Page 10

Chapter nine

Mitch

I feel like one of those little toy cars that have been pulled back, and I’m just waiting to shoot off.

There is so much energy zooming through my muscles and I can’t stop wagging my fucking tail.

Am I sweating too much? Should I shower before we go over there?

I don’t want to smell bad. Our Omega needs to know what I really smell like and not what my nervous sweats reek of.

At least I should brush my teeth. And maybe put on a nicer shirt.

Roan must have dated a lot of impressive people before she came to Hallow’s Cove.

I can only imagine the type of people she’s used to being around.

It’s definitely not the sort of good time we’re used to, bottom shelf rosé and some candy from the discount bin at Mother Earth’s.

We are really going to have to make an effort to show her we’re better than any sophisticated royal fancy pants.

There isn’t anything I’d change about our life, it’s been twenty years of amazing love and friendship and intimacy.

I just want our Omega to feel as good as I do, no matter what we’re doing.

I wipe down the pastry cabinet and take the trash out of the bin to haul outside before we leave. I rush through the sparkling clean kitchen with determination. Finally, the last chore of the day. Done.

“Let’s go go go,” I say, trying to scooch my Alpha away from the sink so I can wash my hands. “Lock the back door, and then we can leave.”

“Beta,” he warns gently, voice stern, “take a deep breath.”

I do as I’m told, inhaling that deep buttery delicious scent of his.

It goes right to my head, which I’m sure is not the intention for this exercise.

I’m moments from running across the street and tackling Roan, not simply asking her out.

I wasn’t ever the football star like Clay was, but I could be now, I think.

We take a deep breath together, and Clay rubs his hand up and down my back until I’m done washing up.

“I know you’re ready,” he says. “But we gotta be patient for a little longer, and we are only asking her to dinner. She could say no.”

My ears droop, and I frown at him for being so practical against all the positivity I’m pumping out.

In my heart, I know he’s trying to save me from a major letdown.

He’s guarding his own heart too after how badly last time went.

As much as we want this, and as much as I just want to jump right past all those traditional dating standards and move Roan into our very tiny studio apartment, I’m smart enough to know it’s not a good idea.

For one, where would her stuff go? That studio is barely big enough for one of us, let alone a whole pack.

“And she could say yes,” I remind him, just because I can. “Hope never hurt.”

“You’re right.” He smiles a little, but I can hear the doubt he’s trying to keep a tight lid on.

We turn off the lights and walk out the front door.

Roan stands across the street, staring up at the Art Centre.

She’s got a mug from Ted’s in one hand, but no bag this time.

Clay has her sketchbook tucked under one arm and his hand in mine as we jaywalk to stand next to our mate.

A huge gust of wind blows her dark hair over her shoulder, and I’m hit right in the face with her jammy sweet scent mixed with a tinge of musk.

My head cocks to the side as I inhale that deep scent under her natural one. My eyes flutter closed for a brief moment when my cock twitches like it knows that smell better than I do. Is that her cum I’m smelling?

Oh, fuck.

Clay said she was excited by his Alpha attitude, but enough to touch herself?

The vision of Roan’s delicate fingers covered in arousal goes right to my cock and knot.

Our Alpha got a little territorial and she got horny enough to masturbate.

Was she thinking about him? I hope she was, because honestly, looking at Clay now, I want to jerk off while thinking about him too.

His thick grey fur, his soft stomach, his pecs, that serious look he wears most of the time.

Gods.

Fuck, focus on the task at hand.

“Heya, Roan,” Clay calls out, raising her sketchbook in the air.

Her eyes are red-rimmed with tears threatening to fall when she turns around. We step up quickly, looking up and down the street. A few families linger on the street after school pickup, but it’s otherwise deserted.

“You okay?” I ask.

“Of course,” she forces a smile. “Just—excited about the progress for the centre. What can I do for you?”

She looks between the two of us nervously.

I don’t miss how she puts a bit of space between us.

Is she scared of us? Did I come on too strong, or is it because I stole her handkerchief?

We washed it, but I’ve been keeping it on me as a little token.

Even though it doesn’t smell like her anymore, it makes me feel close to our Omega.

“You forgot this,” Clay says, handing over the book.

She looks a little confused, like she didn’t realise she’d even left it behind at Rick’s.

She carefully takes it from him, clutching it to her chest, a look of hesitant relief coming over her as her shoulders relax.

His hand lingers in the air before falling back to his side.

“But we wanted to talk to you about something.”

The colour drains from her face, and I can see her metaphorical defence line take up position around her. Her shoulders become stiff and the mug in her hand starts to tremble. Oh, no. This is not good. Not good. The red lights are flashing so fast in my head.

“It’s about something fun,” I grin, lies forming in my head just seconds before the words start spewing out of my mouth. “We’re having a poetry night next week, and we wondered if you’d like to display a couple paintings and maybe do a little talk between poems?”

“Oh, uh, are you sure?” she asks, fingers curling around her sketchbook even tighter.

“Absolutely,” I say in a rush. “You’re a part of the community now, and we want to hang out with you.”

Hang out? Hang out? What the fuck is wrong with me? That’s not romantic. That doesn’t say we want to fuck you six ways to Sunday and then eat breakfast in bed together. A hangout implies platonic feelings, which I most certainly do not have.

Her eyes flick to Clay, and I’m not sure what I’m more worried about now, her saying no or my Alpha’s expressionless face.

Even Gabe down at the game store has more emotion during the day than my mate right now.

Clay hates surprises, hates last-minute plans, and I’ve just decided to put together a whole event without asking him. I nudge him a little, and he blinks.

“We could use a bit of culture ‘round here,” he agrees carefully, his words very measured.

“I—yeah, I can do that. Next Tuesday?”

“Yep,” I nod. “We can help carry anything you need across the road.”

“Okay, I’ll see you then.”

“Just give us a holler,” Clay says, hand squeezing mine in a silent message that he is really, really not thrilled with my idea.

She nods and walks back inside the Arts Centre.

Clay is going to kill me.

The café is surprisingly crowded, buzzing with excitement for a new activity in town.

Who knew so many people in Hallow’s Cove would be interested in poetry?

I know there are few hippy-dippy people in town, but it feels like everyone has crammed themselves into our modest shop.

Our regular coffee klatch group is front and centre, and Barnaby and his new mate Maisie are also here.

In fact, there are quite a few of the nocturnal monsters in town here, when I can’t recall the last time I saw them.

Maybe we should do more evening activities.

One of the teachers from the night school has already asked me if this will be a regular thing.

The fact that I’m still steaming milk proves Clay did not kill me.

I did have to brush up on my word art skills to make the posters I plastered around town in a wild sprint.

My mate is standing next to one of the large paintings Roan brought over this afternoon.

The oils are still wet, so nobody can get too close, and Clay is more than happy to play bodyguard while our Omega goes around speaking to people handing out small little postcards about the two paintings.

I can’t believe she painted two new pieces for us.

I figured she’d have had some mailed here to at least start the gallery, and to tide her over while she works on new things, but maybe not. I don’t know why she wouldn’t want to bring some of her old art here, but maybe it’s an artist thing. New place, new paintings.

She claims they are still “raw,” more in progress than finished, but I can’t stop staring at them.

One is of the matriarch of the Lumzag Clan, her forest green skin painted amongst a sea of vintage patterns that are still sketches.

Apparently, they’ll become the different fabrics around the motel to express her love for the retro aesthetic.

The gold bands on her tusks look almost real and touchable on the canvas.

Her eyes sparkle with mirth, even if the grey streaks in her black mullet are prominent at her temples.

Connie is here in the crowd somewhere, but I can’t see her from behind the counter.

I hope she loves our Omega’s work as much as I do.