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Then two more men turn toward us. One lifts his hand. The other leaves the vendor line.

The ache in my body deepens, and my perfume answers with a sweeter rush. Peppermint spills into the street. People notice.

The alpha beside me looks over his shoulder at the others, and his smile fades into calculation. My delight thins.

I turn toward home, but the festival parking lot lies ahead, crowded with visitors arriving for the afternoon events. A dozen unfamiliar scents drift toward me on the breeze. Home suddenly feels much farther away.

I veer left. The road toward the cemetery runs beneath live oaks at the older edge of town. Tourists rarely wander there during the Month of Heart, especially while the cemetery is closed for festival hours. I don't need to get inside. I need a quiet road, a tall fence, and a few minutes without strangers following my scent.

The old caretaker house sits beyond the graves. If Theo Heron is home, maybe he'll let me wait inside the gate until the crowd thins. I have met Theo Heron only once, from a distance. He owns the old caretaker house beyond the graves and handles the cemetery grounds for the town. He's a large man with a beard and a reputation for preferring the dead. At the moment, that sounds ideal.

“Hey,” the hydration alpha calls behind me. “That's the cemetery road.”

My pace quickens.

“I can walk you.”

“That’s kind, but I’m fine.”

Footsteps continue behind me for another few yards.

Another voice joins him. “Cemetery is closed during festival hours.”

I grip my bag strap and walk faster. Every glance back feeds the pressure gathering beneath my skin, and every friendly offer narrows the world until I can’t find room to breathe inside it.

The music fades behind me. Pink ribbons give way to live oaks, hanging moss, and open road. Cicadas rasp above the ditch. Sweat gathers beneath my head scarf while peppermint, vanilla, and rosemary stream behind me like a trail I can’t cover.

The iron cemetery gate appears around the curve.

A man stands on the other side. Tall enough to look over the stone wall. Broad shoulders beneath a faded black tank. Shaggy faded blonde hair brushes his collar, and a clean brown beard frames a face that looks carved for scowling.

His hazel eyes lift to mine.

The footsteps behind me draw closer.

I wrap both hands around the iron bars. “Please, let me in.”

Chapter 2

Theo Heron

The omega reaches my gate with two men behind her. The rosemary in her scent spikes sharp enough to read as fear.

“Please,” she says. “Let me in.”

I have the lock open before the last word leaves her mouth.

She pulls the gate wide enough to slip through, then turns as though she expects the men to follow. Her dark curls have escaped a rust-colored scarf and cling to her damp cheeks. One hand grips a steel water bottle covered in park stickers. The other remains wrapped around the iron bar, her knuckles pale beneath a smear of pink sparkle.

I close the gate and slide the bolt home.

The first man stops on the road. He is young, dressed for the festival, and breathing too hard for the easy walk from town. The second hangs back beneath the live oaks.

“We were making sure she got somewhere safe,” the younger one says.

“She did.” My voice comes out low enough to carry through the bars without inviting conversation.

His gaze moves past me to the omega. Peppermint and warm vanilla drift through the gate, sweetening as her pulse races. The smell reaches beneath my skin with a force that makes my alpha rise. I push down the instinct. She asked for shelter, not another alpha reacting to her body.