Chapter 13
Jensen
I meant what I said. I am very well read. Of course I am. I know all about the various mutations that can affect alphas, and omegas too, for that matter.
I mean, yes, this particular mutation is so rare that many people consider it a myth.
There are plenty of people, medical professionals included, who refute its very existence.
That’s the only reason I didn’t immediately think of it when Branson suggested the lord might be taking a suppressant. Not because I didn’t know what it was.
I’ve been in the library since sparrow fart this morning, trawling through medical journals and articles published on the matter, and it’s all very interesting. Dreadful for the lord, obviously, because it’s a very serious condition, but academically fascinating nonetheless.
Essentially, what the mutation does is amplify the alpha’s scent well beyond normal levels.
Usually, when an alpha smells especially irresistible to an omega, it means they’ve found their mate.
This means that omegas who come into contact with an unsuppressed Casanova alpha are compromised.
They perceive the strong pheromones to be indicative of mate compatibility.
According to the Old England Journal of Medicine, spontaneous heats usually result within days or even hours of contact.
Heats are intense and are usually followed by severe limerence and obsession on the part of the omega.
The condition typically lasts until the Casanova alpha in question takes a mate.
It really is awful because the Casanova alpha doesn’t have the same response to omegas at all. For him, sure, he’ll be affected by an omega in heat like any alpha would, but his biology isn’t swayed to believe he’s met his mate until he truly does find a compatible omega.
It all makes sense now. The late-night omega visitors are all convinced that Lord Augustus is their mate and feel sure they are fated to be with him. Poor things. How tragic.
To be on the safe side and ensure I’m well informed, I read seventeen articles on the side effects of suppressants and jot down a list of characteristics medicated Casanova alphas display.
Obviously, emitting no scent is the easiest side effect to spot.
Dull eyes and delayed responses are also indicators that the medication is working.
According to everything I’ve read, what the lord said last night is true: he poses no threat to me whatsoever, as long as he remains medicated.
The fact that I’m on a suppressant of my own makes it doubly safe because even if he were to go off his medication, I would be unlikely to go into spontaneous heat from exposure to him.
And if I did, I definitely wouldn’t fall pregnant. So there’s that.
Really, all I need to do to stay safe is give him a surreptitious sniff every day, check that his eyes look dead inside, and pepper him with questions so I can test his response times.
To be honest, I’ve been doing all those things for weeks. It’s hardly a hardship to continue.
To ensure that my knowledge on the subject is well-rounded, I read every article I can find on the extraordinary sexual prowess and virility of Casanova alphas as well. When I run out of scholarly material to consume, I move to fictional exploits that some may describe as erotic musings.
I’m painstakingly notating a particularly raunchy passage when a man I didn’t hear enter the library clears his throat next to me. I rise off my chair involuntarily, levitating for several long seconds before landing in a heap back on my seat.
“Are you all right, Mr. Lawlor?”
Lord Augustus is standing so close to me that he could touch my shoulder if he reached out. He’s standing so close that there’s no possible way he can’t see the articles strewn all over my desk or read the titles on the spines of the stack of books in front of me.
I firmly close the book I was reading and get to my feet, turning my back on my desk to lessen the impact of my reading material on the lord.
Blood rushes and capillaries widen. My cheeks go blood red, and I feel awful.
Not just embarrassed, but guilty too. Something the lord said last night stayed with me—when I asked whether I should be at Beaumont Craven House, he said I was here because he didn’t want to discriminate against me because I’m an omega.
Growing up in a family with two alpha brothers and a very strong alpha mother wasn’t always easy.
There have been times in my life when I’ve felt overlooked because of my designation.
Lots of times. My parents aren’t bad people.
Neither of them. It’s not like they meant to do it—I doubt they even realized they were pushing me aside.
I’m quite sure they thought they were protecting me. Keeping me safe from harm.
It’s the way of the world, as my mom always says.
But I don’t like the way of the world. I don’t want it to be the way of the world.
I want the world to be different. I don’t want to be discriminated against because of my biology, and I sure as hell don’t want to discriminate against anyone because of a medical condition they were born with. It goes against the grain of who I am.
“I’m fine, thank you,” I reply in a rush.
Lord Augustus looks at me so long and hard that I begin to suspect he doesn’t believe me.
I smile calmly to quell his doubts, despite a healthy dose of anxiety.
At last, he speaks. “I wanted to pop in to check on you and let you know that in light of last night’s revelations, there’s absolutely no expectation on you to act as my omega or attend events as my partner.
It was a silly idea to start with, and I completely understand if you’re no longer comfortabl—”
“Oh.” My voice cracks slightly as I speak. “I am comfortable. I’m very comfortable. I’m extremely comfortable, and I meant what I said. I’ve always wanted to attend a masked ball.”
Fine lines appear near the lord’s eyes, and he looks amused. “Well, the masked ball isn’t until the weekend after next, but the children’s fucking hospital fundraiser is on Saturday if you think you can face it?”
“Absolutely!” I say with a conviction I can only blame on being caught red-handed reading Casanova alpha porn by my Casanova alpha boss.
The lord presses his lips together, and I suspect he’s reluctant to move on from the subject.
To distract him, I provide him with a highly detailed update on my work in the library.
I cover off the intricacies of the Dewey Decimal system and offer him a practical demonstration of how to apply archival-quality PVA glue to the spine of a damaged book.
When that’s done, I move on to fun facts about Pride and Prejudice, fun facts about Jane Austen, and a few fun facts about me for good measure.
When it’s clear I’ve distracted him thoroughly, I decide to give him an opportunity to talk about himself for a while. It’s the right thing to do. Social norms, and all that.
“So,” I hear myself say in a slightly worrying saccharine tone, “what would you say is your favorite book, Lord Augustus?”
What?
It’s a perfectly normal question. It’s not overly personal or flirtatious at all.
Okay, fine, it is overly personal, but only if you’re a bookish sort.
Then it’s one of the most personal questions you could ever ask someone, and there’s almost nothing on Earth that could provide a more detailed and bruising insight into a person’s psyche.
But it’s clear from the state of the library that Lord Augustus is anything but a bookish person, so it’s fine.
In fact, I bet ten dollars he’s going to skirt the question.
I bet he won’t answer, or he’ll vague-answer, or he’ll go with the safe, boring answer of a best-selling psychological thriller or murder mystery.
Yes, that’s what I think he’ll do. And those kinds of books don’t tell you jack about anyone.
Except that they’re painfully boring and lack imagination.
Lord Augustus ambles toward the shelves on the east side of the library. He moves past nonfiction, past fiction, and pauses in the children’s book section. I watch, eagle-eyed, as he trails a finger along one of the shelves.
He crouches, sitting on his haunches, and takes a book from the bottom shelf. Even from here, I can see at a glance what book he’s chosen.
My heart drops.
An unpretentious red cover. One dotted with hand-drawn white flowers, black block-lettered title text, and a simple yet distinctive outline of a bull.
My lungs cave and then fill in a rush.
If I were the kind of person to spend a lot of time thinking about the most perfect, beautiful, heartwarming book an alpha could possibly choose as their favorite, I wouldn’t have been able to come up with a better choice.
Okay, okay, I am the kind of person to give things like this some thought, but it’s been years since I have.
When I used to think it, the best, most pleasant outcome was always for the alpha in question to utter my favorite title, and for it to be something we shared. A common interest. A common love.
I thought that sharing a favorite book was the most romantic, sweetest thing an alpha could share with me.
I was wrong.
The sweetest, most heartwarming title an alpha could ever claim as their favorite is this book, the book Lord Augustus holds in his hands.
The Story of Ferdinand by Munro Leaf.
It’s a story about a Spanish bull with a gentle heart. A bull that’s different from other bulls. Where other bulls live to fight and butt heads, Ferdinand is a sensitive soul who refuses to fight even when provoked.
“My father used to read Ferdinand to us when we were boys,” I tell the lord quietly.
He looks up at me and half-smiles, half-nods.
Even as a young boy, I remember thinking that my father was reading the story more for my alpha brothers than me.
To send them a message, to plant a seed in their minds of the kind of men he hoped they’d become.
“My brother Branson liked the book. He used to ask for it sometimes.” I chuckle softly.
“But I’m pretty sure it went right over Wilder’s head. ”
“What about you?” the lord says quietly. “What do you think of the story?”
Lord Augustus has risen. He’s standing upright now, holding the book in both hands. His face is neutral. There’s no tension around his mouth or his jaw. His eyes are dark, pupils inky black and heavy, dulled by what he does to keep others safe.
“I think it’s beautiful,” I say when I find my voice.