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The second painting doesn’t have a face yet.

The figure is masculine, the torso slightly fuzzy around the edges, but that’s all.

The sketch of the head shape doesn’t reveal any defining features.

Are they supposed to be a human? A monster?

Someone else from town or someone from her past?

Maybe the card explains it, but I’m hoping I get to ask her myself.

The background of this painting is the opposite of Connie’s.

There are fine details around the edges, lines and shapes that look like little blobs from where I'm standing now look, but when I helped her set up the makeshift easels, I saw that they were tiny words.

Influence. Hobby. Talent. Juvenile.

Clay looks at his watch, then whistles loudly. The room hushes, even if that noise always makes my ears ring. He stands awkwardly in the small space we’ve made for the brave souls willing to participate in our thrown-together poetry night.

“Thank y’all for coming out tonight. Mitch and I really appreciate the support for our first evening event. We just ask that you’re polite to everyone who comes up here tonight, and that you have a good time.”

He nods to the first person who signed up, and lo and behold, it’s Connie.

There is a cheer that I’d expect a ball game rather than an artsy night like this, but I’ll take it.

Enthusiasm is good. As Connie begins, I watch Roan squeeze around people until she’s standing next to me.

I give her a smile, trying to be fun and positive even as I see the nerves on her face.

We listen to Connie’s poem about motherhood and finding herself anew.

Roan claps the loudest once she’s done, and it does something to me, making me all warm inside seeing her form connections with people in town.

“We’ve been workshopping that,” she whispers to me. “I’m so happy she wanted to share tonight.”

“It was really good,” I agree. “Do you want to share a slice of pie?”

Her eyes go wide, and I pull out the slice of blueberry pie I’ve been saving all afternoon.

What can I say? We’ve all been on a real kick for blueberries recently.

I squirt two swirls of whipped cream on top while the next poet steps up.

Jeremy anxiously looks in Barnaby’s direction as he starts speaking.

I focus on my Omega, watching her spoon break through the buttery crust and gooey blueberry filling.

She makes sure to get a decent amount of cream on her bite before she brings it to her lips.

Maybe I’m staring too much. It’s probably too much, but I’m more turned on than I thought I’d ever be watching someone else eat my Alpha’s baking.

It helps that she’s ours, but seeing her lips stain purple with it has my cock hard.

Her eyes flutter closed and she nods as she chews.

I take my own bite, my mind swirling around the idea of licking whipped cream off my Alpha’s cum-covered cock.

Something to consider in the future as a way to torture Clay, once Roan is truly ours.

I hope she’s got a bratty streak like me.

I think it would be good for our Alpha, to keep him outta that grouchy mindset.

Jeremy ends his poem to an uncertain round of applause, but I think he looks pleased as he steps back for Clay to bring a stool to the centre of the stage.

“If Roan is ready, we can have a quick talk about her work before we finish out the night with a few more poems.”

Her eyes go wide for a moment before scarfing down one last bite. She scurries up in front of the crowd, and a change comes over her. A seriousness settles over her features while she sits down.

“Thank you, Clay and Mitch, for having me,” she starts. “I realise some rumours have been flying around about my position here, so I can't express how grateful I am to be given the opportunity to discuss my work and dreams for the Cove Arts Centre.

“As Mayor Louise has introduced me to most everyone in town, my given name is Rowena Darrington, but my preferred name is simply Roan.

I attended the Royal College of Art in London for both my bachelor and master's degree in fine art. The two portraits behind me are examples of the style I have been developing for well over a decade now, and one that I hope will keep evolving as I grow as an artist and a person.”

Clay makes eye contact with me like we're in some sort of spy movie, nodding as if he's confirming this information. This is similar to what we were able to find when we looked her up online.

“Does anyone have any questions?” Roan asks.

One of the new humans in town lifts his arm. “Are you going to paint everyone in town?”

“Only with their express consent. I like to spend time with each person as I start work on a new piece, so being able to have some rapport is important.”

“Why'd you come all the way out here?” Rick asks.

“There are very few places in the world like Hallow's Cove,” she begins. “When I saw the application for this residency appear, it felt like fate telling me to leap into something out of my comfort zone.”

My ears perk up a little when she mentions fate. That feels like a good sign.

“On your little card, it says you were inspired to paint Connie because of her aura,” Jeremy says, and I see several people in the room slouch, an air of exasperation settling over us all.

Here we go. “How are you able to see this? Are you attuned to nature somehow, or is there a practice you follow?”

Roan blinks several times while she processes how to answer him. He does one stint in the woods to better himself, and he's gone down the druid pipeline.

“In this context, aura is a metaphor I use to add a level of mysticism to why I'd like to stare at the gorgeous Connie for several hours,” Roan jokes, garnering a few chuckles and hell yeah from Connie’s mate, Gnurl.

“I believe to paint someone's portrait, you must understand them.

You're preserving a piece of their soul on canvas, and you should do them justice.”

More questions pop up about her work and plans for the Arts Centre.

She answers each of them with a measured amount of enthusiasm and sincerity.

Our Omega knows how to speak in front of a crowd.

Each question answered seems to relax her and the crowd more, another connection being laid between us all as a community.

“Will you be hosting any classes?” Maisie asks as a final question.

“I would like to once the space is functional, but I can't give a firm date on any potential class yet.”

Clay steps up to the platform, holding out his arm for her to take as she hops down from the stool. He whispers something in her ear that has a red tinge rising on her cheeks. She walks back towards me, smelling sweet, and I just want to pull her into my arms.

I settle for a smile, a low five, and a night of weird and wonderful poetry from the residents of Hallow’s Cove.