Page 2

But the house is so damn quiet. Quiet at breakfast, quiet at supper, quiet when something funny happens at the market and I come home dying to tell somebody… and there’s nobody. Just me and the bees.

I want someone. Somebody to eat with, laugh with, argue with. Somebody who’d also be happy I’m around.

But my options are Gareth Tolley and his mama, the Pruitt boy and his mama, or any of the other alphas in this village who all think an omega is just a housekeeper who also happens to warm your bed.

Yeah, no.

I grab my basket. I need wicks anyway, and if I stay alone in this house any longer, I’m going to scream.

* * *

It’s market day, so the whole village is out, and everybody’s staring at me because news travels fast around here.

“Heard you turned down the Tolley boy,” the baker’s wife says as I walk by.

“I heard she threw a cake at him,” somebody whispers behind her.

I did not throw a cake. I took my cake back. Big difference.

I buy my wicks, keep my head down, and I’m turning to go home… when I spot the toymaker’s shop.

It sits at the very end of the lane, narrow and crooked, painted dark green, with a window full of wooden toys. Dancing bears, little soldiers, a fox, a tiny owl on a perch. Everybody knows the stories about Mother Wren’s toys. They move at night. Kids wake up and their wooden horses are on the other side of the room. Old Mister Hatch swears up and down he once saw a carved cat chasing a mouse.

Everybody laughs about it, but no one goes in there unless they have to.

And here I am pushing the door open.

The bell jingles over my head. It smells like sawdust and something sweet, and there are toys everywhere, from floor to ceiling. Behind the counter, perched on a stool, with tiny glasses on her nose and a chisel in her hand, is Mother Wren.

She’s old. Like, old old. Tiny and brown, with sharp black eyes and white braids piled on top of her head.

“Afternoon, Hattie.” She didn’t even look up.

“Hey, Mother Wren.”

“Heard about the cake.”

Of course she did. “I didn’t throw it. I took it back.”

“Good. That boy didn’t deserve your baking.” She blows sawdust off what she’s carving. “What can I do for you, baby?”

I open my mouth and… this is the part where I lose my entire damn mind.

“I want a husband.”

She stops carving, and one gray eyebrow goes up.

“Not from the village,” I add fast. “God, no. I mean…” I wave at the bears, the soldiers, and that owl. “Could you… make me one?”

I laugh when I say it, because I’m joking. Mostly. I think.

Mother Wren doesn’t laugh. She puts her chisel down, folds her hands on the counter, and says, “Tell me what you want.”

I blink at her, frozen, and she just waits.

Okay, fine. If she’s going to play along, so am I. I’ve had a shitty day. I deserve this.

“Okay.” I set my basket down. “I want an alpha who listens. Like, actually listens, not just waits for his turn to talk. I want him handy, because my roof leaks, my gate sticks, and my hive shed’s been leaning for years. I want him strong. Patient. And… fine.”