Cursed Love (The Vallaverse)

7. Amel

Amel

Stepping through the entrance to the gala feels like a taunt, a reminder of how difficult it’s been to find an Omega perfect for us. A woman in some overpriced garb hands me a single red rose. I take it without a word, its velvety petals soft against my calloused fingers, and tuck it into my jacket pocket, the stem sticking out just enough to keep it visible. Appearances matter here and tonight is all about the fucking appearances.

The scents hit me first—cloying perfumes, the tang of alcohol, and the unmistakable sweetness of Omegas near heat. It’s intoxicating and oppressive all at once. My jaw tightens as I force myself to breathe through it but it’s impossible to ignore. Wide eyes, flushed cheeks, and the telltale submissive tilt of necks—everywhere I look, it’s like they’re begging to be claimed.

The room is sectioned off—the Alphas clustered near the front, the Omegas and Betas filing in from the back. And then there’s the Valla, skulking in the shadows like predators who’ve wandered too close to civilization. There aren’t many of them here—there never are. It’s not their scene, not their world but they want submissive mates all the same.

Hunter and Moses would be welcome on a night like this, their presence enough to turn heads and command respect. But we all know better. They’re too well-known, their names whispered in places like this for all the wrong reasons. And they’re too close to rut, too on edge to think straight. They’d cause a disturbance before the first hour was up and I can’t afford that kind of attention.

As much as I want that last puzzle piece to our pack, I hate these nights the most. This place, this event, it’s all built on desperation. On submission and expectation. The Omegas here are practically programmed to be what their mates want—soft, obedient, nurturing. It’s what they’ve been taught to be, what society demands of them. And while I don’t mind a bit of submission—hell, I thrive on it—it’s not enough for us.

I don’t want someone who’s just going to roll over and let me take the lead every time. I want more. I want someone who will challenge me, who will push back, who will love fiercely and fight just as hard. Someone who has hopes, dreams, and aspirations. Someone who isn’t afraid to take what they want but knows how to give just as much. What we’re looking for is a fucking unicorn.

The thought drags a bitter laugh from me as I start moving around the perimeter, eyes scouring for someone who feels right. Omegas and Betas are starting to open up, laughter ringing out as they timidly approach the dancefloor, Alphas gathering, waiting for an innocent lamb to sink their claws into. Metaphorically. This is the one night that peace is required and anything less results in a harsh sentence.

And then, all at once, a scent hits me. Blueberries. Sweet and fresh, like pancakes on a winter morning, drizzled with honey and just a touch of warmth. It’s the most intoxicating thing I’ve ever smelled, cutting through the cloying perfumes and sweat like a beacon. My chest tightens as my instincts roar to life, my body thrumming with desire. I know without a doubt I’ve found our Omega. The part I don’t like is how close to her heat she seems to be.

My protective instincts take over, a deviant smile curling on my lips as I let the scent guide me. My gaze darts around the room, searching for the owner of that scent as everything else falls away. I hasten my steps until I lock onto a small corner tucked away behind the buffet table. From this angle, all I can see are those thick, beautiful black curls around her face, the sleek golden-orange dress covering her bringing out the same golden hues in her smooth brown skin.

I step a little closer, not wanting to startle her because she’s absolutely gorgeous in her element. Her cheeks are puffed out as she happily stuffs them with the tiny hors d’oeuvres from the buffet, her fingers delicate but quick as she grabs another bite. She’s not giggling nervously or shooting coy looks at the Alphas. She’s not trying to be anyone’s fantasy. She’s just... her. Content. Radiant. Like the happiest person in the entire goddamn room.

She doesn’t notice anyone around her, too caught up in her own little world but she’s perfect.

“I found her,” I whisper to myself. “I fucking found her.”