Page 37 of Pumpkin Patch Pack
That’s when I hear it, a low moan from inside, followed by incoherent mumbling. The sound raises every hair on the back of my neck.
My heart rate spikes, pounding against my ribs. “Emma?” I call again, pressing my ear to the door. “I’m coming in, okay?”
I try the handle. Locked. Of course it’s locked.
Fuck it. I retrieve the master key; my mind races as I return and slide the key into the lock.
As I push the door open, her scent hits me: apple pie, but somehow wrong.
Too sharp, too hot. Fevered.
The sweetness is there, but twisted with something sour, something that makes my alpha instincts scream danger rather than desire.
Our mate is in distress.
Underneath that intoxicating sweetness is the sour note of pain, of something fundamentally wrong.
It’s somehow mirrored in my body, a dull ache settling into my joints, a heaviness in my chest that wasn’t there moments ago.
“Emma?” I step inside.
The cottage is dim, and the air feels too warm and stifling. She’s in bed, tangled in sheets and Theo’s orange blanket. Her hair is plastered to her forehead, and her cheeks are flushed an alarming red. She tosses restlessly, murmuring words I can’t make out.
“Shit,” I breathe.
She’s burning up. Sweat soaks through her t-shirt, and her breathing comes in short, labored gasps.
I crouch beside the bed, careful not to touch her. “Emma, can you hear me?”
Her eyes flutter open, unfocused and glassy with fever. They roam the room before finally settling on my face. “L-Liam?” Her voice is a dry rasp, barely audible.
“Yes, it’s me,” I confirm, keeping my voice steady despite the panic rising in my chest. “What happened? What can I do?”
She’s mumbling something about packages and pills. Her hand flutters weakly toward her neck, where I now notice not one but two scent patches, slightly overlapping.
“I’m going to help you,” I promise, gently brushing damp hair from her forehead. Her skin nearly burns my fingertips. “But I need to know what you’ve been taking.
On her nightstand, I spot an empty orange prescription bottle. Picking it up, I read the label: maximum-strength omegasuppressants. The recommended dose is one daily, but the bottle was filled recently and is now empty.
“Emma, how many of these are you taking?” I ask as I read the labels’ warnings. Potential side effects include nausea and dizziness, but at a regular dose.
This looks like an overdose.
Emma moans, turning her head restlessly on the pillow. Her eyes roll back, and a tremor runs through her body.
“I’m calling a doctor,” I tell her.
“No,” she whispers, “No doctors… he’ll find me.”
“Who will find you, Emma?” I ask gently, but she’s fading again, and her eyes flutter closed.
I step away to make the call, my fingers shaking as I dial. Dr. Mitchell has been the farm’s doctor for years—an older beta who values privacy and has helped us through everything.
He answers on the third ring. “Liam? Everything alright?”
“Medical emergency at Harvest Home,” I say without preamble. “Omega, might be a suppressant overdose. High fever, disorientation. And I need your complete discretion.”
There’s a brief pause, then: “I’ll be there in twenty minutes,” he responds, no questions asked. “Cool compresses until I arrive. No ice bath—it could shock her system. Is she conscious?”
