Chapter 3
Juliet
I clicked off the bedside lamp and turned my back to Louis, but I couldn’t sleep. My mind kept going back to the box in the storage closet—the hair, the hairpin, the note.
What was happening to him? Why did my scent calm him?
The next morning, I woke up to the smell of coffee—citrus-scented coffee, if that was even possible. Louis was in the kitchen, pouring a mug for me, and his tail was wagging slightly.
"Found citrus extract at the store," he said, pushing the mug toward me. "Thought you’d like it."
It smelled like oranges and warmth. I took a sip, and my chest felt light. "It’s perfect. Thank you."
Over the next few days, Louis seemed more relaxed. He didn’t zone out anymore, and he stopped tucking my things into his pockets. But I still couldn’t shake the question: why did he need my scent so badly?
One afternoon, while Louis was out grocery shopping, I decided to look through his room. I told myself it was just to make sure he had everything he needed, but I knew the truth—I was looking for answers.
His room was sparse: a bed, a dresser, a small bookshelf with a few books (all about household management, weirdly enough).
I opened the dresser drawers—folded clothes, a spare uniform, a pair of socks.
Then, in the bottom drawer, under a pile of shirts, I found it: a silver chain, tarnished but well-cared for, with a small pendant shaped like a wolf’s head. The pendant had a crest on it—something I didn’t recognize, but it looked old, expensive.
I tucked the chain into my pocket. Maybe Sarah would know what it was? But when I texted her, she replied: [Never saw that. Louis never wore jewelry when he worked for me.]
Great. So now I had a mystery chain and a werewolf who collected my scent.
That weekend, I decided to run errands. I needed to pick up groceries, and there was a little antique shop downtown I’d passed a few times—maybe they’d know about the pendant.
It was a long shot, but I didn’t have any other leads.
The shop was small, filled with old furniture and trinkets, and it smelled like cedar and vanilla. An old man with silver hair was behind the counter, polishing a brass lamp.
"Can I help you, miss?" he asked, looking up. His eyes were a warm gold—wait, gold? Like Louis’s sometimes were.
"I have this pendant," I said, pulling the chain out of my pocket. "I was wondering if you knew anything about it."
The man’s eyes widened. He took the chain from me, his fingers gentle, and examined the pendant. "Blackwood," he said, his voice soft. "This is the crest of the Blackwood family—Alpha werewolves. One of the oldest packs in the city."
"Alpha?" I asked. "What’s that mean?"
"Alphas are leaders," he said, setting the chain on the counter. "Strong, but… they need something to anchor them. Without an anchor—someone or something that calms them—they get anxious. Panic. Sometimes worse."
My breath caught. The note. The citrus scent. The way he collected my things. "An anchor?"
The man nodded. "I used to be a pack elder, before I retired. I wrote this a long time ago." He pulled a small, leather-bound book from under the counter—its pages were yellowed, and the cover was worn. "《Alpha Behavior Notes》. For young Alphas who don’t know how to handle their instincts."
He opened it to a page marked with a ribbon. The handwriting was neat, but shaky, like the writer’s hands had been tired.
[Alphas collect the scent of their anchor—clothes, hair, anything that smells like them. It’s not greed. It’s fear. They need to know their anchor is real, that they won’t disappear.]
I stared at the words.
Louis was an Alpha. That’s why my scent calmed him. That’s why he collected my things. He thought I might disappear.
"Did you… know the Blackwoods?" I asked, my voice quiet.
The man shook his head. "Not well. But I know their crests. This chain—whoever it belongs to, he’s lost. Looking for his anchor. And he found you, didn’t he?"
I thought of Louis’s note: [Don’t let her see.] He didn’t want me to know. He didn’t want to be a burden.
I closed the book, handed it back to the man, and took the chain. "Thank you. For telling me."
"Keep the book," he said, pushing it toward me. "You’ll need it more than I do."
When I got home, Louis was in the living room, folding laundry. He looked up when I walked in, and his eyes widened when he saw the chain in my hand.
"Juliet, I—"
"I know," I said, cutting him off. I sat down next to him, and held out the chain. "You’re an Alpha. This is yours."
He stared at the chain, then at me. "I didn’t want to tell you. I didn’t want you to think I was… broken."
"You’re not broken," I said, taking his hand. His palm was warm, and his fingers were trembling. "You just need an anchor. And I’m here. I’m not going anywhere."
Louis’s breath hitched. He reached up, brushed a strand of hair from my face, and his tail wrapped around my wrist—soft, warm, like a promise.
"Thank you," he whispered, his eyes gold. "I was so scared you’d leave."
"I won’t," I said. "I’m your anchor, right?"
He nodded, and pulled me into a hug. His chest was warm, and I could hear his heart beating—steady, not racing. No more panic. No more pain.
That night, he didn’t sleep in the guest room. He slept next to me, his tail wrapped around my waist, and his head resting on my shoulder. And for the first time, I didn’t wonder what he was thinking. I knew.
He was home.