And she’s one of many people who don’t know that car speakers are typically clearly audible from outside the vehicle.
“I’m using the herbs every day, Mom. I promise.”
Herbs? Why do I get the impression she isn’t talking about seasoning her food?
The call ends, but Holly sits motionless in her car, tension evident in her rigid posture.
I shouldn’t care. Not my problem. And yet...
I adjust my face covering, feeling the familiar press of fabric against skin that will always be too sensitive. Some secrets need protecting. Others need exposing before they cause harm.
I need more information before deciding which category Holly Chang falls into. For now, I’ll continue watching. Waiting. Assessing whether she’s a threat to the only two people I still care about.
And maybe a little because I just like looking at her.
Heat Mountain isn’t exactly lacking in omegas. That’s putting it mildly. This town practically overflows with them—a biological quirk that curious scientists at the regional college have tried and failed to explain. Something about the hot springs, some say. Others claim it’s the mountain air. Whatever the reason, omega babies are born at nearly twice the national average.
And what happens to them? Same thing that happens in small towns everywhere. Most of the girls don’t even make it a full year after high school graduation before they’re sporting bonding marks and planning nurseries. By twenty, they’re pushing strollers and comparing alpha husbands over coffee shop playdates.
The ones with ambition—the ones who want something beyond what Heat Mountain offers—they scatter like autumn leaves after graduation. College campuses, big cities, anywhere that offers more than this tiny town trapped between mountains and tradition.
Can’t blame them. Not really.
It’s almost amusing when I think about it. Even I—with half my face permanently hidden behind a skull-painted bandana and a reputation for being about as talkative as the mountain itself—have had my share of interested parties. One of the Harmon sisters left homemade muffins on my porch three times last month. Sarah Jenkins “accidentally” bumps into me at the general store every Thursday like clockwork. Even Tanner Mitchell’s younger sister slipped her number into my pocket during last year’s winter festival.
Apparently, scars and silence are appealing to some. Or maybe it’s just the alpha designation. Limited options in a small town make even damaged goods marketable.
Holly confuses me, though. If she really is an omega—and my instincts rarely mislead me—she’s unlike any I’ve encountered. The way she carries herself isn’t submissive or resistant. She’s just...detached. Like she exists in a bubble separate from designation dynamics altogether.
She doesn’t act like any omega I’ve ever met. No deliberate sway to her hips designed to draw attention. No lingering glances at available alphas. No pausing to chat with every person she passes.
But no deliberate avoidance, either. Like she doesn’t have the time or desire to even acknowledge that interested alphas might exist.
I watch her car disappear down the road toward the clinic.
No matter how much he tried to hide it, Noah’s obvious fascination is reason enough to warrant further investigation. He’s been adrift since returning to Heat Mountain, carrying the anger and guilt that have become core features of his personality. Anything that affects him affects the fragile peace we’ve maintained since his return.
And Kai’s curiosity is another flag. For all his careless playboy posturing, Kai notices things. Sees patterns others miss. If Holly Chang caught his attention from just Noah’s description, there’s something worth noting.
My duty to this town isn’t official—no badge, no title—but I’ve appointed myself its guardian regardless. Anything that threatens its peace, or the few people I consider mine, falls under my jurisdiction.
I’ll need to learn more about Dr. Holly Chang. What she’s hiding. Why she’s hiding it. And most importantly, whether hersecrets pose a danger to the tenuous balance we’ve maintained in Heat Mountain.
So I will.
SIX
HOLLY
“You’re late.”
I look up from my phone, startled by Dr. Klinkhart’s clipped voice. He stands in the clinic hallway, arms crossed over his chest, radiating disapproval like heat from a furnace.
“I’m not late,” I respond automatically, checking my watch. “I took forty-five minutes for lunch. My schedule clearly states I get a full hour.”
His jaw tightens. “I paged you. Multiple times.”
“Paged me?” My eyebrows shoot up. “I never got a pager.”
