We walked the gravel path toward the café, feet crunching. The stream name ran alongside us, half-frozen at the edges, the center still moving sluggishly. Bare trees lined the opposite bank, branches like black cracks against thegray sky.
"There are alphas about." Maeve’s gaze was behind me. She was scanning the treeline, jaw tight.
"Alphas?"
"Three showed up at the café yesterday. Two more this morning." Her fingers flexed at her sides. "Sniffing around. Ordering coffees they don't drink. Asking Dave questions about the park residents."
A cold knot formed in my stomach that had nothing to do with temperature. "And?"
"And there's only one reason alphas start congregating somewhere like this." She finally looked at me, green eyes sharp. "Someone's going into heat. They can smell it."
The knot pulled tighter. "I'm not due for two weeks."
"Heat cycles aren't trains, Presley. They don't run on schedule."
"Mine do." I kicked a stone off the path. "Mine are as regular as clockwork. I could set my calendar by it."
Maeve made a noncommittal noise. She wasn't convinced, but she didn't argue. But then, she never argued, she just stored information away behind those watchful eyes, cataloging everything for later.
The café came into view, single-story and through the steamed windows, I saw the land owner, Dave behind the counter, already dealing with the breakfast rush. Three people was a rush for us.
"It’s strange that he’s decided to work. He normally stays at home and leaves everything to us.”
I stared at Dave. She was right. Something was off.
“Just be careful," Maeve said as we reached the door. "If you start feeling anything strange. Call me. Don't play the hero."
"When have I ever played the hero?"
"I mean it, Presley."
I held up three fingers. "Scout's honor. If I start going into heat in the middle of the café, you'll be the first to know. Right after everyone in a five-mile radius who can smell me."
She rolled her eyes but some of the tension left her shoulders. She pushed open the door, and the smell of bacon fat and burnt toast washed over us like a warm, greasy hug.
Dave was definitely working today.
The café was everything I loved and hated about my life. Plastic tablecloths wiped down a thousand times. Coffee machine that sounded like it was having a nervous breakdown. Regulars who knew my name and asked after my health and left two-pound tips they probably couldn't afford. It was small and slightly shabby and completely safe.
Maeve handed me her apron. "The bacon order came in this morning—it's in the walk-in. Just needs separating.”
"Got it."
"And there's a sandwich in the fridge for your lunch. The one in the cling film."
"You made mea sandwich?"
"Don't let it go to your head. It’s just tuna mayonnaise." She was already backing toward the door. "And don’t give it to the cat. I'll call later to check in."
She left before I could thank her, the bell above the door chiming in her wake.
I tied the apron around my jumper mountain, which was quite a feat, requiring creative knotting.
I was halfway to the counter when a strange noise started.
Not a normal noise. Not a car engine or a lorry on the road or even that alarming sound Dave's espresso machine made when it was about to give up the ghost. This was something else entirely. A deep, rhythmicthwappingthat grew louder and louder, shaking the windows in their frames.
I’d heard that noise before.
