Lucas looks at me, earnest and sweet. “If you ever need a break, just come to the bakery. Cole always have midnight pasties for emergencies.”
I smile, genuinely, and he touches my arm, warm and careful. “Goodnight, Helena.”
“Goodnight.”
He jogs away down the empty street, hands stuffed in his pockets.
Inside, Zane is waiting. He’s not angry—just relieved. He doesn’t sayI told you so, but it hangs in the air between us. I brush past him and head for my room, shutting the door softly.
I lie awake in bed and stare at the ceiling, trying to make sense of it all. Of the rules I was raised with, the traditions drilled into me by parents and tutors and the endless committee of old-money omega aunties. Of the way I feel when I’m near Zane, the thrill and the terror, and the impossibility of wanting more. Of Lucas and Cole, and how they both make me feel something different, something wild and safe at the same time.
I never wanted to be a pack’s omega. Not really. But now, with the scent-match tripling down on me, and the summer shrinking by the day, I wonder if I ever had a choice.
I fall asleep wondering if this was the path before me all along, or if I’m just making it up as I go.
If fate is.
CHAPTER 10
Zane
The entire villagesmells like fried dough and wood smoke. The breeze tugs the scent down the promenade, through banners strung with navy and gold and the seawall’s crowd. Helena’s arm is tucked into mine, as it has been ever since we left the house, as if she’s afraid she’ll lose her way in the labyrinth of laughing families and tourists.
I try not to overthink the pressure of her bicep against mine or the pattern of her breath: light and a little reckless. Her hair is up today, a defiant, practical knot, and the wind keeps catching the loose strands and tangling them in the embroidery of her festival blouse. She looks more like a university girl than high society’s daughter.
It must be deliberate.
At first, I walk beside her like it’s a duty shift. Watch the crowd. Count possible threats. Steer her away from open flames and unpredictable terriers. But it’s a summer festival, and no one in Seamuse Village could recognize Helena in the wild if they tried. She’s just another face in the crowd—albeit one I can’t stop watching.
We reach the first row of booths, the first of which is a candy-striped tent housing a pyramid of fudge trays. The displayis almost military in precision. Helena makes a beeline for the maple pecan samples, and I follow.
The vendor catches us surveying his wares and grins. “Bit early for dessert, isn’t it?”
Helena doesn’t miss a beat. “Never too early for a bribe,” she says, with a look that means to implicate me.
I shake my head. “She skipped breakfast,” I stage-whisper. “I’m trying to keep her upright for at least two more hours.”
The vendor gives a sharp laugh and slices off a wedge of sea salt caramel. “On the house, for the lady. Need the energy to survive the festival.”
Helena takes the sample, but there’s a flicker in her eyes—a glint I’ve started to see more and more since she invited me into the king-sized bed. It reminds me of the start of my assignment to guard her, when we’d talk until two in the morning in her parents’ kitchen, neither of us admitting we’re awake on purpose.
Helena pushes the sample toward my mouth before I can protest. “Go on, Zane.”
My name sounds lighter on her lips than I ever manage it.
I let her feed me the fudge. It’s good—ridiculously good. It’s short-circuiting my brain. What was I going to say next?
Helena smiles, clearly proud of herself.
I can only nod, mouth full, before I manage, “We’re coming back on the way out.”
We drift from booth to booth. Helena is tireless. She wants to see everything, touch every handknit scarf and ask every potter how long they’ve lived in Cornwall. The sheer curiosity of her makes me forget to scan the rooftops.
There are moments when I almost convince myself we’re on a date.
The single most dangerous thing I can think.
The music starts around noon, from a stage set up on the green at the far end of the promenade. It’s a local band—average age seventeen, average volume catastrophic. Helena drags me closer, weaving through the crowd until we’re pressed up against the crash barrier. I stand behind her, my arms braced on either side so the knot of tipsy teens doesn’t jostle her too much. For the first few songs, Helena bobs her head in time, self-conscious, but by the third number, she’s outright dancing. Not a shred of rhythm but plenty of enthusiasm.
