“Do you mind shredding the ginger?” she asks. “I’ll prepare the marshmallow root for the next step.”
I nod. “No problem.”
“Are you sure you’re okay, Faye?” Amora asks. Her dark brown eyes scan over my face. “I know it’s none of my business, but I couldn’t help noticing what happened before class.”
I sigh. “Yeah, you and everyone else.”
“Trust me, I get it.” Amora nods knowingly. “Having a pack can be hard work. I’ve had my fair share of alpha trouble.”
“He’s not my alpha,” I reply quickly. Too quickly. “He could have been, maybe.” Amora has a gentle way about her that makes me feel like I can tell her anything without judgment. “But not anymore.”
“Sorry, I’m usually pretty scent intuitive, and I thought...” She waves her hand. “Ignore me.”
She doesn’t press me for information, but she’s piqued my curiosity to know more about her.
“Do you have a pack?”
“Yes.” Her lips curl into a shy smile. “We bonded last year.”
I have so many questions. I’ve never met a bonded omega before. Well, aside from a few customers passing through Blooming Brew, but they wouldn’t want to be interrogated by me while shopping.
I’d like to know what it feels like. Some books say that once bonded, you can sense each other’s emotions. Is that true? Does it get annoying and cause arguments? How do you juggle pack life and keeping everyone happy?
“Actually, we’re having a yearly bonding party soon. Carmen, one of my alphas, loves to party. She’s always telling me I should have more omega friends.” Amora rolls her eyes. “You should come. You’re in Stella House, right?”
I nod.
“I was in Persephone House last year, when I first arrived.”
We chat easily for a few more minutes and end up swapping numbers, Amora promising to send me the party details later.I’m not exactly in a party mood, but it would probably be good for me to get out the house. And she said I could bring the Stellas too.
“We better get back.” She checks her watch. “We don’t have long left.”
Once back at our workstation, we prepare the ingredients, we add them to the bottle and give them a gentle shake. In a few months, it’ll be ready. When we’re done, my mood has significantly improved, proud of how perfect the consistency is. This will show Professor Grub I’m truly worthy of being here.
Although I’m confident in our elixir, my mouth goes dry at the thought of having a conversation with Professor Grub who moves from bench to bench, inspecting the finished products. Finally, he stops to look at ours.
Instantly, his nose scrunches like he’s smelled something foul. “Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. This ginger was picked too soon.” He picks up our vial then tips the contents straight onto the soil. I almost swallow my tongue as I watch our elixir absorb into the earth. “Did you check the soil before uprooting the ginger? Useless!”
“I saw rhizomes through the soil,” I insist. I don’t mean to be difficult, but I really want to understand where we went wrong. I’ve harvested ginger hundreds of times before.
“Are you questioning me?” Professor Grub’s expression turns thunderous. “Do you think you know more than I do? Someone who has decades worth of experience? Listen here,omega.” He says the word like it’s dirty. Everyone turns to stare, some of the betas snickering behind their hands. “You may be used to alphas doting on you, but that does not mean you’ll get any special treatment in my class. As you are clearly responsible for this disaster, I expect you to write me an essay on ginger and its healing properties. That is unless you’re too busy to complete it.”
It feels like all the blood in my body rushes to my cheeks. That essay will take hours to write, and he knows it.
“Yes, Professor,” I concede, not daring to argue and make matters worse.
He sweeps away to examine the next groups’ work. There’s is twice as dark as it should be and has moss floating in it; however, he merely says it requires a little extra attention to detail.
“I thought we did everything right,” Amora whispers, equally confused. “I can help you with the essay. It’s my fault for suggesting that spot.”
“It’s okay. I need to brush up on ginger theory anyway, and Professor Grub’s probably right,” I say, now questioning my own judgment. I’ve had a rough day, so me making a mistake isn’t surprising. “They might have needed soaking for longer.”
“That’s all for today, class.” Professor Grub declares. “And I would suggest that some of you,” he glowers in my direction, “question whether you’re really capable of meeting the standards of my class to avoid wasting any more of my time.”
Perhaps Professor Grub has a point. Maybe I just don’t belong here. Maybe leaving Clover Hollow and coming to SVU was one big mistake.
TWENTY-NINE
