Page 1 of Mating With My Grumpy Alphas (Hollow Haven #2)

Willa

T he house looked exactly like the online photos, which meant it looked like it had given up trying to impress anyone about a decade ago.

Gray siding that might have been blue once, white trim that needed paint, and a front porch that sagged with the weight of small-town indifference.

Perfect. I didn't need impressive. I needed invisible.

I sat in my beat-up Honda Civic with the engine off, staring at what would be home for the next few months.

One suitcase, a camera bag shoved under a blanket, and a cardboard box of kitchen basics represented everything I owned now.

Everything that mattered enough to keep, anyway.

The rest of my life, the designer clothes Sterling had insisted on, the art books that matched his minimalist aesthetic, the expensive camera equipment he'd bought to show how supportive he was of my "little hobby.

" All of it had stayed behind in his glass cage.

I'd left them there on purpose. Those things belonged to the omega he'd wanted me to be, not the one I actually was.

My fingers drummed against the steering wheel as I scanned the neighborhood.

Magnolia Crescent looked exactly like its name suggested, a gentle curve of houses that had seen better decades but wore their age with dignity.

Nothing like Sterling's gated community where every mailbox was regulation black and every lawn was measured for compliance.

Here, someone had painted their front door bright yellow.

Another house had wind chimes that actually made sound instead of looking expensive and silent.

My suppressants were working at least. I could barely smell my own signature, let alone pick up anything from the neighborhood. Dr. Walsh had warned me they'd make everything feel muted, like living life through frosted glass. Small price to pay for invisibility.

I grabbed my suitcase from the passenger seat and forced myself out of the car. The late October air bit through my oversized cable-knit sweater, carrying the scent of woodsmoke and fallen leaves. Someone was burning something that smelled like home, if home was a place I'd ever actually had.

The front door key stuck in the lock like everything else in my life lately, requiring more force than seemed reasonable for such a simple task.

When it finally gave way, I stumbled into a space that managed to be furnished yet completely impersonal.

Clean beige walls, furniture that came from whatever catalog offered the most generic options, windows dressed in blinds that had probably been white once upon a time.

I set my suitcase down and immediately went to check the locks on every window and door.

Old habit from the last few months with Sterling, when his business associates had started showing up at odd hours and his definition of "security" had shifted toward something that felt more like surveillance than protection.

At least here, the locks were mine to control.

The kitchen was small but functional, with a view of the backyard that extended toward what looked like thick forest. I'd chosen this place specifically for that detail.

I wanted something between me and whatever came next.

Barriers were good. Barriers kept people from getting close enough to see the cracks.

Sterling used to say I had no sense of place, that I treated everywhere like a temporary stop instead of building something permanent.

"Real omegas nest," he'd remind me whenever I left books on his glass coffee table or forgot to fluff his perfectly arranged pillows.

Maybe he was right. Maybe I was broken in all the ways that mattered for someone like me.

But Sterling wasn't here anymore. And the omega he'd wanted me to be, compliant, decorative, grateful for his vision of what our life should look like, she wasn't here either.

I’d returned to the car and was carrying my box of kitchen supplies inside when the sound of a vehicle pulling up broke through my fog and made me pause in the driveway. Not the purr of luxury sedans I'd grown accustomed to, but something practical and purposeful.

A truck rumbled to a stop across the street.

Not the sleek sedans or SUVs Sterling's neighborhood had been full of, but something practical with "Wildlife Conservation" painted on the side.

The engine cut, and I found myself frozen halfway between my car and front door like prey that had just spotted a predator.

The man who climbed out was exactly the kind of alpha I'd been hoping to avoid.

Big enough to fill a doorway, wearing the kind of practical clothes that suggested he actually used his hands for work.

When the wind shifted and brought his scent with it, my suppressants might as well have been sugar pills.

Cedar smoke and something clean and mineral, like river stones after rain. My body responded before my brain could stop it, a flutter of awareness low in my belly that I hadn't felt in months. I gripped the box tighter and willed my scent to stay locked down.

He moved with the kind of competence that came from years of knowing exactly what he was doing.

Professional, efficient, but there was something about the way he carried himself that suggested he noticed everything around him.

Including me, apparently, because his ice-blue eyes found mine before I could duck away.

I straightened my back and headed toward the house, determined to finish the task that had brought me outside in the first place.

He was working at the house next door, setting up what looked like a humane trap while an elderly woman watched from her porch with obvious relief.

Nothing to do with me. Nothing that required interaction.

He looked up from securing the trap and caught me staring. "New neighbor?" His voice was gravelly, like he didn't waste words on small talk.

"Just moved in," I managed, proud that my voice came out steady. "Today."

"Wildlife call next door," he explained, nodding toward the house where the elderly woman stood. "Raccoon family setting up shop. Nothing dangerous."

Something in his tone suggested he was explaining for my benefit, letting me know I was safe. The thought irritated me more than it should have.

"I'm not worried about raccoons," I said, then immediately regretted the defensive edge in my voice.

He studied me for a long moment, and I had the uncomfortable feeling that he could see straight through the walls I'd spent months building.

His nostrils flared slightly as he took in my scent despite the suppressants, and something shifted in his expression.

Not predatory, exactly, but alert. Protective in a way that made my skin prickle with awareness.

I knew what he was reading. An omega in distress, someone running from something, clearly not wanting help. The kind of wounded vulnerability that probably triggered every alpha instinct he possessed. The thought made me want to retreat into the house and lock the door behind me.

"Wes Thatcher," he said after finishing with the trap, offering the information like he wasn't sure I wanted it. "Wildlife Conservation. You'll probably see me around. Lot of animal activity this time of year."

"Willa." I didn't offer my last name. Didn't mention that I'd specifically chosen this rental because it was supposed to keep me away from interactions like this. That would sound too much like I'd been planning to stay.

"Welcome to Hollow Haven," he said, and something in his tone made it sound less like a pleasantry and more like a promise.

I mumbled something about needing to finish unpacking and escaped back to my front door, hyperaware of his presence until his truck finally pulled away.

Even then, traces of cedar smoke seemed to linger in the air, cutting through the suppressants like they were nothing more than a polite suggestion.

I didn't come here to be someone's rescue project. I came here to disappear, to give myself time to heal before making any decisions about what I wanted my life to look like.

Three hours. I'd been in Hollow Haven for three hours, and I'd already managed to attract the attention of exactly the kind of alpha Sterling wouldn’t have approved of.

Professional, competent, probably came from good pack lines, but lacking the money he held above everything else.

The thought made my stomach twist with old familiar nausea.

The suppressants were supposed to make encounters like this manageable. Supposed to keep me from responding to every alpha I met like my body was shopping for a replacement alpha. Clearly, Dr. Walsh’s dosage calculations needed work.

I aggressively unpacked my clothes, slamming dresser drawers with more force than necessary.

The camera equipment could stay in the car.

I wasn't ready for that conversation with myself yet.

Wasn't ready to acknowledge the part of me that Sterling had tried so hard to suppress.

The part that saw beauty in unguarded moments instead of carefully curated perfection.

The scent of cedar lingering on my clothes triggered a memory I didn't want to visit.

"You're not omega enough for what I'm building," Sterling had said, not bothering to look up from his laptop. His corner office had floor-to-ceiling windows that showcased the city skyline. A view he'd paid extra for because it "projected success." Everything in Sterling's life projected something.

"I never agreed to Harrison," I'd said quietly. "You said it would be just us."

"Plans change. Real omegas adapt." His fingers never stopped typing. "You want security? You want the lifestyle this pack can provide? Then you learn to be what we need. Harrison brings connections I can't afford to lose."

"And if I won't?"

Finally, he'd looked at me. Gray eyes, cold as his glass desk. "Then you're not the omega I thought you were."

I shook my head hard, forcing the memory back where it belonged. Sterling was three states away, probably already interviewing replacement omegas who'd be grateful for his attention and wouldn't ask inconvenient questions about pack hierarchy.

By the time I'd set up a basic living space, functional but deliberately impersonal, the sun was setting. I made myself a simple dinner and found myself drawn to the kitchen window. From here, I could see up and down Magnolia Crescent, and what I saw made something twist in my chest.

Warm lights glowed in houses up and down the street.

Families were visible through uncovered windows.

They were natural, unguarded moments of people living their lives without performing for an audience.

A woman stirring something on the stove while a child did homework at the kitchen table.

An older couple sharing a newspaper and what looked like an evening glass of wine.

Simple domesticity that felt foreign after months of Sterling's carefully orchestrated life.

In Sterling's neighborhood, every window had been covered by the time the sun set.

Privacy was paramount, not that you could see any of their windows from the street.

Couldn't have anyone seeing behind the carefully curated image.

Here, people left their lives visible to anyone who cared to look.

Like they had nothing to hide. Like they felt safe enough to be seen.

I pulled my own blinds closed and spent the rest of the evening setting up the kind of security routine that had become second nature. Multiple alarms set on my phone. Doors and windows checked and double-checked. Car keys within easy reach of the bed, just in case.

The camera bag sat in the trunk of my car like an accusation I wasn't ready to face.

Tomorrow I'd need to find work. Something quiet that didn't require explanations or small talk or dealing with customers who might notice things I didn't want noticed.

Hollow Haven was small enough that I could blend in if I was careful, big enough that I could avoid the kind of attention that led to questions about my past or my plans or why I flinched when alphas got too close.

It was perfect, really. As long as I could keep everyone at exactly the right distance.

I lay awake listening to the unfamiliar sounds of the house settling around me, hyperaware of every creak and whisper of wind through the trees.

Somewhere in the distance, I could hear the soft hoot of an owl, a sound that would have sent Sterling into a lecture about property values and the importance of urban planning. Here, it just sounded like home.

If I'd ever known what home was supposed to sound like.

Tomorrow I'd start over. Again. Build a life that was mine this time, not shaped by someone else's vision of what I should be.

All I had to do was keep my head down, my scent suppressed, and my heart safely locked away from alphas with cedar-smoke scents and voices that made promises I wasn't ready to believe.

How hard could it be?