Chapter 13 #2
And all my carefully constructed rationalizations crumble to dust. She's wearing a deep emerald dress that falls just below her ankles, fitted at the waist and through the hips. Her breasts are pushed up and framed by the heart shaped neckline. I can’t help but notice that she has a few freckles scattered there as well.
Her usual halo of blond curls is swept up in some complicated arrangement that leaves her neck bare, accentuating its graceful curve.
She's wearing makeup, subtle but effective, highlighting the angles of her cheekbones and the fullness of her lips.
She looks beautiful. Not in the polished, calculated way of the society women who usually attend these functions, but in a way that's completely, uniquely Rowan—slightly untamed, a little tentative, but with that core of steel always visible just beneath the surface.
I realize I've stopped breathing only when my lungs start to burn.
She says something to Lala through the car window, then turns toward the house. I quickly step back from the window, not wanting to be caught staring like some lovesick teenager.
The front door opens, and she steps inside, a little unsteady on heels that add several inches to her height. Her scent hits me immediately—the usual sweet notes are stronger now, mingled with something floral that must be perfume, an attempt to mask her natural fragrance.
It doesn't work. Nothing could hide the essential Rowan-ness of her scent, now as familiar to me as my own.
"Hi," she says, stopping just inside the door. "Is this... appropriate for a gala? Lala insisted it was perfect, but she also tried to convince me that feather earrings were 'totally formal wear,' so..."
I realize I'm staring. Worse, my jaw is actually clenched with the effort it's taking not to cross the room to her, to run my fingers along the bare skin of her shoulders, to bury my face in the crook of her neck and inhale the concentrated essence of her.
"It's perfect," I manage, my voice rougher than I intended. I clear my throat. "Very appropriate. You look... nice."
Nice. What an inadequate, ridiculous word for the vision she presents.
She rolls her eyes, but a small smile plays at her lips. "Wow, don't strain yourself with the compliments there, Wells. A girl might get a big head."
"You look beautiful," I amend, the words escaping before I can censor them. "The dress suits you."
A faint blush colors her cheeks. "Thank you. You look pretty good yourself. Very mayoral-adjacent."
I check my watch, partly to give myself something to do besides stare at her. "We should go. Mayor Tillie—"
"—hates tardiness almost as much as she hates inadequate festival decorations," Rowan finishes for me, grinning.
"Lala gave me the full briefing on all things Tillie-related. Including a disturbing amount of detail about her three-decade love affair with the town's former sheriff and current unofficial barber."
Despite myself, I smile. "Lala does have a flair for the dramatic."
"That's putting it mildly. She tried to convince me to wear something called 'pheromone enhancer.' Said it would drive all the alphas wild." Rowan shakes her head, laughing. "As if I need help with that right now."
The casual reference to her situation—to the way her changing biology is affecting us—hangs in the air between us, suddenly making the space seem smaller.
"Right," I say, more stiffly than I intended. "We should go."
I open the door for her, careful not to touch her as she passes.
Even so, I catch another wave of her scent, and something in me—something primal and possessive that I usually keep firmly in check—rumbles to life.
Then my eyes lock on the outline of her ass.
Full and plump, it hypnotizes me with each bounce as she walks. I swallow. Hard.
This was a mistake.
But it's too late to back out now. And as I follow her to my car, still caught up the sway of her hips in that dress, I'm not entirely sure I want to.
The Spring Gala is held in the grand ballroom of the Vineyard Groves Lake Resort, the town's most expensive and impressive venue.
Crystal chandeliers cast a warm glow over round tables draped in white linen, a small orchestra plays classical music in the corner, and Vineyard Groves' elite mill about in their finest attire, sipping champagne and pretending they don't all know every detail of each other's lives.
"Wow," Rowan murmurs as we enter, her eyes wide. "This is... not what I expected."
"What did you expect?" I ask, guiding her toward the champagne table with a light touch at the small of her back. I immediately regret the contact when I feel her warmth through the thin fabric of her dress.
"I don't know. Something more... small town? This looks like it belongs in a movie about rich people with terrible deadly secrets."
I smile despite myself. "The resort goes all out for these events. It's good publicity for them, and it makes the town look prosperous to potential investors."
"Hmm," she says, accepting a glass of champagne from a passing waiter. "And here I thought it was just an excuse for everyone to dress up and gossip."
"That too," I concede. "Speaking of which..."
I nod toward Mayor Tillie, who is making her way toward us with determined purpose, resplendent in a royal blue gown that manages to be both dignified and slightly ostentatious.
"Wells!" she exclaims, air-kissing my cheek. "Always so punctual. And Rowan!" She turns her full attention to my companion, her eyes gleaming with interest. "I've been hearing so much about you, dear. All of it intriguing."
"Mayor Tillie," I interject before she can launch into a full interrogation, "Rowan is still getting settled in town. Perhaps we could save the third degree for later?"
Tillie waves a dismissive hand. "Oh, don't be such a spoilsport, Wells. I'm just being friendly."
She links her arm through Rowan's. "Come, dear, let me introduce you to some people who are dying to meet our newest resident."
Before I can protest, Tillie is sweeping Rowan away, leaving me with nothing but a helpless shrug and an apologetic smile thrown over her shoulder.
I watch as Tillie guides her from group to group, introducing her to town council members, business owners, and various local dignitaries. To my surprise, Rowan handles it with grace, smiling and chatting, her initial nervousness giving way to what appears to be genuine enjoyment.
She's a natural, I realize. Adaptable, quick-witted, capable of making people feel at ease while still maintaining a certain distance. It's a skill I've spent years cultivating, but it seems to come to her instinctively.
As the evening progresses, I find myself watching her more than attending to my own duties. I should be networking, discussing the upcoming festival with sponsors, smoothing over the latest dispute between the historical preservation committee and the tourism board.
Instead, I'm tracking Rowan's movement through the room, noting how her laugh changes depending on who she's talking to, and how she subtly shifts her posture when approached by a particularly aggressive conversationalist.
How every unmated alpha in the room seems to be gravitating toward her.
I tell myself it's normal. She's new, she's attractive, and despite the blockers, her scent is... compelling. Of course people are drawn to her.
But when I see Bradley Peterson, son of the resort owner and notorious playboy, lean in close to whisper something in her ear, something hot and uncomfortable twists in my chest.
Jealousy. Unmistakable, unwelcome, and absolutely inappropriate.
I have no claim on Rowan. No right to feel possessive. This whole evening was supposed to be about providing her with a distraction, not adding to the complications of our situation.
And yet, when Bradley places his hand on the small of her back—exactly where mine had been earlier—I find myself moving across the room before I've made a conscious decision to do so.
"Rowan," I say, my voice carefully controlled as I reach them. "I believe the mayor was looking for us. Something about the silent auction."
Bradley's hand drops away, and Rowan turns to me with a mix of surprise and what might be relief.
"Of course," she says, offering Bradley a polite smile. "If you'll excuse me..."
"I'll find you later," Bradley promises, his gaze lingering on her in a way that makes my jaw clench. "We should continue our... conversation."
I place my hand at the small of Rowan's back again, this time with deliberate intent, guiding her away from Bradley and toward a quieter corner of the ballroom.
"Mayor Tillie isn't looking for us, is she?" Rowan asks once we're out of earshot.
"No," I admit. "But you looked like you could use a rescue."
"My hero," she says drily. "Though to be fair, Bradley was getting a bit... hands-on for someone I met ten minutes ago."
The casual way she says his name makes that uncomfortable feeling twist tighter in my chest. "He has a reputation for that." I say, more curtly than I intended.
Rowan gives me a curious look. "Are you... is everything okay? You seem tense."
I am tense. I'm tense because every protective instinct I possess is screaming at me to get her away from Bradley, away from the other alphas who keep looking at her with interest, away from anyone who isn't me or my pack.
Which is ridiculous, because this whole evening was my idea precisely because it was supposed to be free of alpha possessiveness. And here I am, being exactly the kind of territorial alpha I was trying to help her escape.
"I'm fine," I lie. "Just... professional concerns."
She doesn't look convinced, but she doesn't press the issue. Instead, she takes a sip of her champagne and surveys the room.
"This is actually kind of fun," she admits. "Once you get past the initial twenty questions about where you're from and why you moved to Vineyard Groves."
"What did you tell them?" I ask, curious about how she's navigating her complicated backstory.
She shrugs. "The edited version. Looking for a change of pace. Wanted a smaller town. Left out the part about family drama, identity crises, and mysterious biological changes."
"Probably wise," I say. "Though in this town, that might have made you even more popular."
She laughs, the sound warming something in my chest. "I've noticed Vineyard Groves has a thing for drama."
"It's our primary export, after wine and festival-themed merchandise."
Her smile deepens, reaching her eyes in a way that makes them crinkle at the corners. It's... charming. Distractingly so.
"Thank you," she says suddenly, her tone more serious. "For inviting me tonight. You were right—I needed the distraction."
"You're welcome," I reply, oddly touched by her gratitude. "You seem to be enjoying yourself."
"I am," she agrees. "It's nice to feel... normal, for a few hours. Like I'm just a regular person at a fancy party, not..." She trails off, her smile faltering slightly.
"Not what?" I prompt gently.
She looks at me, vulnerability flickering in her eyes. "Not a ticking time bomb. Not a problem to be solved. Not someone that's causing chaos just by existing."
The raw honesty in her voice catches me off guard. For all her sarcasm and deflection, this is the most open she's been about how our situation is affecting her.
"Rowan," I say, my voice lower, more intimate than I intended, "you're not a problem. You're just going through something difficult. Something none of us was prepared for."
"Including me," she says with a humorless laugh. "Especially me."
Before I can respond, Bradley appears at her elbow, two fresh glasses of champagne in hand. "There you are," he says, his smile not quite reaching his eyes as he looks at me.
"I thought I'd lost you to the chief of staff's legendary conversational skills."
The dig is subtle but clear. I feel my expression harden.
"Actually," Rowan says, surprising me, "Wells was just about to show me the silent auction items. I hear there's a weekend at a luxury cabin up for grabs."
"There is," Bradley confirms. "My family donated it. I'd be happy to give you a private tour... of the auction items."
The innuendo is about as subtle as a brick to the face. I see Rowan's smile tighten, though she maintains her polite expression.
"That's very kind," she says, "but I promised Wells the first look. Rain check?"
Bradley's eyes narrow slightly, but his smile remains fixed. "Of course. I'll hold you to that."
As he walks away, Rowan lets out a small sigh of relief. "Is he always that..."
"Persistent?" I suggest. "Yes. The Petersons are used to getting what they want. He's just lost out on inheriting the resort from his parents, so he's been more full on lately."
"Well, he's barking up the wrong tree," she mutters. "I have enough alpha complications in my life without adding Handsy McResortHeir to the mix."
The casual lumping of me with "alpha complications" should sting, but instead, I find myself unreasonably pleased by her rejection of Bradley. Which is exactly the opposite of what I should be feeling if this evening is truly about giving her space from alpha attention.
"Come on," I say, offering her my arm. "Let's actually look at those auction items. Some of them are worth seeing."
She slips her hand into the crook of my arm, the contact sending a jolt of awareness through me even through the layers of my suit.
"Lead the way," she says. "And maybe after that, you can tell me more about this mysterious cabin where all the town's dark secrets are hidden."
"That would be the abandoned mine shaft, actually," I deadpan. "The cabin is strictly for illicit affairs and the occasional ritual sacrifice."
She laughs, the sound light and genuine, and something in me shifts—a certainty taking root that I've been trying to deny for weeks now.
I'm falling for Rowan Whitley. Not just her scent, not just the omega she might become, but her—this complex, funny, vulnerable woman who's trying so hard to maintain control as her world changes around her.
And that realization makes this evening—meant to be a simple distraction—suddenly much more dangerous than I anticipated.