Bliss. This is pure bliss, and there’s nothing more in this life than I want more than my pack and my omega just like this.
Afterward, we collapse in a tangled heap, too spent to move. My head ends up on Helena’s stomach and Zane’s hand has curled around her shoulder. Cole is spooned up behind Helena and humming a lullaby under his breath.
No one speaks for a long time. The only sound is our breathing and the slow tick of the clock on my nightstand.
“I don’t think I’ve ever been this happy,” Helena admits.
Zane just grunts, but his thumb rubs lazy circles on her arm. “Good. You deserve it.”
We all do.
CHAPTER 25
Cole
THREE MONTHS LATER
If there’sa world record for most pasties baked in a twenty-four-hour period, I’m pretty sure Helena and I could put up a serious challenge. My flour-caked fingers move on autopilot, folding and crimping and glazing, while the front of the house ripples with the unyielding hum of tourist season. Seamuse Bakery smells like a mix between cinnamon and egg wash with a hint of the sea, the latter of which clings to every old stone in town.
Helena floats through it all with the grace of a party hostess and the grit of a dockworker. She’s put up her glossy, black hair with a tortoiseshell clip—a little wedge of elegance above the blue bakery polo—and her face is dusted with a thin veil of flour and a bright smile.
In short, Helena looks like a natural at work in her favored habitat.
It’s been three months since she returned from the city without her father’s blessing. With every day that passes, Helena settles in just a little bit more. Zane, too, as he hops between assisting here in the bakery and lifeguarding classes. But Helena, she’s really taken to working here amongst the community. And sometimes, when she brings back empty pastrybaskets for refills, I catch her peeking into the kitchen just to check if I’m watching.
I always am.
“Don’t burn the saffron buns.” She bumps her hip into mine as she passes. “The eight-top by the window says if you do, they’ll riot.”
I glance at the clock. “Three minutes ahead of schedule, Your Majesty.” It’s a joke between us, leftover from the first time she wore the bakery’s paper crown for a children’s party. She does a little mock-curtsy and gives me a wink before vanishing back to the front.
Lucas is manning the counter with the single-minded focus of a racehorse. He’s traded lifeguard red for a Seamuse Bakery T-shirt, but it’s cut tight and does nothing to hide the fact that he could probably bench-press me and half the staff. He’s good with people—too good, sometimes. When a couple of teenage girls giggle their way through an order for two dozen Chelsea buns, Lucas manages to serve them, charm them,andsqueeze in a joke about Cornish versus Devon cream before ringing them up.
I hear Zane’s low, measured voice from the corner table, where he’s perched with a laptop and a mug of black coffee that never seems to empty. He’ll need it for the full bakery inventory he’s doing today. Ravenwood Shield Security let him go before he could resign from his role, but he still frequently takes position where he can easily watch Helena.
I understand. It’s hard not to want to guard our omega, even if you know she could handle herself. She’s not exactly anonymous here—never was, even before theRoyals Anonymousthing went viral. Now, it’s an open secret among locals that the “Omega Nobility” of social media is working full-time at the pasty shop. She’s not exactlyroyalty, but every third tourist wants a selfie or an autograph, anyway. It’s harmless, mostly.
Most importantly, it doesn’t stop her from jumping in with both feet. If there’s a special, she’s the one who names it and designs the flyer. If the shop’s slow, she lures in customers with Instagram stories or flash sales. She keeps an idea book in the back thick with scribbled notes and crossed-out ideas. It sits right beside my grandmother’s faded recipe binder, and sometimes Helena flips through both at once, dreaming up new flavors.
I love her for it. For all of it. Especially her ridiculous optimism and seemingly bottomless appetite for cinnamon rolls.
The bell over the door jingles for the hundredth time today. I’m halfway through shaping sausage rolls when Helena’s voice filters in from the front. “Oh, no, I couldn’t possibly be her. I’ve just got one of those faces.”
It’s always the same: a hopeful customer, an awkward laugh, and then Helena spins the whole thing into a joke about doppelgängers. She’s had practice. But this time, there’s a flicker in her voice, like she’s bracing for something.
A sudden shift in air pressure and a predatory snap of camera shutters. I know what’s coming even before the pack of reporters crowd the bakery window, waving telephoto lenses like pirate cutlasses. It’s not just the locals, or the influencer hounds—this is full-on national media, and there’s no doubt they’re here for Helena.
I wipe my hands and head for the front. Lucas, bless him, tries to block the door, but the news crews are relentless.
A woman in a pantsuit sidesteps him, phone held high. “Helena! Helena Starling! Are you staying in Cornwall permanently, or is this just a fall thing?”
Another shout: “Is it true you’re dropping out of Omega Selection Day? Are the rumors about you and the Seamuse Bakery alphas true?”
Helena holds up her hands palms out. “If you’re here for the lemon tarts, the line starts at the register. Otherwise, you can kindly leave.” Her voice is smooth and firm. She may as well be fielding complaints about the weather, not a swarm of international press.
But they don’t stop.
Zane’s on his feet in the next second. He looms between the press and Helena with a glare that could strip paint. “The lady has asked you to leave. I advise you do so.”
