Page 2 of A Nest of Maple & Mist

A chill swept over my shoulders as I stepped inside, the breeze blowing my thick curls. The walls closed in. My breath quickened. I sucked in a long, slow inhale to avoid panicking.

Dust covered the walls. The smell of mildew and dead raccoon—don’t ask how I knew what dead raccoon smelled like—made my nose wiggle.

Hot tears tracked down my cheeks, the last of my resilience snapping as glass broke under my shoe. Through the glassy hue, I eyed the floral wallpaper peeling in the entryway, revealing black spots underneath.

This was where my dad used to spin me around when he got home from work and I ran to greet him. This was where my mom would stand, smelling of chalk dust and kissing me goodbye as I left for school each morning.

If I closed my eyes, I swore I could still hear them.

Unfortunately, when I opened my eyes again, reality slammed into me, making it hard to breathe.

I stood in a pile of ruins. Not even a glimmer of the cozy home remained. The last good memory I had of my parents—of us—vanished like smoke, slipping through my fingers.

This place wasn’t safe. I was surprised it hadn’t been condemned.

There was no way I could stay here.

But I had nowhere else to go.

I hadn’t renewed my lease in the city.

I had no money.

No parents.

And now, no home.

The roof shuddered with a strong gust of wind, threatening to collapse on me. I squeaked, flinching.

I clutched the box of my meager possessions and let out a broken whimper. My tears puddled on the floor at my feet as my body shook with my sobs.

My omega retreated, my scent so burnt, it stung my nose.

“Mi?”

The deep voice boomed from behind me, vibrating through the pine floors and settling in my sternum. My heart skipped a beat, then began to hammer against my ribs like a trapped hummingbird.

Only one person in the world had ever called me that.

Slowly, I turned, my breath hitching high in my chest, the sound morphing into a reedy whine.

A towering figure with broad shoulders filled the doorway, the wood seeming to make room for him. The sun crawled up his back, silhouetting him against the colorful maples on the lawn.

It was a face I hadn’t seen since the day of my parents’ funeral.

Jason Hawthorne.

Dark windswept hair hung over his brow, mussed in a way that looked intentional. Brilliant blue eyes twinkled under the errant strands, a startling contrast to the scruff covering the sharp lines of his jaw. Thick forearms, corded with muscle and dusted with wood shavings, poked out from under the rolled sleeves of his red checkered flannel.

My mouth turned dry and I licked my lips.

The boy next door. Well… man, now. Nothing of the wide-eyed boy I’d once had a crush on remained in his rugged features.

In his place stood an alpha who looked like he’d been carved out of the mountainside. His six-foot-something frame made my already tiny five-foot-one feel minuscule—even by alpha and omega standards.

That was enough to make any omega purr with desire.

Woodsmoke. Freshly cut cedar. And an intoxicating note of amber that made my insides melt.