Alpha Reader

By Lilith K Duat

CHAPTER 1

HARLAN

Sitting alone in an independent bookstore, stalking your scent match’s Packspace account is one of the more pathetic ways a person could be wasting their time.

But, man, Havannah looked amazing in that yellow sundress. If she didn’t want to be looked at, she wouldn’t have posted the picture, right?

She wanted attention. Maybe not specifically my attention, but attention regardless.

Her icon popped up at the top of my feed, letting me know she just posted a story. I swiped to watch it.

Havannah had a brilliant smile on her face. Her loose blonde curls wild in the wind. Her face pointed to the warmth of the summer sun, neck extended.

Three fresh bitemarks scattered between her jaw and shoulder.

“All packed up and ready for a new adventure!” Read the text in a fine cursive font. I rolled my eyes at the cloying wording of the caption. I hated it. I hoped that it was a phrase her pack-mates used that just unfortunately rubbed off on her. A guy can dream.

The image slid to the left and there she was again, looking so small among three burly male alphas.

We had met the night of high school graduation, an after-grad party at the Port Haven beach. The sun was soon to set and she was dancing by the bonfire. The smell of daisies and gold was stronger than the burn of the fire. I knew my somewhat embarrassing cinnamon roll scent was strong that night, it permeated my nose at the image of her, the smell of her. All I wanted was to lay in a field of white daisies with her for the rest of my life. She was mine. I was hers.

“I’m sorry, Harlan,” she had said. “I know we’re scent matches but…” her blue eyes cast down to my feet sinking into the sand. I knew what she saw. All my imperfections. All the ways I was weak, broken and not nearly good enough for her. “Alphas are supposed to be strong. Healthy. And you’re… not that.”

I remember shifting my awkward stance in the sand, the sweat running down my calves, making the skin stick to the sockets of my prosthetic legs.

After that rejection, I took a gap year before college. That was two years ago. Most of it was a haze of drinking and depression.

Now, looking at the three handsome meatheads surrounding her, Havannah got her wish.

I backed out of the app and turned off the screen. With a groan of effort, I stood from the comfortable wicker loveseat. I made sure my footing was secure, then ambled up the stairs to the second floor of the shop. I was tired of the record that was playing and decided that it was time for a change.

I blew dark hair out of my eyes and thumbed through milk crates and wooden fruit boxes, trying to pick a new soundtrack for the coming afternoon. What went well with eternal rejection?

The bell at the door chimed, letting me know a customer had walked in.

“Be with you in a moment,” I mumbled.

Nothing in the vinyl section was calling to me. It was all too… groovy; a distraction when trying to read. I turned to the CD racks and selected a moody, easy listening, vaguely new-age compilation. I fed the disk into the sound system and let technology do its thing.

On my way back to the loveseat, I browsed the shelves. I took a moment, closed my eyes, and inhaled deeply. Old paper. Worn leather. Ink. Wood. The smell of books. A calm, cozy, safe scent that always managed to wrap around a person.

I swayed a little on my artificial legs and that unsteadiness jerked me back to reality. With a sigh, I pulled a thick, leather bound high-fantasy tome from the shelf to kill time with.

Slowly, I descended the staircase, set on getting comfortable in my usual spot and losing myself in a book for a little while.

Because every time I wasn’t thinking, my mind drifted to the bite marks on Havannah’s neck.

What I did not expect was to see a petite young woman sitting in my love seat.

“You’re in my chair,” I said.

She looked up at me with colourless eyes. Grey, but so pale they were like glass, like ice. She brushed dark hair behind her ear, the abundance of beaded bracelets and metal hoops around her wrist ringing and clattering together. She pulled an earbud out of her ear and furrowed her brow.

“What?”

From the earbud I could hear guttural vocals and power chords.

“You’re in my chair,” I repeated.

“It was empty when I got here,” she said.

I studied her. Her black t-shirt had a death metal band logo. “The vinyls are upstairs. Second floor.”

“Okay?” She arched a brow. “And?”

“Figured that was more your speed than some old books,” I answered.

“Oh, I see. Just because I like bands like Starving Wolves, and Auracidal I must be illiterate.” She nodded, and pulled her bag onto her lap. She pulled out a copy of a true crime novel, all dog-eared and well loved. “I happen to like reading.” She opened the book and immediately her ghostly eyes started skimming the text on the cream coloured pages. “Unfortunate for you, and your seat.” she added without her eyes leaving the book. “Because I’m quite comfortable.” She turned a page. “I don’t plan on going anywhere.”

I let out a long breath to ease my frustration. She was, after all, a customer. Or maybe just a loiterer. But I’ve never really had anything against people who just read and don’t buy anything, so it would be hypocritical of me to take umbrage with it now. Then again, how would she know that? Who’s to say the store didn’t always have a no loitering policy?

On the other hand, if you can’t quietly read a book in a bookstore, then where can you read?

I left her claim on my couch, brought my novel with me and settled in the high backed leather office chair behind the cash desk. I opened the book. Relishing the slight cracking sound as I broke the spine.

“Damnit,” the couch-thief muttered after a minute. I glanced over the top of my book and saw her lifting two pages from her paperback. They were poorly glued to each other at the corner. She leaned her head back with a groan. “Not again. Stupid cheap mass market paperbacks.”

“Sub par glue, huh?” I said.

“Yeah,” she grumbled and stuffed the pages back into the book.

“What are you reading?”

“Pack Psychosis: the Farrow Island Tragedy.” Keeping her spot with her index finger, she closed the book and lifted it to show me the cover. The words were painted in a blood style font on a black background and featured three black and white mug shots of a trio of infamous alphas.

I got up from the leather chair. “I think I have a copy of that. Follow me.”

The young woman got up from the love seat and I led her to the mystery and true crime section of the shop.

“Why is it so cold in here?” She wrapped her arms around her body. She wore layers, the band t-shirt over a long sleeve that ran past her knuckles and had custom-made thumb holes. Over that she had a green button-up shirt. The sleeves were rolled up to her elbows to allow her bracelets the freedom to jingle up and down her arms. Her jeans fit her hips and legs nicely and she walked with a very graceful gait as she followed me.

“Climate controlled,” I answered. “For the books. So they don’t get moldy or something. Most people find it an oasis when compared to the heat outside.” I looked her over more noticeably this time. “Aren’t you hot in that?”

She seemed to hedge a moment, then shrugged, her arms still steadfastly hugging her middle. “I almost always run cold. Anemia,” she explained.

“I see.” I directed my attention to the spines on the shelves.

“I hate summer, anyway,” she said. “So much sun gives me a headache.”

A smirk curved my lips. “Yeah, you strike me more of a doom and gloom autumn mist and bone-chilling winters type of girl.”

“You sure do like to judge based on appearances, don’t you?”

I swept a copy of the book off the shelf and turned to face her. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

She just looked at me with her empty crystal eyes. She waited a beat, then held her hand out for the book.

I handed her the paperback and went back to browsing the shelf. “I hate summer, too,” I said. “It’s all hot and sticky and gross.”

“Yeah,” she answered in a small voice. “Stupid us for living in a port city with a massive beach.”

“Exactly.”

“All the shirtless men who think they’re alpha-ness instantly make them sexy. Like, sir, put a shirt on. No one wants to see your hairy, sweaty back.”

I chuckled, and a small smile quirked the very corner of her pale mouth.

“Not that I condone body-shaming,” she added.

“Of course not. Anything else I can help you find?”

She scanned the shelf. “Well, it’s a long shot, but do you perhaps have Butchered Betas?”

“Yikes, that’s dark,” I said. But, I turned back to the shelf. “That’s the one about the pack of alphas who thought betas were inferior and went on a killing spree, right?”

“Yeah. By C A Smyth. It’s out of print, so…” She slipped closer to the shelf. Closer to me. She fit right by my side quite nicely, occupying a space I was never really aware of before. It was almost comfortable, standing here like this.

“What are you, a psych major or something?”

“Something like that,” she murmured, her gaze chasing my finger as it crossed the spines.

The touch of the books was satisfying against my scarred fingertips. The fissures in well-worn spines, the smoothness of paper, the tight suppleness of leather. Embossment, embellishments, the occasional fabric cover. It all felt so therapeutic against my wounds. The burns were basically healed but left rough calluses that would never really go away. At least I was armored against papercuts.

“Sorry,” I dropped my hand to my side. “No such luck.”

“That’s alright.” She stepped back, and hugged her new copy of Pack Psychosis to her chest. “I’ll just take this, then.” Without being instructed, she walked to the register. I slid in behind the desk and took the book, keying in the price.

She pulled her wallet from her bag and opened it. As she tapped her credit card, I caught her name.

Anastasia Van Zandt.

She looked way too down-to-earth to be an Anastasia. Then again, princess names were very popular for omegas.

As she slid her card back into her wallet, I glimpsed the inoffensive purple stripe on her ID card that confirmed she was registered as an omega. That was odd, because I didn’t pick up any scent from her. I inhaled deeply through the nose and out through the mouth, passing it off as a sigh. I tried to latch on to her perfume, but came up with nothing more than her store-bought shampoo.

Was it because of Havannah? Because I had locked in on my scent match and she chose to walk away?

Had she taken more than my future, had she taken my senses as well?

“And here’s your book, Anastasia. Thank you for shopping at Paper Trail.” I held the book out to her with a courteous smile. Her eyes narrowed and she gripped her left wrist with her right hand. Her thumb fiddling with the bracelets stacked up her arm.

She scrutinized me, sizing me up to see if I was a threat.

“I never told you my name.” She reached into her bag. “I have pepper spray,” she warned.

I cringed at my idiocy. “Oh, man, sorry. I saw it on your card. I wasn’t thinking. It’s been a… long morning.” I placed the book on the check out desk and slid it over to her, then took back my hand. “My name is Harlan Deckard, and I apologize.”

Her hand eased out of her bag. “Long morning, huh?” She let out a breath. “Happens to all of us.” She scooped up her book and turned, hurrying out of the shop.