sleeping on her chest, a book open but forgotten on her lap. She's staring into space, her expression distant and troubled.
"Hey," I say softly, not wanting to startle her.
She tenses anyway, her eyes darting to me. "Oh. Hi. How was work?"
"A little busier than usual. Emergency surgery on Mrs. Peterson's poodle, who ate her diamond earring." I hold up the sandwich. "You didn't eat."
She glances away. "Not hungry."
"Rowan," I say, moving closer, "you need to eat. You've lost weight."
"Have not," she mutters, but there's no conviction in it.
I settle on the arm of the couch, keeping a careful distance. "Do you want to talk about what's going on? And don't say 'nothing,' because we both know that's not true."
She strokes Gerald's tiny head, not meeting my eyes. "I just... don't feel like myself lately."
"Because of the changes?" I ask gently.
She nods, almost imperceptibly. "It's like my body is... I don't know. Rebelling. Doing things I don't want it to do."
"That must be scary," I say, acknowledging her fear instead of trying to rationalize it away.
She looks up at me, surprise flickering across her face, followed by something softer. "It is," she admits. "I've spent my whole life not fitting into any category. Not alpha, not beta, not omega. Just... Rowan. And now..."
"Now you might have to redefine yourself," I finish when she trails off.
"Exactly." She shifts, careful not to disturb Gerald. "What if I don't like who I become? What if I can't handle it? Omegas have so many... physiological demands. Heats, a-and nesting, and all that instinctual stuff."
I hold out the sandwich. "Well, they also need food. Just like every other designation."
She rolls her eyes but takes the sandwich. Our fingers brush during the exchange, and I feel her shiver at the contact, a small tremor that runs from her fingers all the way up her arm. My own body responds instantly, alpha instincts humming to life at this evidence of her responsiveness to me.
Focus, Theo.
I force myself to stand, to put distance between us. "Eat," I instruct, my voice rougher than I intended. "Doctor's orders."
She unwraps the sandwich slowly, her eyes still on me. There's something new in her gaze—a question, maybe even a hint of disappointment at my retreat.
"Doctor of veterinary medicine," she points out, taking a small bite. "Not exactly applicable."
"Mammals are mammals," I shrug. "Basic nutritional needs are pretty universal."
She takes another bite, larger this time. "This is good," she admits.
"I know. I made it."
That earns me a smile, small but genuine. It's the first real smile I've seen from her in days, and something in my chest relaxes at the sight.
I should go upstairs. Let her eat in peace. Get some sleep before my next shift.
Instead, I find myself settling into the armchair across from her. "Want to talk about something else? Take your mind off things?"
Relief crosses her face. "Please. Anything but my weird body or this town's festival obsession."
"Well, that eliminates about ninety percent of all possible conversation topics in Vineyard Groves," I joke. "But let's see... did I ever tell you about the time Jasper tried to build a treehouse and got stuck fifty feet up an oak tree?"
"No," she says, eyes widening. "But I need this story immediately."
So I tell her, embellishing the details for maximum comedic effect, watching as she relaxes with each bite of her sandwich and each burst of laughter. Gerald wakes up briefly, disturbed by her chuckling, then settles back down with a disgruntled mew.
"He was so mad," I finish, grinning at the memory. "Covered in leaves, hanging from one arm, and still insisting he didn't need help. The fire department had to bring a ladder truck."
"That sounds exactly like him," Rowan says, shaking her head. "Let me guess—he finished the treehouse anyway?"
"The very next day. And it's still standing, out at Mayor Tillie's place. Her grandkids use it now."
"Of course it is." She smiles, brushing crumbs from her lap. The sandwich is gone, I note with satisfaction. "Thank you. For the food. And the distraction."
"Anytime," I say, meaning it more than she knows.
We sit in comfortable silence for a few moments. Gerald stretches in his sleep, tiny paws extending outward before curling back in. Rowan watches him with such tender affection that it makes my chest ache.
"He's getting bigger," I observe. "You're taking good care of him."
"He's easy to love," she says softly, stroking his fur. "No complications. No expectations. He just needs food and warmth and attention."
"Don't we all," I murmur.
She looks up at me, something vulnerable in her eyes. "Why are you so nice to me, Theo? When Jasper can barely stand to be in the same room with me, and Wells treats me like I'm a bomb about to go off?"
The question catches me off guard. "Because... you deserve kindness? Because you're going through something difficult and could use a friend?"
"Is that what we are? Friends?"
There's a weight to her question that makes my pulse quicken. "I'd like to think so," I say carefully. "Unless you'd prefer we weren't."
"No," she says quickly. "I mean, yes. I'd like to be friends." She looks down, a flush spreading across her cheeks. "I’ll take as many friends as I can get. I don't have any... alpha friends."
The way she says "alpha friends" makes it clear that friendship isn't all she's thinking about. And if I'm honest with myself, it's not all I'm thinking about either.
"Well, now you have one," I say, keeping my tone light despite the heaviness in my chest.
"An alpha friend who will force-feed you sandwiches and embarrass Jasper with stories of his mishaps."
She laughs softly, but her scent has changed—sweetened, deepened, with notes that make my body respond in ways I'm trying desperately to ignore.
She's not on suppressants, I realize suddenly.
Just blockers. And without the suppressants to stabilize her hormones, her body is responding to compatible alphas in proximity.
To me.
I am a compatible alpha to her.
I should leave. Now, before I do something stupid.
But as I start to rise, her face falls, and the disappointment in her expression hits me like a physical blow. She's lonely, I realize. Scared and confused and far from home, trying to navigate changes she doesn't understand.
"Actually," I hear myself saying, "I'm too wired to sleep yet. Want to watch something mindless on TV? I think there's a baking competition marathon on."
The smile she gives me is worth every alarm bell going off in my head. "I'd like that."
I settle back in the chair, reaching for the remote. We find the baking show and watch in comfortable silence, occasionally commenting on particularly disastrous cake fails or impressive sugar work. Gradually, Rowan's eyelids grow heavy, her responses becoming slower, more mumbled.
When she finally drifts off, Gerald still curled on her chest, I turn the volume down but leave the TV on for background noise. I probably should wake her, tell her to go to bed. Or at least cover her with a blanket and go upstairs myself.
Instead, I find myself moving to sit beside her on the couch, careful not to disturb her.
In sleep, her face is relaxed, the worry lines that have been increasingly present lately smoothed away.
She looks younger, more vulnerable. A strand of hair has fallen across her cheek, and without thinking, I reach out to brush it back.
My fingers graze her skin, and even in sleep, she reacts—turning her face toward my touch with a soft sigh that sends a jolt straight through me.
Move away, Theo. Now.
But my body isn't listening to my brain anymore. Before I can stop myself, I'm gently running my wrist along the curve of her neck—a subtle scent-marking gesture that's pure alpha instinct, an offer of comfort and protection.
Her reaction is immediate. She exhales shakily, her body melting into the touch like she's been waiting for it, needing it. Even Gerald seems to sense the change, stretching and purring louder in his sleep.
I pull back, shocked at my own behavior. Scent-marking is intimate, presumptuous—not something you do to a "friend," especially not without explicit permission. It's the sort of gesture that marks her as "mine" in ways I have no right to claim.
But as I watch Rowan settle deeper into sleep, her expression more peaceful than I've seen it in days, a realization hits me with devastating clarity.
I'm falling for her.
Not just her scent, not just her potential omega status, but her—Rowan Whitley, with her fierce protectiveness of a tiny kitten, her dry humor, her determination to face her fears alone rather than burden others.
And if the way my scent calms her is any indication, her body has already recognized something her conscious mind might not be ready to admit.
We're compatible. Potentially incredibly so.
Which means this situation just got exponentially more complicated.
Because Rowan isn't just responding to me. She's living in a house with three unmated alphas, all of whom are increasingly affected by her emerging scent. Jasper's hostility, Wells's rigid control—they're just different manifestations of the same attraction I'm feeling.
And if—when—she fully presents, all hell is going to break loose.
I should wake her, send her to her room, create some distance. But as I look at her sleeping face, finally peaceful after days of visible stress, I can't bring myself to disturb her.
Instead, I carefully lift Gerald from her chest, setting him in his bed nearby, and then cover Rowan with the throw blanket from the back of the couch. She murmurs something in her sleep, turning slightly toward me, her scent wrapping around me like an embrace.
This is dangerous territory. For all of us.
But as I finally force myself to walk away, heading upstairs to my own room, I can't ignore the feeling that somehow, in some way I don't fully understand yet, Rowan Whitley has already claimed a piece of me.
And I'm not sure I want it back.