Chapter 25
Xavier
I toss my phone across the bed and stare at the ceiling like it’s got answers. I’m holed up at Upstate estate. Far from the city. Far from them. The silence out here is thick, too thick, but at least it’s mine.
She’s our scent match. Fuck that. My whole body’s tense, my pulse pounding like I’ve just run ten rounds in the ring. I should be past this. I should be stronger than this. But I can still taste her. Still smell her in the back of my throat. Honeysuckle and peaches. Warm and golden. Dangerous.
I shove off the bed and pace the suite, dragging a hand through my hair. The walls feel too tight, the air too thick. I can’t fucking breathe in here.
How the hell did this happen?
We were supposed to be done with all that. With chasing the impossible. With scent matches and bonds and the kind of pain that leaves scars you never talk about. I built walls for a reason. Buried that part of myself so deep it couldn’t touch me again.
Then she shows up. Smelling like every dream I stopped letting myself have.
And Sébastien? He’s not just an Omega. He's our Omega. Mine. The universe is playing some twisted joke, giving me everything I swore I didn’t want. Everything I can’t afford to need.
I need air. I need a drink. Not just any drink. Not something soft or easy. I need something that’ll scorch its way down and burn everything out. The thoughts. The scent. Her.
The Tap House isn’t far. Five minutes, maybe. I don’t remember getting into the car or pulling into the lot, just that I’m inside now. It’s low lighting, polished wood, and the warm murmur of expensive conversations. Leather booths line the wall, a fire crackles in the stone hearth, and behind the bar, an impressive lineup of aged bottles glint in amber light.
I slide onto a stool, nod at the bartender. “Macallan. Neat.”
He raises an eyebrow but pours without question. He knows me. Knows what to pour. Knows not to ask. The first sip hits like a punch, and I welcome it.
This place smells like cedar, whiskey, and old money. No peaches. No honeysuckle. No fucking cinnamon or vanilla or whatever pheromones have been chasing me like ghosts since she walked into our world.
Since he walked into our world, too. Sébastien. The perfect, elegant Omega with a French accent and a scent that doesn’t just linger—it brands. I can’t even look at him too long without feeling something raw tugging under my ribs.
And her? Rowan Hart? That mess of a surprise? The Beta-turned-Omega, the one whose scent still won’t leave my goddamn lungs?
I slam the glass back down, and the bartender’s already refilling. Smart man. I don’t even know what I’m doing here. Scratch that. I do.
I’m running.
The second glass goes down slower. Not because I’m easing up, because I want to feel every bit of it. I want the fire to settle in my chest and silence the part of me that keeps replaying that moment in Massimo’s text.
She there?
You seriously playing house?
I meant every fucking word I sent. I meant the sarcasm, the bite. But now it just loops in my head like some bitter echo. They’re not just playing house. They’ve already pulled her in. Acting like she belongs. Like this is some kind of fairytale pack in the making. And it pisses me off that part of me wants to be there too.
I rake my hand through my hair and stare at the shelves of bottles behind the bar, jaw tight. This wasn’t supposed to happen. I’ve built a pack before young, eager, fucking foolish. Thought it was real. Thought we were bonded. But it was built on lies and fake pheromones. When it crashed, it took everything with it. I swore I’d never do this again. Never let scent or instinct decide for me.
But here we are. Two scent matches. A room full of Alpha instincts rattling like chains. And me, the asshole who can’t breathe without smelling her in the back of my throat.
I can’t do this again. I just can’t
I tip the glass again, watching the way the amber liquid catches the low light. I sense her before I see her. The subtle shift of energy, the faint whiff of perfume clean, spicy, grounded in something earthy like sandalwood. No pheromones. No triggering scent. Just... human. Normal. Beta.
She slides onto the stool beside me, signaling the bartender without looking my way. Confident. Comfortable in her skin. The kind of woman who doesn’t need permission to take up space.
“You’ve got the look of a man chewing on barbed wire,” she says, voice dry as top-shelf gin.
I grunt, lifting my glass but not drinking. “And you’ve got the look of someone who talks to strangers for sport.”
That earns a faint smirk. “Only the ones radiating broody existential rage.”
I finally turn my head. She’s sharp-eyed, short-haired, with a delicate scar across her brow that makes her seem more dangerous than pretty. But there’s something arresting in her calm. Like she’s seen worse storms than me and walked through them dry.
She nods toward my glass. “Macallan 18. Classy. And angry. You celebrating or spiraling?”
I pause, then tilt my head. “What if it’s both?”
She lifts her own glass, something amber, neat. “Then we drink until one wins.”