An Accidental Nest (Tying the Knot #1)

1. Emmeline

1

Emmeline

Y our time-off request has been denied.

I read the subject line on the email three times, each word tightening the knot in my stomach, again and again.

The timestamp shows 11:47 pm on Friday evening, a perfect little bomb dropped into my inbox when I slept, set to detonate just two days before my mandated leave is to begin.

Monday morning, when I’m supposed to check in to the Omega Centre, suddenly feels much too close.

Am I surprised that my new boss sent this? Not really. It feels like the exact kind of power move I’d expect from an alpha like him.

My fingers hover over the keyboard—muscle memory already composing the perfectly polite email response and the carefully crafted tone I’ve honed over years of designation politics.

But something stops me. The same something that’s carried me through board meetings where I’m the only omega present, through client pitches where alphas talked over me as if my words meant nothing, through years of proving myself twice as capable as anyone else, just to be considered half as competent.

It’s infuriating.

If this time off had been for some frivolous occasion—a holiday, a wedding, or even one of those stupid omega wellness retreats that my dad’s keep suggesting I attend—I might understand.

Hell, I wish my time off was for something like that. But this isn’t optional, not even a little bit. Instead, I need the next two weeks isolated away from most of the world so that I can suffer through my heat with whichever random alphas the Omega Centre has scrounged up for me this time.

Another round of strangers forced upon me. Another week of pretending it’s natural.

My heat is as predictable as the company’s quarterly reports—and just as professionally inconvenient. I can understand their annoyance, but it matters little when the legislation is clear.

I scan my colour-coded planner in front of me, though I’ve memorised every deadline since my promotion to Creative Operations Manager four weeks ago.

The next issue’s layout is due in sixteen days—right at the end of my scheduled heat leave—and the Pearson account that I now spearhead has a review due in nineteen.

The timing couldn’t be worse, but that’s exactly why I’d planned everything out in advance.

I’ve completed ninety percent of my deliverables, arranged coverage for my essential duties, and even drafted detailed handover notes in case something unexpected arises.

Because that’s what professional omegas do—we plan, we prepare, we persist.

As an omega in an alpha’s world, it’s been extremely hard to rise through the ranks. But not once has my company outright refused to follow the letter of the law regarding my mandatory leave.

Until today, that is.

Fitting, really, that I was promoted not even a month ago, and this is my signing bonus.

“Fucking alphas,” I snarl to myself before pulling my keyboard forward.

I type in the government’s website and find the correct file. I send all twenty-seven pages to print, the quiet whirring of the printer only adding to the anxiety building inside of me.

After highlighting the correct passage—Article 23.4, which outlines the specific requirement for heats—I take a steadying breath.

‘No employer shall deny or penalise any omega employee’s biological necessity leave, regardless of business requirements or timings…’

A whimper builds in my throat before I can stop it, instinct curling tightly in my chest. The idea of upsetting an alpha, of not having anyone to help me through my heat, sends a sharp pulse of unease through me.

But I push those worries down, silencing the complaints.

My gaze drifts to the corner of my office where my nest sits, an all-too-visible reminder of everything I try to keep separate. Even now, days before my heat, the sight of it tugs at something deep in my chest—a longing, I don’t have time for.

The rational part of my brain tries to convince me that there’s nothing shameful about biology, about designation, about the perfectly natural process that requires a week or so of isolation every quarter.

The omega part of me just wants to burrow into those soft blankets and hide from the world.

But, realistically, I know that these urges, this designation… it’s been a condemnation from the day I emerged as an omega.

Who else could rise to the position of manager at one of the city’s supposedly most progressive media companies, only to be stuck reading a denial that might as well have been written thirty years ago?

It’s absolutely disgusting.

Could I phone HR and get this fixed within a matter of minutes? Sure, I could file a complaint and let the system work as it should. It would be the sensible choice—the easy choice.

But, fuck, if I’m going to let some trust-fund alpha refuse to give me my legal rights.

I never asked to be an omega, but I’ve spent my life proving I’m worth more than the limitations they set on me.

The drive to Opus Media’s downtown office is so familiar that my body moves on muscle memory, giving my mind far too much space to analyse and prepare for the conversation I’m about to have.

Last month’s management restructure at our firm shifted my reporting line from Gerard—my mentor for the last five years—to Uri Rothschild, the COO. The ink on my promotion paperwork had barely dried when they announced the reporting changes.

He and his pack bought out the company and rebranded it to Opus Media before I even started here, but they’re still making numerous changes to undo the work of their predecessors.

I’ve only interacted with Uri in group settings, watching from a safe distance as he moved through the office with an ease that seems at odds with his imposing presence.

Despite his huge frame, Uri’s the type of alpha who remembers everyone’s birthday, who lingers in staffroom conversations, and is genuinely well-liked amongst the staff.

Obviously, I’ve misread him. The gentle giant act must have been just that— an act .

The underground parking garage is nearly empty, and I pull into my assigned spot, close to the doors. As one of only a few unmated omegas at Opus, we’re assigned the luxury of having the closest spots to the foyer doors, in direct view to numerous cameras, to try and make things safer for us.

I grab the file I prepared, climb out of my car, and stride into the building without hesitation.

But the moment I enter the foyer, a few pairs of eyes track my movement, and my stomach tightens. I haven’t used my scent neutraliser since yesterday morning, and with my heat looming, the lavender and chamomile notes are already sweetening with pre-heat hormones.

Shit .

The foyer is one of the only areas in the entire building that doesn’t have omega-specific bathrooms, and there’s no chance I can get some until I get up onto my floor.

My phone buzzes with a calendar reminder, and I look down, groaning inwardly at the alert.

Omega Center: Heat Partner Selection Meeting (MANDATORY) 4 pm.

Well, fuck, I’m probably going to have to reschedule that.

My scent drifts through the lobby, a warning bell I hadn’t meant to ring. Four alphas move, instinctive steps towards me, the shift in their scents sharp and cloying.

A sharp instinct to flee knots in my stomach, my body tensing, but I lock my jaw and force my feet to stay planted. The whimper I want to let loose is caged—blocked from escaping.

I can’t show this side of me.

Not here. Not now.

“Emmeline?” My old boss, Gerard, spots me, his scent darkening as he quickly crosses the foyer.

At nearly sixty, the alpha has been my boss since I started at the company and takes on an almost fatherly role.

He’s not dressed for work, instead looking like he’s just stepped off the golf course. With a plain white polo shirt and a tan pair of tailored chinos, he’s out of place down here amongst so many business’s attire.

His balding hair is hidden by a tan hat, but at least his shirt is tucked in over his protruding stomach.

“What are you doing here?” he demands with a hint of an alpha bark in his words. Gerard’s happily mated, and his peppermint scent is mixed with his omega’s cherry, and it turns my stomach.

It only ever bothers me in the days before my heat—the rest of the time, it’s actually quite soothing.

But, right now, the command in his voice makes me want to answer, to submit, to explain.

I cross my arms over my chest, shivering under the weight of so much attention. “What are you doing here?”

“There’s an issue with the Glyndale account,” he says, keeping his voice deliberately casual as his eyes scan the lobby. “I was just heading up. Want an escort?”

“Um…” I give him a funny look, not sure why he’s standing so close when he knows how much I don’t like his scent.

He lowers his voice. “You’ve not used your scent neutraliser today, Em, and this close to your, you know…”

I freeze, and he pats my arm, nodding his head.

“That’s why I rushed over. Even to me, you smell sweeter than usual.” His tone carries a paternal note of concern that makes me want to curl up and hide.

“Let me fill you in as I take you up. Where are you headed?” he asks. He raises his voice slightly, clearly intending for those leering at me to hear.

Without touching me again, he leads me over to the lifts and manages to act as a firm bodyguard between me and anyone who would want to get close.

Gerard beeps his security card against the sensor before pressing the button to call the lift. I’m grateful for his intervention, since I completely spaced on bringing my own in my haste to get here and confront Uri.

He hovers close but doesn’t touch me, knowing that I’m often more scent-sensitive and anxious when in my pre-heat state.

“I’ve got to go and see our lovely COO to rectify the grossly illegal move he made,” I mutter, keeping my head low as if that alone will ward off all the eyes.

My words are clipped and professional, my tone quieter than Gerard’s was, despite the way my inner omega flinches at speaking out against an alpha.

The need to be home, safe in my nest, tightens around my ribs. My body aches for it, but I grit my teeth and push the thought away.

“On a Saturday? Days before your heat?” Gerard’s words are a growl, and I flinch as the doors to the lift open and people exit.

My heart is pounding, omega instincts screaming about being in an enclosed space with an alpha, even a safely mated one.

I tuck myself to the side, not allowing anyone to brush up against me, and, thankfully, everyone gets off.

The lift’s scent-neutral air filtration system hums overhead as I tuck myself into the corner of the square shaft. My heart is thudding as I hold back another whine from being an omega who has upset an alpha.

Without even thinking about it, Gerard offers a low, protective sort of rumble, and I take a deep gulp of air, trying desperately to calm myself down.

I can’t act like this—not here, not at work.

They’re already denying my time off for my heat, what will they do when they find out I broke down because I have hormones ?

Gerard refuses to allow the two betas entry into the lift, and I’m grateful for it.

“There you go, deep breaths. Just like that,” he says soothingly as the doors close, and I continue taking slow, deep breaths to try and calm myself down.

“Sorry.” I mutter, shaking my head as I immediately calm once we’re away from the influx of people and scents. “It was just?—”

“Overwhelming,” he finishes with a nod. “I shouldn’t have growled. What does Rothschild need with you?”

I tense, knowing the words I’m about to say will upset the alpha once more. “He denied my time-off request.”

Gerard barely holds back his growl, whirling around to face me as his scent sours. “They denied your time off?”

I nod, looking down at my feet. Even whilst knowing that his anger is for me, it does little to calm the hormonal omega instincts. I want to cower, to cry, to beg for forgiveness.

I’m weak.

“I figured before I called HR and informed them of the illegal and gross misconduct of their COO, I’d explain this error to my new boss,” I say, proud of the fact that my voice doesn’t shake, and straighten my spine.

Gerard grins at me, the pride radiating from him. “You’re in the right. Don’t let them convince you otherwise. Don’t hesitate to go to HR if needed. This shit isn’t on—even if they’re the bosses.”

I wrap my arms around myself and laugh, breathing in through my nose. “I was shocked, but I know they’re all up in arms about the reshuffle.”

He rolls his eyes. “Don’t get me wrong, they’ve done good promoting you and Jess. You’re both good workers. But…” The elevator dings, and the doors open at the executive floor. Gerard looks out before winking at me. “Best I say nothing. Want me to walk you to his office?”

I shake my head, knowing that this is something I need to do for myself, lest Uri will continue to try walking all over me.

“No, thank you, Gerard. Thank you for today.”

He smiles and nods his head, and I get off the lift, waving to him as I walk through the deserted corridors. There are a few members of staff who I avoid making eye contact with, and, mercifully, they don’t try to approach me.

Instead, I keep my head low and stride over to Uri’s office. I try to keep my pace steady, despite the strong, bitter scent of bleach in the corridors, and, as I reach Uri’s door, I knock gently.

I’m surprised that there is not an assistant here, but since I’m probably going to get shouted at, it’s for the best that there’s nobody around to witness it. It’s not even a second later that his deep voice calls for me to enter.

There’s a tingle down my spine, and my knees nearly buckle as his scent hits me. It takes me a brief moment to get myself under control enough to enter.

I push the door open, and there’s an electrically charged current in the air as my gaze locks in on his. I don’t know how, but the scent of bitter bleach has gone, and all I can smell is him.

Sharp, spicy, intense black pepper, with a soft, sweet honeyed undertone.

Black pepper and honey… a combination that has never been so fucking sexy, but right now, my mouth is watering as I take in the alpha in front of me.

His pupils dilate. The shift is minuscule, a flicker of something unreadable before he schools his features into calculated indifference.

But it’s there—the momentary crack in his composure. And I feel it like a brand against my skin.

“Emmeline Whitmore, how may I help you?”

My name has never sounded so good as when it’s slowly drawled out of his deep, husky voice. I can hear the alpha growl in his words, and I can’t hold back my whimper.

I step into his office, arguments lined up like bullets in a chamber. But the moment his scent hits me—sharp, rich, intoxicating—my carefully crafted defences flicker. Something within me stirs, as if my whole body recognises something that my mind hasn’t yet caught up to.

Sharp, urgent, inevitable.

And then everything unravels the moment our eyes meet. A bolt of lightning shoots through me—well, that’s what it feels like—and it all falls into place.

No longer just black pepper and honey, his signature scent is now something primal and perfect, that makes my carefully constructed walls crumble.

A shudder rolls through me, deep and devastating, and I realise too late that I’m perfuming. Perfuming in front of my boss.

Perfuming for him.

Not just subtly—I’m practically broadcasting it. My scent gland throbs at the base of my throat, releasing an unmistakable pulse of lavender and chamomile that weaves itself between us, mingling with his.

My breath catches. I have to stop this. But my body—my omega—doesn’t care about what I want.

His nostrils flare. His hands twitch at his sides, fingers curling into fists. For a second, his entire frame tenses, as if fighting something invisible.

Fuck, he noticed.

The door clicks shut. My feet should move, my lips should part, my arguments should spill out—but I am frozen. Trapped in his gaze. It’s not just his size, his scent, or the sheer presence of him.

It’s something deeper. Something final .

He’s got a broad, powerful build, and the waves of possession are pouring from him.

Uri’s hands twitch at his sides, as if he’s fighting something within. His breath comes a fraction too slow, measured even, as if he’s holding himself back.

My legs tremble, every nerve ending turned to him, to the heavy weight of his scent in the air. The deep desire to present, to purr, to please , burns beneath my skin .

Uri flicks his dark, curly hair out of his face. The slightly overgrown look might seem messy on someone without his natural grace and physique, but on him, it’s perfect.

He is perfect.

The sleeves of his white dress shirt are rolled up to his elbows, revealing forearms corded with muscle—a stark reminder that despite his reputation for gentleness, he’s every bit the powerful alpha his size suggests.

He rises from his desk, slowly, as if he’s putting a show on just for me and my omega. My rational brain tries to focus on my perfectly prepared speech about workplace discrimination and omega rights, but, of course, my sexually-charged, hormonal designation has other ideas.

I bite back the whine, drawing blood with how hard I bite down on my inner cheek, and I have to press my legs tightly together, keenly aware that my scent and his are overpowering this room.

Uri moves around the desk, slow and deliberate, careful not to overwhelm. As if that could even be possible.

He’s huge—imposing, consuming—and his presence fills the room, eclipsing everything else. With each step he takes, the air between us seems to crackle, making it harder to breathe.

Uri and I have never been alone before, but every instinct screams that it was a mistake.

I should be offended by his careful approach, by the way he’s treating me like a skittish omega. But I’m not.

Instead, I’m riveted—my body responding to something primal, something deeper than instinct, something inescapable.

His scent is incredible, intoxicating, perfect—too much, and not enough all at once.

As he moves closer, the honey notes deepen, the black pepper sharp enough to make my head spin.

The pull is instant.

He smells like mine.

And then it slams into me—too late to run, too late to fight.

Uri Rothschild isn’t just any alpha.

He’s my alpha.

My fated mate.

My scent match.

And his mere presence is sending me into heat.