Page 70 of Written in Scent

And now I realize I’m about to find out what it truly means to be courted by a pack.

I spend a restless night alone in my dorm bed, even though exhaustion weighs heavy on every limb. The sheets feel too cold, the pillow too flat, the room too quiet. No matter how many times I turn or rearrange the blankets, sleep keeps slipping away from me.

I keep waking every twenty or thirty minutes, reaching blindly for my phone only to see another stretch of darkness has passed. Each time I close my eyes again I miss the coziness of the pack house. I miss the layered scent of cedar and amber and pine and rain that wrapped around me like a living thing. I miss the solid press of Jamie’s chest under my cheek and the unwavering certainty that I was safe.

By the time morning light finally creeps around the edges of the blinds I’m still half-asleep and groggy, my head fuzzy and my body reluctant to move. I’m just pulling the covers higher when a firm knock sounds at the door.

I blink, pushing myself up on one elbow. The knock comes again, insistent. Sophie is already stirring in her bed across the room, mumbling something sleepy as she sits up.

I rub my eyes and pad barefoot across the floor, wearing Jamie’s oversized t-shirt that falls down to my knees. When I crack the door open, the RA stands there holding a large, beautifully wrapped basket tied with a simple cream ribbon.

“This was just dropped off for you,” she says with a small smile. “From Pack Whitmore.”

The RA grins as she hands over the large, beautifully wrapped basket. My heart stutters in my chest.

A simple cream card is tucked into the ribbon that reads “For Elodie – Pack Whitmore” in neat handwriting. My stomach does a low flip at the sight of their pack name together with mine like that.

Sophie’s already bouncing on her toes behind me, eyes wide with excitement the second she spots the basket. “Oh my god, open it, open it!”

We drag the surprisingly heavy thing inside and set it in the middle of the floor. Sophie drops down cross-legged beside me, practically vibrating. “Together,” she insists, already tugging at the ribbon.

We peel back layers of tissue and crisp wrapping paper one by one, the ribbon pooling on the floor. Sophie leans in so close her shoulder brushes mine, both of us holding our breath as we examine the contents.

The first thing I pull out is a big box of cozy snacks clearly meant for our room — rich dark chocolate bars, little tins of herbal tea, and delicate packets of fancy cookies dusted with powdered sugar.

Sophie makes a happy noise and immediately claims one of the teas.

Next comes a neat stack of protein bars in flavors I actually like, followed by a delicate keychain for my backpack. Suspended in clear resin is a real section of blue morpho wing, shimmering electric blue and black. I turn it deliberately in the light, stunned at how perfect it is.

Then my fingers brush something heavier. I lift out a sleek fountain pen, and my breath catches. The body is made of a shimmering mother of pearl, catching every bit of light and throwing it back in muted rainbows, an extra fine gold nib perfect for writing tiny labels. It’s exactly the kind of pen I have lingered over in shop windows for years, well out of my budget but still in my heart.

Sophie squeals. “Elodie, that is gorgeous.”

I turn the pen in my hands, throat suddenly tight. I have no idea how they knew. I’ve never mentioned it to any of them. Yet here it is, resting in my palm like they had reached inside my head and pulled out the one thing I would’ve never bought for myself.

Then Sophie spots the small velvet box tucked deeper in the basket and lets out a sharp little gasp, tucked against a selection of inks for the pen. Her fingers freeze mid-reach.

“Elodie,” she whispers, voice suddenly reverent. “Look at the brand on the lid.”

I lean in closer. The discreet silver stamp on the box is unmistakable — the same luxury diamond house I have only ever seen in magazine spreads and on the necks of people who move in entirely different circles. My stomach does a slow, dizzy flip.

Sophie picks it up like it might break if she breathes on it wrong. She opens the box carefully, hinges whispering, and we both go completely still.

Inside, resting on deep midnight velvet, lies a delicate necklace. The diamonds are cut into a perfect butterfly shape, four outer stones forming the wings, each one flashing with icy fire, while smaller pave diamonds trace the body and antennae in breathtaking detail. It’s small enough to wear every day, subtle enough to look almost modest, and yet impossibly luxurious.

The stones catch the morning light slanting through our window and throw tiny, dancing rainbows across the floor, across my hands, across Sophie’s wide eyed face.

I can’t speak. My throat has closed up completely. The necklace is so beautiful it feels almost unreal, like something that should belong in a glass case rather than in my dorm room on a random Monday morning.

Next we reach a group of more personalized packages. I pick up the first one, crisp white paper printed with tiny black insect silhouettes.

The moment the paper falls away I smile. It’s a beautiful leather bound notebook paired with a matching pen set and a thick custom entomology reference book that looks brand new and expensive. Tucked inside the front cover is a small handwritten note in neat, precise handwriting.

For when your thoughts need a solid place to land.

— Adrian

I run my thumb over the smooth leather, heat blooming in my chest.