Page 36 of Pumpkin Patch Pack
Feel better. We miss you around the house.
—Theo
And beside all this bounty, neatly folded, sits a stack of extra pillows and the softest-looking blanket—a thick, plush throw in a deep orange.
Warmth radiates from my chest, spreading outward until I feel it in my fingertips. I find myself smiling despite the pounding in my head, despite the fear that’s been my constant companion.
I gather everything quickly, bringing it inside before anyone can see the goofy grin on my face or the moisture gathering in my eyes. The soup smells divine—rich chicken broth with vegetables and tender noodles—and my stomach growls in response, no longer used to the feeling of hunger.
Settling on the sofa, I wrap the blanket around my shoulders. It’s even softer than it looked, enveloping me in warmth that feels like an embrace. I sip the soup slowly, letting it soothe me.
The blanket carries a faint but unmistakable scent of cinnamon. Theo. This is his blanket, from his bed or his room. The realization should make me uncomfortable, but instead, I bury my face in the soft fabric, inhaling deeply.
It’s comforting. Safe.
I try to focus on work as I eat. The farm’s social media accounts are thriving—engagement numbers are climbing steadily, new followers join daily, and local news outlets reach out for feature stories. I should feel proud of my accomplishments in just a few weeks. Instead, all I feel is a growing sense of dread.
By midday, I feel worse.
The headache is worse. There is pressure behind my eyes now, and there is a pounding at my temples that makes it hard to focus on the screen. Nausea rolls through me in waves, and my skin feels hypersensitive. The brush of my sweater against my arms is almost painful.
Are these heat symptoms or just anxiety? I don’t know, as I have suppressed all of my previous heats.
Either way, I can’t risk being around the others like this.
I finish half a scone before my eyelids grow heavy. The combination of food, warmth, and the soothing scent lulls me toward sleep. I arrange the pillows; they smell like Rowan and Liam, and I briefly wonder if this is intentional. Then, I curl up beneath the blanket.
Just a short nap, I tell myself, just until the package arrives.
16
Liam
Maple won’t stop bleating.
I’ve tried everything for the past hour: fresh hay, apple slices, and even the carrots she usually goes crazy for. Nothing works. She keeps pacing in agitated circles, trotting toward Emma’s cottage, then back to me with a look that says I’m the dumbest alpha who ever lived.
“What is it, girl?” I crouch to her level, scratching behind her ears where she usually loves it. She butts my hand away with enough force that I nearly lose my balance, then trots a few deliberate steps toward Emma’s cottage before looking back at me with what I swear is impatience.
“I miss her too,” I tell Maple. “But we need to let her rest.”
This time, Maple bleats again, stomping one small hoof against the ground.
“Alright,” I mutter, straightening up and brushing dirt from my jeans. “Let’s go check on her.”
Maple doesn’t wait for me, already trotting ahead with purpose. I lengthen my stride to keep up, trying to ignore the knot of worry in my gut.
As we approach the cottage, I spot the empty basket outside her door—Theo’s care package from earlier. At least she’d eaten something.
That’s good.
I knock firmly on the wooden door. “Emma? It’s Liam. Just checking if you need anything.”
No response. The cottage is silent except for the faint whistling of the wind through the trees nearby. I knock again, louder this time.
“Emma?”
Maple paws at the door, her small hooves scratching against the wood as she bleats urgently. Her ears are flattened against her head, a sign of distress I’ve rarely seen in her.
