“Oof,” he grunts, his eyes wide with surprise.

  Time freezes as we stare at each other.

  I’m acutely aware of every point where our bodies connect: my chest against his, my hips aligned with his, his large hands splayed across my back. His woodsy bourbon scent engulfs me, more potent than ever at this proximity. It fills my lungs with each shaky breath, making my head spin worse than any suppressant side effect.

  Before I can process the riot of sensations, a triumphant bleat and a significant weight land squarely on my back, driving me even more firmly against Liam.

  I gasp as Maple settles herself comfortably on top of me, looking immensely pleased with her new perch and apparently deciding that this pile of humans makes an excellent resting spot.

  Then I feel the deep rumble of Liam’s laughter vibrating through his chest, where I’m pressed against him. The sound is so unexpected, and despite being sandwiched between an alpha and a goat, I laugh too.

  “Your face,” he manages between laughs. “When you were swinging—”

  “I was terrified!” I protest, but I’m laughing too hard to sound indignant. “I thought I was going to die by Christmas lights!”

  Apparently enjoying the vibrations of our laughter, Maple settles more comfortably on my back, making herself at home.

  * * *

  The drive into Autumn Falls proper takes only fifteen minutes, the winding country road carrying me past fields and forests painted in autumn colors. The town is small but charming—a main street lined with locally owned businesses, a town square with a gazebo, and the kind of architecture suggesting most buildings have stood for at least a century.

  I park near the pharmacy, keeping my head down as I hurry inside. As soon as I step inside, the elderly beta behind the counter looks up with the polite curiosity of someone who knows they don’t recognize a customer.

  “Good afternoon,” she says. “Can I help you find something?”

  As I approach the counter, I scan the shop to ensure no one will overhear, already feeling exposed. “I need to refill a prescription,” I say quietly. “Omega suppressants.”

  Her expression doesn’t change, but she lowers her voice discreetly. “Do you have your prescription with you, dear?”

  I produce the empty bottle, pushing it across the counter. She examines it, then looks up with an apologetic smile. “I’m afraid we don’t carry this particular brand or dosage. This is stronger than what we typically stock.”

  My heart sinks. “Do you have anything similar? Any suppressants at all?”

  She turns to her computer, typing briefly. “We have the standard formulation, but it’s about half the strength you’re taking. And we’d need a local doctor to write you a new prescription.”

  The thought of seeing a doctor, explaining my situation, and possibly having my details entered into a system that could be tracked sends a spike of fear through me. “How long would it take to order this specific one?”

  “At least a week, possibly longer. We don’t have many omega customers requesting extra-strength suppressants, so we don’t keep them in regular inventory.”

  A week! I have one pill left. The panic must show on my face, because the pharmacist leans forward, her expression sympathetic.

  “Are you staying in town long?” she asks gently.

  “I’m here for the season,” I admit, seeing no reason to lie about that much.

  Recognition flashes in her eyes. “Oh! You must be the new social media girl at Harvest Home Farm. Theo was here last week, talking about how their Instagram following exploded.”

  Of course. Small towns. Everyone knows everyone. I smile and nod, hoping I don’t look as panicked as I feel.

  “That’s me,” I confirm, forcing a smile. “Is there anywhere else nearby that might carry these? Another pharmacy?”

  She shakes her head. “The nearest one that might be is in Snowflake Valley, about forty minutes north. But even they would probably need to order it.”

  I thank her and leave quickly. Back in my car, I pull out my phone and search for online pharmacies. I find one that carries my brand and offers express shipping—at an exorbitant cost that will eat into my carefully saved funds. But I don’t have a choice. I add in their most robust, slick-absorbing panty pack. I place the order, selecting overnight shipping, hoping it arrives on time.

  When I return to the farm, my headache has intensified, and I feel slightly nauseated. I park near my cottage, planning to go directly there to apply a fresh scent patch, but Rowan is walking from the main house toward the barn and spots me immediately.

  “Emma,” he calls, changing direction to intercept me. “Got a minute?”

  I consider pretending I didn’t hear him, but that would be stupid. Better to get whatever this is over with quickly. “Sure,” I say, trying to sound normal despite the pounding in my head.

  As he approaches, I can smell him more distinctly than before—burnt sugar and musk, but with undertones I hadn’t detected previously. Something earthy and compelling that makes my pulse quicken. The suppressants are definitely failing.

  Rowan stops a few feet away, his head tilting as he studies me. “Everything okay? You look pale.”

  “Just a headache,” I say, which is partially true. “Nothing serious.”

  Rowan takes a step closer, and I have to force myself not to back away. His nostrils flare.

  Panic flutters in my chest.

  I need to take another dose.

  I need to get away from him now.

  “Actually, I’m not feeling great,” I admit, seizing the excuse. “Might be coming down with something. I should probably rest.”

  “Of course. Can I get you anything? Medicine? Soup?”

  “No, thank you. I just need to lie down for a while.”

  He hesitates, then nods. “If you change your mind, text any of us. And Emma—” he pauses, his eyes holding mine, “don’t push yourself. The work can wait if you’re not well.”

  He is so sweet and caring. I hate brushing him off like this.

  I nod, already backing toward my cottage. “Thanks. I’ll be fine after some rest.”

  Once I’m safely inside and the door is locked, I breathe normally again, but my panic grows.

  What if he thinks I’m being totally rude and ungrateful?

  What if the online order doesn’t arrive in time?

  What if the pharmacy calls the doctor on the prescription and discovers I’ve been refilling it without authorization?

  I lie on my bed, arm thrown over my eyes to block the light, intensifying my headache. I thought I’d found the perfect hiding place—a remote farm, a job that kept me busy but not too visible, and people who cared enough to respect my privacy.

  A wave of guilt washes over me.

  They’ve been nothing but kind since I arrived, and what have I given them in return?

  Suspicion. Fear. Distance.

  I’ve been so busy protecting myself that I’ve built walls higher than the corn maze, isolating myself from the people who have shown me more kindness than I’ve experienced in months.

  A lump forms in my throat. I’ve been so focused on protecting myself from potential threats that I’ve forgotten how to be a person who connects with others.

  Someone worth knowing. Worth caring about.

  The truth is, I’m afraid because I care. Caring means vulnerability, and vulnerability has only ever led to pain.

  But the most terrifying truth is that part I don’t want to run anymore. I want to stay, to see what these fragile connections might mean. To discover if Theo’s easy friendship, Liam’s quiet understanding, and Rowan’s protective presence could become something more.

  Yep. I’m totally screwed because I’m developing feelings for not one, but all three men, my suppressants are failing, and my carefully constructed anonymity is threatening to unravel.

  The rational part of my brain knows better.

  I can never be safe.

  Biology is biology.

  Instinct is instinct. No matter how kind they seem now.

  Would it, though?

  Not all alphas are assholes… just the majority of them.

  I press my palms against my eyes, willing the pain and doubt away. One day at a time. That’s how I’ve survived so far. Get through tomorrow. Wait for the suppressants to arrive. Stay hidden for just a little longer, and then you can reassess.

  14

  Inbox Notification

  From: MAshcroft@Ashcroftmedia.com

  Subject: I WILL find you…

  I just got off the phone with the new private investigator I hired. He’s much more efficient than the last one. He found your previous dump of a motel.

  Really, Emma? Is that how you want to live when I have a penthouse in the city and a mansion by the ocean?

  How disappointing.

  The good news is that your mother and I were able to file a missing persons report.

  You’ll be safe back home very soon.

  I always get what I want.

  This little game has been fun, but it ends now.

  -M

  15

  Emma

  The package doesn’t arrive.

  I wait by my cottage window all morning, watching the delivery truck make its methodical way around the farm, dropping off supplies. But nothing for cottage number two. Nothing for me. When the truck finally pulls away, I sink onto my sofa, a hand pressed against my mouth to stifle the sound of distress that wants to escape.

  The online pharmacy’s tracking information shows that the package was delayed in transit due to its remote location.

  Estimated delivery: tomorrow.

  Maybe.

  My fingers tremble as I open the orange bottle and shake the last pill into my palm. It looks small and insignificant, like this tiny white circle between me and potential disaster. I should save it, a voice in my head argues. Hold it for when I absolutely need it. But another voice, louder and more insistent, reminds me that withdrawal symptoms from suppressants can be severe. Going cold turkey could mean not just revealing my omega status but potentially triggering a stress heat—the worst possible scenario.

  I swallow the pill with water, then apply two scent patches. For good measure, I apply a third to the inside of my wrist, where the scent gland is less pronounced but still active.

  “Just get through today. The package will come tomorrow.”

  I send Theo a text: “Feeling under the weather. Working from the cottage today.”

  Theo’s response comes almost immediately: “No worries! Rest up. Want me to bring coffee, scones, or soup? Homemade chicken noodle = miracle cure.”

  The offer is tempting, but I can’t risk it.

  “Thanks, but better not. Might be contagious. Will let you know if I need anything.”

  I turn back to my work, but the words swim on the screen, refusing to come into focus. The dizziness is worsening, a floating sensation that makes me grip the table’s edge for stability even though I’m sitting down. I should lie down, close my eyes, wait for this to pass. But the thought of being even more vulnerable makes anxiety spike through me. So I push it down and work.

  Work is good. It will distract me.

  A knock at the door makes me jump, heart racing painfully in my chest.

  “Emma, it’s Theo. I know you’re not feeling well. I’m just leaving this tray outside for you in case you change your mind. Rowan insisted I add some cookies, too.”

  I wait until his footsteps fade away before approaching the door. My body feels weak and feverish as I cross the small cottage. When I open the door, I blink in surprise.

  It is no simple tray—there’s a feast. A thermos of coffee sits beside a bowl of steaming soup, both nestled in a wicker basket. A small crystal vase holds wildflowers; I recognize orange and yellow blooms from the farm’s gardens. Scones are arranged on a plate beside homemade cookies, still slightly warm, judging by the chocolate that glistens on their surface.

  A handwritten note leans against the vase.

  Feel better. We miss you around the house.

  —Theo

  And beside all this bounty, neatly folded, sits a stack of extra pillows and the softest-looking blanket—a thick, plush throw in a deep orange.

  Warmth radiates from my chest, spreading outward until I feel it in my fingertips. I find myself smiling despite the pounding in my head, despite the fear that’s been my constant companion.

  I gather everything quickly, bringing it inside before anyone can see the goofy grin on my face or the moisture gathering in my eyes. The soup smells divine—rich chicken broth with vegetables and tender noodles—and my stomach growls in response, no longer used to the feeling of hunger.

  Settling on the sofa, I wrap the blanket around my shoulders. It’s even softer than it looked, enveloping me in warmth that feels like an embrace. I sip the soup slowly, letting it soothe me.

  The blanket carries a faint but unmistakable scent of cinnamon. Theo. This is his blanket, from his bed or his room. The realization should make me uncomfortable, but instead, I bury my face in the soft fabric, inhaling deeply.

  It’s comforting. Safe.

  I try to focus on work as I eat. The farm’s social media accounts are thriving—engagement numbers are climbing steadily, new followers join daily, and local news outlets reach out for feature stories. I should feel proud of my accomplishments in just a few weeks. Instead, all I feel is a growing sense of dread.

  By midday, I feel worse.

  The headache is worse. There is pressure behind my eyes now, and there is a pounding at my temples that makes it hard to focus on the screen. Nausea rolls through me in waves, and my skin feels hypersensitive. The brush of my sweater against my arms is almost painful.

  Are these heat symptoms or just anxiety? I don’t know, as I have suppressed all of my previous heats.

  Either way, I can’t risk being around the others like this.

  I finish half a scone before my eyelids grow heavy. The combination of food, warmth, and the soothing scent lulls me toward sleep. I arrange the pillows; they smell like Rowan and Liam, and I briefly wonder if this is intentional. Then, I curl up beneath the blanket.

  Just a short nap, I tell myself, just until the package arrives.

  16

  Liam

  Maple won’t stop bleating.

  I’ve tried everything for the past hour: fresh hay, apple slices, and even the carrots she usually goes crazy for. Nothing works. She keeps pacing in agitated circles, trotting toward Emma’s cottage, then back to me with a look that says I’m the dumbest alpha who ever lived.

  “What is it, girl?” I crouch to her level, scratching behind her ears where she usually loves it. She butts my hand away with enough force that I nearly lose my balance, then trots a few deliberate steps toward Emma’s cottage before looking back at me with what I swear is impatience.

  “I miss her too,” I tell Maple. “But we need to let her rest.”

  This time, Maple bleats again, stomping one small hoof against the ground.

  “Alright,” I mutter, straightening up and brushing dirt from my jeans. “Let’s go check on her.”

  Maple doesn’t wait for me, already trotting ahead with purpose. I lengthen my stride to keep up, trying to ignore the knot of worry in my gut.

  As we approach the cottage, I spot the empty basket outside her door—Theo’s care package from earlier. At least she’d eaten something.

  That’s good.

  I knock firmly on the wooden door. “Emma? It’s Liam. Just checking if you need anything.”

  No response. The cottage is silent except for the faint whistling of the wind through the trees nearby. I knock again, louder this time.

  “Emma?”

  Maple paws at the door, her small hooves scratching against the wood as she bleats urgently. Her ears are flattened against her head, a sign of distress I’ve rarely seen in her.

  That’s when I hear it, a low moan from inside, followed by incoherent mumbling. The sound raises every hair on the back of my neck.

  My heart rate spikes, pounding against my ribs. “Emma?” I call again, pressing my ear to the door. “I’m coming in, okay?”

  I try the handle. Locked. Of course it’s locked.

  Fuck it. I retrieve the master key; my mind races as I return and slide the key into the lock.

  As I push the door open, her scent hits me: apple pie, but somehow wrong.

  Too sharp, too hot. Fevered.

  The sweetness is there, but twisted with something sour, something that makes my alpha instincts scream danger rather than desire.

  Our mate is in distress.

  Underneath that intoxicating sweetness is the sour note of pain, of something fundamentally wrong.

  It’s somehow mirrored in my body, a dull ache settling into my joints, a heaviness in my chest that wasn’t there moments ago.

  “Emma?” I step inside.

  The cottage is dim, and the air feels too warm and stifling. She’s in bed, tangled in sheets and Theo’s orange blanket. Her hair is plastered to her forehead, and her cheeks are flushed an alarming red. She tosses restlessly, murmuring words I can’t make out.

  “Shit,” I breathe.

  She’s burning up. Sweat soaks through her t-shirt, and her breathing comes in short, labored gasps.

  I crouch beside the bed, careful not to touch her. “Emma, can you hear me?”

  Her eyes flutter open, unfocused and glassy with fever. They roam the room before finally settling on my face. “L-Liam?” Her voice is a dry rasp, barely audible.

  “Yes, it’s me,” I confirm, keeping my voice steady despite the panic rising in my chest. “What happened? What can I do?”

  She’s mumbling something about packages and pills. Her hand flutters weakly toward her neck, where I now notice not one but two scent patches, slightly overlapping.

 

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