Chapter 25 Rowan
Rowan
It’s probably not a smart idea that I'm here. In fact if it weren't for the fact that I’m -- I was-- latent I probably wouldn’t be.
The Harvest Festival swirls around me in a dizzying kaleidoscope of colors, sounds, and scents.
Too many scents—food stalls selling fried everything, fall flowers and stalks of corn adorning every available surface, and people.
So many people, with their individual pheromones creating a cacophony that my newly sensitive nose can barely process.
I should be home, curled in my nest of blankets, riding out the last waves of my heat in private. But after two days of vulnerability—of needing help, of accepting comfort from Theo's gentle hands and reassuring scent—I couldn't stand another minute of weakness.
So I forced myself out of bed this morning, took the coldest shower possible, applied triple the recommended dose of blockers, and convinced myself I was fine. Functional enough, at least, to make an appearance at the festival Crystal had been talking about for weeks.
"You look like death warmed over," she'd observed bluntly when I arrived at our booth, surrounded by elaborate floral arrangements. "Go home."
"I'm fine," I'd insisted, the lie so practiced by now it almost sounded convincing. "Just a little under the weather."
She hadn't believed me, but she also hadn't pushed. That's what I appreciate about Crystal—she respects boundaries, doesn't pry, lets people handle things their own way.
Unlike some people I could name.
I've been carefully avoiding the three alphas all day, which is challenging in a town this size during its biggest event of the season.
I've glimpsed them from a distance—Wells coordinating with security near the main pavilion, Theo at the veterinary clinic's informational booth, Jasper helping with some last-minute repairs to one of the stage platforms.
Each sighting sends a jolt through me, a combination of want and wariness that leaves me off-balance.
I don't know how to face them after what happened.
After I let Theo hold me, scent-mark me, comfort me in my most vulnerable state.
After I nearly begged for more, for all of them, in the depths of my heat-induced delirium.
The memory alone makes heat rise to my cheeks, and I duck behind a display of apple-themed crafts to collect myself. This was a mistake. I'm not ready to be around people, to maintain this facade of normalcy when everything has changed.
I should leave, go back to the house, hide until—
"Rowan?"
The voice stops me cold, a voice I would know anywhere, that I've heard my entire life. A voice I never expected to hear in Vineyard Groves.
I turn slowly, hoping I'm hallucinating, a leftover symptom of my heat.
But no. There she stands, five feet away, looking exactly as she has my entire life—practical bob haircut, sensible shoes, smile lines around her eyes. My mother.
"Mom?" I say, the word feeling strange in my mouth after weeks of silence. "What are you doing here?"
She takes a step closer, her familiar scent—lemongrass and laundry detergent—reaching me even through the festival's olfactory chaos. "You didn't answer our calls. Or texts. Your dads and I were worried."
"So you, what, tracked me down?" I ask,the anger that bubbles up is unexpected and hot.
"How did you even find me?"
"Your former land lord told us you'd mentioned a place called Vineyard Groves," she admits.
"It wasn't hard to figure out the rest."
Betrayal stings, though I can't really blame The Jerk. He has no loyalty to me, and my parents can be persuasive when worried.
"Well, you've seen me. I'm fine. You can go now." I turn to leave, not caring how rude it is, not wanting this confrontation in the middle of a crowded festival where everyone seems to know everyone else's business.
"Rowan, please." Her hand catches my arm, gentle but insistent. "We need to talk. About James. About... everything."
"Now?" I gesture around at the festival, at the curious glances already being thrown our way.
"Here?"
"You've been avoiding us for months," she points out. "If not now, when?"
She has a point, but I'm not feeling particularly reasonable. Especially not with the last remnants of my heat making my skin too sensitive, my emotions too raw, my defenses too thin.
"Fine," I relent, moving us toward a slightly less crowded area near the edge of the square.
"Talk."
She takes a deep breath, visibly steeling herself. "James contacted us again. He has information about your... condition. Why you've been latent all these years. It's genetic, on his side. He thinks he can help."
The words hit like physical blows. Genetic. On his side. The implication being that my biological father—this stranger who contributed DNA and then vanished—might hold the key to the mystery that's defined my life.
"And you couldn't have told me this, I don't know, twenty years ago?" My voice rises despite my efforts to control it. "Instead of dragging me to doctor after doctor, test after test, making me feel like I was broken?"
"We didn't know!" she protests. "We had no contact with him after... after everything happened. He only reached out recently."
"And how did he find out about me?" I demand, suddenly suspicious. "How does he know anything about me at all?"
She has the grace to look guilty. "Your father—Pops—he reached out to him first. After your last appointment with Dr. Shepherd. When they suggested the hormone therapy might have long-term risks."
The betrayal cuts deeper than I expected. "You went behind my back. To the man who abandoned us."
"He didn't—" She stops herself, clearly choosing her next words carefully. "It wasn't that simple, Rowan. Nothing about that time was simple."
"Then explain it to me," I challenge, aware that my voice has risen again, that people are definitely staring now.
I don't care. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks pretty damn simple.
Three parents raised me, one didn't. Two fathers stuck around, one didn't. One donated sperm and disappeared, the others actually parented me. "
"James wanted to be involved," she says, her own composure slipping. "We were the ones who pushed him away. Your fathers and I. We thought... we thought it would be confusing for you, having him in the picture."
The ground seems to shift beneath my feet. The narrative I've built my entire life around—abandoned by a man who didn't want me—suddenly tilting on its axis.
"You're lying," I say, but even to my own ears it sounds more like a plea than an accusation.
"I'm not." Her eyes fill with tears, and I hate how it still affects me, still makes something in my chest ache despite everything. "We made a mistake, Rowan. We thought we were protecting you, but we were wrong. And now... now you're suffering the consequences."
"Consequences?" I latch onto the word, anger flaring again. "You mean my biology? My latency? That's a consequence of your lie?"
"Not a lie," she corrects gently. "An omission. We never told you the full truth about why James left. We didn't think it mattered, until..."
"Until I turned out to be a genetic anomaly," I finish for her, the pieces clicking into place with nauseating clarity. "So what is it? What's wrong with me? With him?"
"Nothing's wrong with you," she insists, reaching for me again. "Nothing has ever been wrong with you. It's just... his family has a history of suppressed secondary gender expression. Especially in omegas. It often doesn't manifest until triggered by compatible alphas or significant life changes."
Compatible alphas. The words echo in my head, images of Theo, Jasper, and Wells flashing through my mind in rapid succession. Their scents, their touch, the way my body responds to their presence.
"So you're saying I was normal all along?" My voice cracks on the word 'normal'—the state I've been chasing my entire life. "That all those doctors, all those tests, all those feelings of being broken were for nothing?"
"We didn't know," she repeats, her own voice unsteady now. "James only told us about his family history after Pops contacted him. If we had known—"
"You would have what?" I demand, tears threatening to roll down my cheeks despite my best efforts. "Told me the truth? Let me meet him? Given me some context for why I've felt like a freak my entire life?"
People are definitely staring now, conversations quieting around us as the confrontation escalates. Through my peripheral vision, I notice three familiar figures approaching—Theo, Wells, and Jasper, drawn by the commotion or perhaps by my distress-laden scent cutting through the blockers.
Great. An audience. Just what this needs.
"Rowan, please," my mother pleads, real remorse in her eyes. "We made mistakes. Terrible mistakes. But we love you. We've always loved you. We just want to help."
"Help?" I laugh, the sound bitter even to my own ears. "Now? After I've spent my entire life thinking I was broken, different, wrong? After I've finally started figuring things out on my own? Now you want to help?"
Wells reaches us first, his expression carefully neutral though his scent betrays his concern. He positions himself slightly between us, not quite interfering but making his presence known.
"Is everything alright here?" he asks, his voice measured but with an undercurrent of authority that makes my mother step back instinctively.
"It's fine," I say quickly, not wanting him involved in this mess. "Family discussion."
"It doesn't sound fine," he observes, eyes flicking between us, assessing.
"Please," my mother says, addressing him directly. "I'm Rowan's mother. This is a private matter."
Something flashes in Wells's eyes—recognition, perhaps, of the complicated emotions at play. He hesitates, then looks to me. "Do you want me to stay or go?"
The question is simple, but the implications are vast. He's offering protection, support, but also respecting my agency. He’s letting me choose.
"I've got this," I tell him, gratitude mingling with the storm of other emotions churning inside me. "But thanks."
He nods, stepping back but not leaving entirely, a silent presence of support that both comforts me and further complicates our relationship.
I turn back to my mother, suddenly exhausted. The heat that's been slowly receding flares again, making me dizzy, oversensitive. This is too much, too fast, too public.
"I can't do this right now," I tell her, struggling to keep my voice steady. "I need time. Space."
"Rowan, please," she tries again. "Your father—Pops—is here too. At the bed and breakfast near the lake. He wants to see you. To explain everything. James has offered to come too, if you're ready to meet him."
The thought of facing all of them—my parents, the man whose DNA I share but who remains a stranger—is overwhelming. I take a step back, shaking my head.
"No. Not now. Maybe... maybe not ever."
Pain flashes across her face, but I can't bring myself to care. Not when my own pain has been building for a lifetime, compounded by lies and omissions and well-intentioned mistakes.
"I love you," she says softly, and the simple truth of it is what finally breaks me.
"I know," I admit, tears spilling over despite my best efforts. "That's what makes it worse."
I turn and flee, not caring how it looks, not caring about anything except getting away from the crowded festival, away from curious eyes and my mother's pain and the complicated presence of three alphas who've somehow become essential to my equilibrium in just a few short weeks.
I make it to the edge of the square before the dizziness overwhelms me. The world tilts, black spots dancing at the edges of my vision. Not now. Not here. But my body has other ideas, the combination of receding heat and emotional turmoil pushing me past my limits.
Strong arms catch me before I hit the ground. The scent of pine and sawdust envelops me, familiar and steadying in a world suddenly spinning out of control.
Jasper.
I should pull away. Maintain my distance. Protect what's left of my independence and dignity.
Instead, I collapse against him, burying my face in his chest as tears come in earnest now.
"I've got you," he murmurs, the words rumbling through his chest against my ear. "I've got you, Rowan."
And for once, I don't fight it. I don't insist I'm fine, I don't pull away, I don't maintain the careful barriers I've built over a lifetime of self-reliance.
For once, I let myself be held. I let someone else be strong when I can't. I let myself need and be needed in return.
I'm so tired of fighting. Tired of running. Tired of pretending I don't want exactly what Jasper's offering—what all three of them have been offering in their own ways.
Security. Belonging. Pack. Family.
As Jasper's arms tighten around me, I make a choice I never thought I'd make.
I surrender.