Chapter 3 #2
What I don’t need is a simpering omega waiting at home, measuring her worth by how well she maintains my house or how many pups she can give me.
The thought alone makes my skin crawl. I’ve seen what traditional alpha-omega pairings look like—the constant need, the expectation of protection, the surrender of independence.
Beta women make more sense. They have their own ambitions, their own lives. They understand when I disappear into the mountains for days. They don’t expect a mating bite after a few good nights together. No complications, no obligations.
Although I haven’t found a beta whose company I prefer to a day in the woods, either.
I check my watch. Another thirty minutes of schmoozing with patrons of the arts, and I can reasonably make my escape without my mother sending out a search party. Three pieces have already sold, a decent showing for opening night. The curator can handle the rest.
My stomach growls, reminding me I skipped dinner.
A tantalizing aroma wafts under the door—something sweet, but somehow also savory.
Like the rosemary cornbread with drunken cranberries that my mother makes at Thanksgiving.
The gallery always splurges on catering for these events.
I’ll grab a plate of whatever smells so delicious, make one final circuit for appearances, then disappear before Janine’s daughter corners me.
Decision made, I push away from the wall and reach for the doorknob. The scent grows stronger—rich and complex, making my mouth water. My fingers brush metal just as the door flies open with unexpected force.
The solid edge catches me square in the face. Pain explodes across my nose and forehead. My vision blurs, stars dancing at the edges. I stumble backward, a warm trickle of blood already making its way down my upper lip, the taste of copper filling my mouth.
Through watering eyes, I catch a glimpse of a startled feminine figure silhouetted in the doorway.
“Oh my God, I’m so sorry. I had no idea anyone was in here.”
The voice is musical…alive. Like the gentle ringing of sleigh-bells or the warbling of a sparrow .
I also might just have a concussion.
My vision slowly clears to reveal one of the most beautiful women that I’ve ever seen.
The pain in my likely broken nose fades to background static as I take in the woman before me.
She’s a vision in a clingy suit dress, with a matching blazer slung over her arm, hugging curves that could make a mountain road jealous.
Her chestnut hair is caught on top of her head in a riot of twists and curls, catching the storage room’s harsh fluorescent light and transforming it into a warm halo.
An angel…
But it’s her eyes that truly arrest me—hazel with flecks of amber that seem to shift and dance like sunlight through autumn leaves.
They’re wide with concern now, her full lips parted in shock.
A light dusting of freckles crosses the bridge of her nose, giving her a touch of youthful innocence that contrasts with the sharp intelligence in her gaze.
That delicious smell is stronger now, practically overpowering. I look down at her empty hands, surprised when I don’t see a plate full of all my favorite foods.
“What’s that smell?”
Her eyes fill with obvious concern. “Are you okay? Should I call for an ambulance?”
The scent I’d been chasing—that intoxicating blend of sweetness and depth—emanates from her as she exhales. Not perfume. Her. An omega, definitely, but unlike any I’ve encountered before. Her scent has none of the cloying artificial sweetness that I usually avoid like the plague.
She smells like the comfort of Christmas dinner and breakfast in bed after a long night with a beautiful woman.
This woman in particular , my mind helpfully supplies.
“I should have knocked, or something” she says, her voice pulling me deeper into whatever spell she’s casting. “You’re bleeding.”
She steps closer, and I catch more notes in her scent—a touch of stress that reminds me of lemon zest, the clove and cinnamon of her determination. The combination is maddeningly appealing.
A fucking scent match. It has to be.
My brain feels like it’s wading through molasses. I should say something. Anything. Tell her I’m fine. Ask her name. Comment on the weather. But my tongue feels thick and useless in my mouth as I continue to stare at the subtle constellation of freckles across her cheekbones.
She reaches into a small clutch purse and produces a tissue, offering it with slender fingers tipped by short, practical nails painted a deep burgundy. “Here. For your nose.”
I still don’t move, transfixed by the way her eyebrows draw together in concern, creating a tiny crease between them I suddenly want to smooth away with my thumb.
“Sir? Are you concussed?” She waves her hand in front of my face. “Should I call someone?”
Something about the formality of sir finally snaps me out of my trance.
I realize with horror that I’ve been staring at her like a teenager encountering his first omega in heat.
Blood continues to trickle from my nose, and I must look completely deranged—a slack-jawed, bleeding madman lurking in a storage closet.
Somehow, she doesn’t realize we’re a scent match. Or maybe the phenomenon is entirely one-sided. I’ve never heard of anything like that happening before, but count on me to be the first.
I clear my throat and finally accept the tissue, pressing it to my nose. “I’m fine. Just surprised. And possibly a little concussed.” I attempt a smile that probably looks more like a grimace. “Though if this is what a concussion feels like, I might start walking into doors more often.”
The moment the words leave my mouth, I want to crawl into one of these crates and die. Did I really just use a line that wouldn’t pass muster in a bad romance novel?
Her lips twitch, fighting a smile. “That’s either the concussion talking or the worst pickup line I’ve ever heard.”
“Both, probably.” I extend my hand not currently stemming the flow of blood. “I’m Matheo. The bleeding guy hiding from his own exhibition.”
The exhibition is only credited to me by first name.
I’ve tried my best to separate my artist persona from my previous life.
And something about the complete lack of recognition in her eyes gives me a sense of comfort.
This is no grasping omega following the billionaire into a closet hoping to forge a superficial connection by seeming accident.
She gives me a warm smile, amusement lingering in her gaze. “Trinity. I haven’t had a chance to take in any of the work, but I’ll make sure to check out yours if I have time.
My eyebrows go up at that. “You’re not an art fan?”
“Not really,” she sheepishly admits. “All the art I own came with my apartment. The gallery doesn’t have an in-house event planner, so they hired me for the exhibition.”
A flash of recognition niggles at my consciousness.
Confirmed when she hands me a business card emblazoned with her name below the logo for The Jones Agency—Boutique Event Planning .
I appreciate the hutzpah needed to name a company after yourself. It means she sees herself as her own brand, no clever puns or cutesy slogans needed for recognition, just good work and a solid reputation.
What kind of omega is this?
The coincidence of running into an event planner after the conversation with my mother in which she insisted I attend this exhibition is just too high.
Though even Amara Gamba doesn’t have a crystal ball clear enough to see an accidental assault in my future.
Or a scent match…
While my mind wanders again (thank you, concussion), Trinity has carefully side-stepped around me.
“I really should get back.” She flashes an apologetic smile, reaching past me for a stack of plates on the shelf. Her arm brushes mine, sending an electric current straight to my gut. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Never better,” I lie, fighting every primal instinct screaming at me to pull her against me, to taste those full lips, to discover if her skin carries that same intoxicating scent.
“Good. Maybe I’ll see you out there.” She hesitates for a flashing second at the door, a rueful smile on those beautiful lips, before she slips out.
Leaving the ghost of her luscious scent imprinted on my senses.
I stand frozen until her footsteps fade, until the blood pounding in both my ears and my dick finally recedes.
Before I can overthink it, I pull out my phone and dial one of only three numbers on my favorites list.
“Matheo? Is everything all right?” My mother’s voice carries a familiar note of concern. “I’m on my way to the Hartman now.”
“That event planner you mentioned. Tell me everything you know about her. ”
A beat of silence. Then her knowing laugh tells me just how skillfully I’ve been maneuvered.
“Of course I will, darling.”