Page 14 of Mating With My Grumpy Alphas (Hollow Haven #2)

Willa

I stood outside the community center for a full five minutes before I could make myself walk through the doors.

Kit had been gently persistent about Omega Arts Night for the past week, and I’d finally run out of polite excuses to avoid it.

But standing here now, listening to the warm hum of conversation and laughter drifting from inside, every instinct I had was screaming at me to turn around and go home.

Creative spaces had been dangerous for me once. They were places where Sterling’s control had been most absolute, where my own desires had been used against me like weapons. The smell of paint and clay and possibility that wafted through the open windows made my chest tight with remembered panic.

But Kit had looked so hopeful when I’d finally agreed to come. And after Elias’s story about the fox that kept playing through my mind, I couldn’t stop thinking about the difference between hiding and healing. Maybe it was time to test whether I could be in a creative space without falling apart.

The community center’s main room had been transformed into a cozy gallery space.

Easels displaying omega artwork lined the walls, and small tables were scattered throughout the room where people sat working on various projects.

Watercolor paintings, knitted scarves, photography prints, pottery pieces.

The casual creativity of it all made something deep in my chest ache with longing.

“Willa!” Kit appeared at my elbow, her face bright with welcome. “You made it!”

“I made it,” I agreed, though I stayed close to the wall where I could keep track of all the exits. “This is lovely.”

“Isn’t it? Tonight’s theme is ‘comfort creating.’ Just making art that feels good, no pressure or expectations.” Kit gestured toward a table set up with supplies. “There’s watercolors if you want to try painting, or clay for sculpting, or even just sketchbooks if you prefer something simpler.”

The thought of putting myself in a creative space, even a supportive one, made my palms sweat. Sterling’s voice echoed in my memory. Real omegas create things that serve their pack, not self-indulgent nonsense that nobody wants to see.

“I think I’ll just observe tonight,” I said carefully. “Get a feel for how things work here.”

Kit’s expression softened with understanding. “Of course. There’s tea and cookies by the window if you want something to do with your hands.”

I gravitated toward the refreshment table, grateful for an activity that looked purposeful but kept me on the periphery of the group. From here, I could watch the other omegas work without feeling exposed myself.

There was something magical about the way they moved. Confident brushstrokes on canvas, fingers shaping clay with practiced ease, colored pencils creating detailed illustrations. No one seemed stressed or worried about making mistakes. They were just… creating. For the joy of it.

“You’re new.” An omega with silver-streaked hair and paint-stained fingers smiled at me from across the table. “I’m Margie. I don’t think we’ve met.”

“Willa,” I said. “I work at Pine & Pages.”

“Oh, you’re the one Kit’s been talking about! She said you might be interested in joining our little group.”

“I’m not really artistic,” I said automatically, the lie coming easily after years of practice.

Margie raised an eyebrow. “Honey, if you’re breathing, you’re artistic.

Some people just haven’t found their medium yet.

” She gestured toward the room with her tea cup.

“See that omega over there working on the landscape? She spent forty years convinced she couldn’t draw a straight line. Now look at her.”

I followed her gaze to where a middle-aged omega was working on what looked like a stunning watercolor of the mountain view from town. Her concentration was absolute, her movements confident and sure.

“What changed?” I asked, despite myself.

“She gave herself permission to be bad at it,” Margie said simply. “Turns out, once you stop worrying about being perfect, you can actually start enjoying the process.”

Permission to be bad at it. The concept was foreign to me. In Sterling’s world, everything I created had to meet his standards, serve his purposes, reflect well on his pack. There had been no room for experimentation or mistakes or the simple joy of making something just because I wanted to.

“What about you?” I asked Margie, nodding toward the canvas she’d been working on. “What’s your medium?”

“Abstract painting,” she said, eyes twinkling. “Drives my alpha husband crazy because he keeps trying to figure out what everything ‘means.’ But that’s the beauty of it. Sometimes art doesn’t mean anything except ‘this felt good to create.’”

Art that felt good to create. The phrase hit me like a revelation.

When was the last time I’d made something just because it brought me joy?

When had I last held a camera because I loved the way light looked through a lens, not because someone else expected me to document their vision of perfection?

“Willa?” Kit appeared beside me, her voice gentle. “How are you doing? I know this can be overwhelming the first time.”

“It’s beautiful,” I said honestly. “Everyone seems so… free.”

“That’s the point,” Kit said. “This is our space. No judgments, no expectations, no pressure to create anything for anyone else’s approval.” She paused, studying my face. “Elias told me you mentioned having some photography background?”

My chest tightened instantly. “I used to take pictures. A long time ago.”

“What kind of pictures did you take?”

The question hung in the air between us, loaded with more weight than Kit could possibly understand.

What kind of pictures had I taken? The kinds that mattered.

The kinds that documented species on the brink of extinction, habitat restoration projects that could save entire ecosystems, migration patterns that scientists needed to understand climate change impacts.

The kinds that Sterling had convinced me were selfish indulgence instead of real contribution.

“Wildlife photography,” I said carefully. “Professional. I used to document endangered species, conservation efforts, research projects.”

Kit’s eyebrows rose with genuine interest. “That sounds incredible. And important.”

“It was,” I said, then caught myself. “I mean, I thought it was. I traveled all over, worked with research teams, spent months in remote locations capturing images that scientists could use to support protection efforts.”

“What happened to make you stop?”

The directness of her question surprised me, but there was no judgment in her voice, just curiosity and understanding.

“My ex-alpha decided my work was too unpredictable, too time-consuming,” I said quietly. “He wanted me to focus on more ‘practical’ photography. Pack portraits, corporate events, things that had guaranteed income and kept me close to home.”

“Pack portraits,” Kit repeated, and I could hear the distaste in her voice.

“Sterling had very specific ideas about what constituted useful omega creativity. He said wildlife photography was self-indulgent, that I was playing at being artistic instead of creating something that actually served our pack’s needs.”

Kit was quiet for a moment, and when she spoke, her voice was warm with understanding. “My ex-alpha used to critique everything I made. Nothing was ever good enough, creative enough, useful enough. By the time I left him, I was afraid to so much as doodle in the margins of a book.”

“How did you get past it?” The question came out more desperate than I’d intended.

“Slowly,” Kit said. “And with help from people who understood that healing from creative suppression takes time.” She gestured around the room.

“Places like this helped. People who celebrated process over product, who understood that sometimes you need to make terrible art for a while before you remember how to make beautiful art.”

“I brought a camera with me when I moved here,” I admitted quietly. “I haven’t touched it since I arrived.”

“But you brought it,” Kit pointed out. “That tells me part of you isn’t ready to give up on photography entirely.”

She was right. If I’d truly wanted to leave that part of myself behind, I would have sold the camera or left it in Chicago. But I’d packed it carefully in its case and brought it with me, like some part of me still believed I might want to use it again someday.

“I don’t know if I remember how to see the way I used to,” I said. “How to find the beauty in wild moments instead of just documenting what someone else wants preserved.”

“The technical skills don’t disappear,” Kit said gently. “And the eye for composition, the patience to wait for the perfect shot, the understanding of light and behavior patterns, that’s all still there. You just need to remember that your vision matters.

You’re not broken, Willa. You’re just bruised in the shape of someone who didn’t know how to hold you.

The thought came with such clarity it took my breath away.

Maybe Kit was right. Maybe the problem hadn’t been my photography itself, but the way it had been handled by someone who saw it as something to control rather than celebrate.

“The mountains around here,” I said, almost to myself. “The wildlife, the seasonal changes that are coming. Sometimes I find myself thinking about aperture settings and focal lengths without meaning to.”

“That’s your photographer’s eye waking up,” Kit said with a smile. “It was just sleeping, not dead.”

We were interrupted by Margie calling the group to attention for the evening’s sharing circle. I started to edge toward the door, but Kit caught my hand gently.

“You don’t have to share anything,” she said. “But would you stay? Just to listen?”

Against my better judgment, I found myself nodding.

We joined the loose circle of chairs that had formed in the center of the room, and I listened as omega after omega shared what they’d worked on tonight.

A poem about autumn leaves. A small clay sculpture of a sleeping cat.

A knitted baby blanket for a friend’s upcoming arrival.

Each piece was met with genuine appreciation and encouragement. No one critiqued technique or suggested improvements or asked what practical purpose the art would serve. They simply celebrated the act of creation itself.

“What about you, Willa?” Margie asked gently. “Anything you’d like to share? Even just thoughts about being here tonight?”

I opened my mouth to deflect, to make some polite comment about enjoying watching everyone else work. But looking around the circle at these warm, supportive faces, I found myself saying something true instead.

“I used to love taking pictures,” I said quietly.

“Wildlife photography was my passion, my profession. I haven’t done it in over a year because someone convinced me my work wasn’t good enough, that I was just playing at being artistic instead of creating something useful.

Being here tonight made me remember what it felt like to want to create something just because it made me happy. ”

The circle erupted in warm murmurs of understanding and encouragement. Several omegas shared their own stories of rediscovering creativity after periods of suppression or self-doubt. I felt held by their collective understanding, supported in a way I hadn’t experienced since long before Sterling.

As the evening wound down and people began cleaning up their supplies, Kit walked me toward the door.

“Thank you for staying,” she said. “I know that wasn’t easy.”

“Thank you for understanding why it was hard,” I replied. “And for helping me see that maybe what I thought was broken was just buried.”

“Will you think about coming back next week?”

I surprised myself by nodding. “Yeah. I think I will.”

Walking home through the quiet streets of Hollow Haven, I found myself thinking about cameras and conservation and the difference between art that served others and art that served the soul.

Maybe Kit was right about photographer’s eyes and sleeping vision.

Maybe some things were too fundamental to who I was to be completely erased by one person’s cruelty.

The thought of the mountains surrounding this town, the wildlife that lived in those protected forests, the seasonal changes that would soon transform the landscape, made my fingers itch for the weight of a camera.

Not to document someone else’s vision of perfection, but to capture the wild beauty that existed whether anyone was watching or not.

Maybe it was time to find out if I still remembered how to see beauty through a lens, just for the joy of capturing it.

The thought terrified and thrilled me in equal measure. But for the first time in over a year, it felt like possibility instead of just fear.