Chapter 22
chapter
twenty-two
Jonah changed the name of this chat to THE DUMBEST ALPHAS ALIVE
Avery changed the name of this chat to THE DUMBEST ASSHOLES ALIVE
Jonah
yeah, good call.
Spencer
Does this mean I can finally leave this infernal group chat?
I’m neither dumb nor an asshole.
Avery
ha.
that was funny, asshole.
Jonah
Yeah, Spence, what you lack in dumbness, you make up for in assholishness.
Spencer
At least I don’t go around biting people.
Jonah
Where is Tris, anyway?
Tris?
Too soon?
Avery
too soon
Spencer
Is the omega secure in her room?
Avery
she has a name, asshole.
Jonah
I tucked her in an hour ago and just spent forty-five minutes in the shower trying to convince my dick to let me sleep.
Avery
samesies
think that’s where Tris is now?
Jonah
Probably. This mate stuff is no joke. I would have stayed to cuddle her more but I was afraid my knot would explode.
Which reminds me: you’re on cuddle duty while I’m at practice, Ave. She’s touch-starved as fuck.
Avery
not for long
The worst part of all of this isn’t having an omega to consider, or even watching my brother burn.
It isn’t the mind-bending list of things I’m not prepared for or all the ways this half-assed plan to woo a complete stranger could go horribly wrong.
No.
Twelve hours in?
The worst part is how I thought I knew myself.
And, as it happens, I didn’t have one single fucking clue.
All the instincts that I spent years subverting... I thought resurrecting them would be a gradual process. Or, at the very least, one that would take longer than two hours.
But by the time I finish pacing my room, fuming, and force myself to get into bed, all of my assumptions are disproven.
All night, raging need vibrates under my skin. I feel hot. Aggravated. Aggressive , even.
Everything I’ve done my best to suppress for so long.
All of that work. Years of control. With Serena’s scent clinging to the dress shirt hanging over the back of my desk chair, it all amounts to nothing.
Which brings me to the second worst part of all of this—how much I understand what happened to Tris.
I hate that I get it. Hate that just breathing the faint traces of the poor girl’s perfume on the sleeve of my button-down is enough for my teeth to ache.
Fucking hell. I’m practically salivating. And she isn’t even in the room .
And then there’s the last, final piece of completely inconvenient fact:
This is my field of expertise. I’ve spent years of my life studying exactly this. Which is how I know, down in the nauseous, seething depths of my stomach—this omega isn’t just our scent-match.
She must be our mate.
I always hoped we didn’t have one. So much so that I all but convinced myself we didn’t.
How did I manage to deny the possibility so thoroughly? Why wasn’t I prepared?
The question haunts me while I roll from one side of my bed to the other, pounding my fists into my pillows, throwing the covers off, and then pulling them right back up.
Anything to ignore the way my stiff cock presses into my pajama bottoms.
By morning, I’ve gotten two hours of terrible sleep. When I wake up and roll over—onto yet another throbbing erection—I’m angry .
For fuck’s sake .
It’s been over a year since I even felt the need to relieve myself. A steady regimen of rut-blockers and two hours in our pack’s gym every morning typically banish any stray impulses.
They’ve done studies on that, too—how gradually reducing sexual releases over time eventually alleviates the need altogether.
Of course, those studies weren’t conducted using mates.
Or even individuals in complete packs.
And they may have focused on single, elderly alphas.
I was still optimistic, until now.
Jonah used to ask about it. Why didn’t I ever bring anyone back to our dorm? Why didn’t I ever date? Why didn’t I seem to notice when girls reached over and flirtatiously stroked my arm?
Because I was doing my best not to snarl at them. Trying hard not to feel their fingertips on my skin or the sick swoop that echoed through my stomach when I did.
He once asked if I liked men better; I didn’t know how to explain that I only preferred them insofar as their touch made me want to fight . Sometimes, rage is easier to take than a roiling gut.
I shower and shave, ignoring the aching pulse in my knot while I dress in my usual slacks and a fresh shirt. Every few moments, I have to pause to take deep breaths, reminding myself that the lingering sweetness buzzing in my sinuses isn’t real.
It’s a phantom sensation, one that’s common for unbonded alphas who find their scent-sensitive mate. It won’t go away until I bite her and she bites me back.
I honestly can’t decide which step in that process sounds worse.
I debate how much I’ll regret skipping my workout while I pack my leather messenger bag and shrug on a blazer. The truth is, our gym is on the first floor, and I can’t risk running into Serena until I’ve made some sort of plan for how I’m going to handle this.
Her .
If I take the elevator, I can go straight down to the garage without chancing a run-in. Skipping my daily exercise, coffee, and breakfast will likely have disastrous results for the students in my ten a.m. lecture, but these are desperate times. More desperate than I’d ever admit to anyone.
With a few final breaths, I slip into the hallway.
The dark slate floor and matte black walls are cool and dark. Our solar-powered LEDs barely glow, which means last night’s thunderstorm has bled into morning. That puts an edge on my foul mood—I spent the better part of the night listening to the rain. If I have to hear it all day long, I’ll be constantly reminded of why I spent hours tossing and turning .
My mind plays tricks on me while I stride down the hall. Serena’s scent swells, a richer, sharper version than the traces she left with me last night.
I grit my teeth, irritated with myself for being so surprised. Omega pheromones have been my life’s work. I’m well aware of the many phenomena associated with scent-sensitivity. Yet, knowing all of this would happen hasn’t made the reality any less jarring.
Muttering chastisements to myself, I turn the corner and run right into a small, scurrying body.
“Ah!”
A squeal-like whine rips out of Serena while she reels back, jumping away from me as though I’m a human branding iron. I recoil, too, trying to process the sensations that swarm me. The outline of her figure lingers along mine while her scent pours into the air between us, rising in a cloud of cream-soaked sweetness.
I wish I hated it, but it’s fucking paradise . Everything warm and exotic and so delicious that my mouth waters.
Goddamn it .
I grapple for control, barely managing to find my reins and yank myself back from the instinct to pounce on her.
For her part, Serena shrinks down, her knees wobbling until she’s forced to steady herself with a hand on the nearest wall. She opens her mouth, but nothing comes out.
Jonah texted to report that she spoke to him last night, though I’m sure he didn’t glare at her the way I am right now. I know I should stop, but I can’t quite keep the sting out of my voice as I scowl down at her.
“ What are you doing here?”