Page 12 of Mating With My Grumpy Alphas (Hollow Haven #2)
Elias
S aturday afternoon at Pine & Pages had become one of my favorite parts of the week, though I suspected it had less to do with reading to children and more to do with watching Willa interact with them.
Today felt different, though. Her camera confession had sent her retreating behind professional politeness, and I could scent the stress radiating from her despite her suppressants.
I’d brought extra scent blankets today, woven with chamomile and lavender specifically for anxious little ones. But watching Willa work with brittle efficiency, I found myself wondering if one of those blankets might help her too.
“Mr. Elias!” Seven-year-old Emma bounced over to where I was setting up the reading corner. “Are you going to tell us about the fox again today?”
“We’ll see what story calls to us,” I said, arranging cushions and blankets into a cozy semicircle. “How are you feeling today, sweetheart?”
“Good! But Miss Willa seems sad. Is she sick?”
Children always noticed what adults tried to hide. I glanced toward the counter where Willa was helping a customer with book recommendations, her smile bright and helpful and completely forced.
“Sometimes grown-ups have worries that make them feel heavy inside,” I told Emma gently. “But being around friends can help them feel lighter.”
“Like how the tea you make for Mama helps her sleep better?”
“Exactly like that.”
As more children arrived for storytime, I watched Willa’s tension increase. She kept glancing toward our little gathering with an expression I recognized from my work with trauma survivors. Interest warring with fear. The desire to connect battling with the need to stay safe.
Mrs. Laurie arrived with her five-year-old twins, both of whom immediately gravitated toward the scent blankets I’d brought. “These smell like Grandma’s garden,” little Alex announced, burying his face in the soft fabric.
“That’s chamomile,” I explained. “It helps worried feelings settle down.”
“Do you have worried feelings sometimes too?” Alex’s sister Maya asked with the brutal honesty of children.
“Everyone has worried feelings sometimes,” I said. “That’s why it’s nice to have friends who understand.”
I caught Willa watching our conversation from across the store, something soft and vulnerable flickering across her face before she turned back to her work.
She wanted to join us, I realized. She was drawn to the comfort and community our little circle represented, but something was holding her back.
Professional distance, probably. The same walls she’d rebuilt after that brief moment of vulnerability.
“What story should we read today?” I asked the gathered children, though I already had one in mind.
“The fox story!” Emma called out, and several other voices chimed in agreement.
“Ah, the fox story.” I opened the picture book I’d brought specifically for this purpose.
“This is about a little fox who lived all by herself in the woods. She was very good at taking care of herself, very smart and careful and brave. But sometimes, late at night, she wondered what it would be like to have friends.”
As I read, I noticed Willa moving closer to our circle, ostensibly straightening nearby bookshelves but clearly listening to every word. The children were captivated, as always, but I found myself telling the story as much for her as for them.
“The little fox was afraid to trust other animals because she’d learned that sometimes when you let others get close, they might hurt you. So she stayed in her safe den and watched the world from a distance.”
“But that sounds lonely,” Maya whispered.
“It was lonely,” I agreed. “But the fox thought being lonely was better than being hurt.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Willa’s hands still on the books she was organizing. She was listening intently now, and I could scent the way my words were affecting her. Her jasmine and rain scent had grown stronger, more complex, tinged with something that felt like longing.
“Then one day, the fox got sick,” I continued. “She had a fever and couldn’t hunt for food. She was too weak to take care of herself the way she usually did.”
“Oh no,” Alex said, clutching his scent blanket tighter.
“The fox was scared. She’d never needed help before. But just when she thought she might not make it, she heard gentle voices outside her den. A family of rabbits had noticed she hadn’t been seen in days, and they brought her soup and medicine.”
“Rabbits helping a fox?” Emma asked skeptically.
“Sometimes the most surprising friendships are the strongest ones,” I said, glancing meaningfully toward Willa. “The rabbits didn’t try to change the fox or make her be something she wasn’t. They just offered kindness and waited to see if she’d accept it.”
I could see Willa’s chest rising and falling more quickly, could scent the way emotion was affecting her despite her suppressants. This story was hitting closer to home than I’d intended, but maybe that wasn’t a bad thing.
“What did the fox do?” Maya asked.
“At first, she was too scared to come out of her den. She’d been hurt before by animals who said they wanted to help but really wanted to control her. But these rabbits were different. They left the soup by her door and went away, giving her space to decide.”
“And did she eat it?”
“She did. And it helped her feel better. The next day, the rabbits came back with more soup and some funny stories that made her laugh. Day by day, the fox began to trust that maybe not all animals wanted to hurt her.
I watched Willa lean against the bookshelf, her gray eyes fixed on me with an intensity that made my alpha instincts hum with protective awareness. She was seeing herself in this story, recognizing her own fear and isolation in the cautious fox.
“Did the fox ever come out of her den?” Emma asked.
“Eventually,” I said softly. “But not because the rabbits forced her to. She came out because she realized that hiding wasn’t the same as being safe.
And because she discovered that the rabbits liked her exactly as she was.
They didn’t want her to be a rabbit. They just wanted her to be a happy fox. ”
“I like that story,” Alex said, snuggling deeper into his scent blanket.
“Me too,” Maya agreed. “Do you think the fox was scared even after she made friends?”
“Probably sometimes,” I admitted. “Learning to trust takes time, especially when you’ve been hurt before. But the rabbits were patient. They understood that some things can’t be rushed.”
Willa’s scent shifted, becoming warmer and less guarded. She was still listening, still affected by the parallels between the story and her own situation. I found myself hoping she understood that the patience I was describing wasn’t just fictional.
We read two more stories after that, but I kept thinking about the fox tale and the way Willa had responded to it. Children began getting picked up by parents, and our cozy circle gradually dispersed until it was just me, Willa, and the lingering scent of chamomile and comfort.
“That was lovely,” Willa said quietly, helping me fold the scent blankets. “The children clearly adore you.”
“They make it easy,” I said. “Children don’t overthink kindness the way adults do. They just accept it or they don’t.”
“Like the rabbits in your story?”
Our eyes met, and I saw understanding there. She knew I’d been talking to her as much as to the children. The question was whether she’d accept the message or retreat further behind her walls.
“The fox was smart to be cautious,” I said carefully. “Trust should be earned, especially for someone who’s been hurt before. But I hope she eventually realized that not all offers of friendship come with strings attached.”
Willa was quiet for a long moment, her fingers smoothing the soft fabric of the blanket she was folding. When she spoke, her voice was barely above a whisper.
“What if the fox was more damaged than the rabbits realized? What if she had problems that couldn’t be fixed with soup and stories?”
You’re not broken, Willa. You’re healing. And healing things need patience and gentle care, not fixing.
The thought came to me with the kind of clarity that told me it was important, the kind of insight that usually guided my work with traumatized omegas. But I couldn’t say it directly, not yet. She wasn’t ready to hear that she deserved care without conditions.
“The rabbits knew the fox had been hurt,” I said instead. “They could see it in the way she moved, the way she watched the woods for danger. But they didn’t see damage. They saw courage and intelligence and a spirit that had survived things that would have broken weaker animals.”
Willa’s hands stilled on the blanket, and I caught a hint of tears in her scent before she quickly blinked them away.
“Thank you,” she said quietly. “For the story. For being patient with the children. For… for understanding that some animals need more time than others.”
“Everyone heals at their own pace,” I said. “There’s no timeline for learning to trust again.”
She nodded, not quite meeting my eyes, but the rigid set of her shoulders had softened slightly. It wasn’t a breakthrough, but it was progress. The walls weren’t coming down, but maybe a few stones had shifted.
As I packed up the remaining books and blankets, I found myself thinking about patience and the long game of earning someone’s trust. Willa was like a wild animal that had been mistreated.
She needed space and consistency and the kind of gentle persistence that proved itself through actions rather than words.
I could be patient. I’d been patient with skittish omegas before, had learned that the ones who took longest to trust were often the ones who bonded deepest once they felt safe.
She’s worth waiting for, I realized as I watched her reorganize the children’s section with unconscious care.
A realization that came with an awareness that this wasn’t the same as all the omegas I’d helped before.
That my need to help Willa feel herself again wasn’t just professional but something so much deeper.
Whatever it takes, however long it takes, she’s worth waiting for.