8. Brylee
8
brYLEE
A massive, feral beast of an alpha male stands in the middle of the foyer, just in front of the stairs. As if even the sconces on the walls are afraid to let their light touch him, he stands in a pool of shadows that only serve to enhance the sense of darkness emanating from him. Stacked with muscle that his tight black shirt doesn’t hide, he looms at least an entire foot—if not more—taller than me. But with his presence, he could be considered a giant.
My earlier thoughts about horror movies seem to be proving themselves true, because the man wears a skeletal mask over his face that’s surrounded by a black hood covering his hair and neck. His dark eyes peer solemnly at me, and his look nicks my windpipe, stealing away my breath.
But what’s even more terrifying than his appearance is his scent. His absolutely delicious, mouthwatering, coppery-earth scent. Like blood spilled onto a fresh grave.
My lips gape open.
Fresh grave? What the hell is wrong with me?
But…I can’t deny the fact that his scent, despite my morbid thoughts, is the most potent, powerful thing I’ve ever smelled.
My knees seem to grow weak, and I have the sudden urge to kneel on the black-and-white tile floor in that exact idiotic position that Madam Ellora talked about earlier.
Oh god.
The desire to flee the building, the campus, and the city all come over me. The last thing I want is a match at all. But a scent match? One I’ll have zero control over? One my father can’t vet for security…one that I can’t vet for mental stability…
For a second, I wish I wasn’t just pretending to swap lives with Teddie. I wish that I could actually switch. He and Caran are so perfect. And if I had to have any kind of match, I’d want theirs.
This?
This terrifying, scarred figure in front of me only dredges up all the issues I want to bury. All the memories I want to forget.
Of all the places. Of all the times.
Now?
I have to meet my scent match now, when I’m doped up on every scent blocker known to omegas? When I’m dressed as my brother?
Absolutely not.
This is not my reality. I refuse to accept it.
The mask tilts as if the man behind it is judging me.
Does he feel it too? Our connection?
Or are the scent blockers working?
I’m torn between utter terror and longing as my heart leaps into my throat and I choke on indecision.
My legs stiffen and knees lock as I fight against a primal urge to leap into this man’s arms and nuzzle against his cloaked neck. Meanwhile, my brain is punching every panic button possible inside my skull so that my body doesn’t do what it’s inclined to do.
I don’t want an alpha.
I don’t want any alpha, but especially not a scent match with a violent, crazy man like this one.
My heart doesn’t seem to care about my brain’s desires as it heats my pulse.
Desperately, I try another tactic, one that’s not in the interest of self-preservation.
If I don’t maintain my cover, my brother will end up here. He won’t survive training.
Finally, finally, my chest gives a painful thud as if slapping my ribs in defeat.
Understanding that my logic is close to losing the battle to my omega hormones, and that the hormones of a scent match are incredibly strong, I end up holding my breath. It’s the best solution I can devise, but also the lamest.
“Um…Teddie?” Sam’s curious gaze pops into my field of vision, and one of his brows is up in concern.
I snap to attention. “Sorry. Sorry. Tired.”
“Okaaay,” he draws out his response with the barest hint of sarcasm, and I can’t blame him because I’ve zoned twice in a row. God, I’m doing terrible things to Teddie’s rep right now. But, he can repair his reputation once he’s better. He just needs the time to heal first.
If I can get away from this man, I’ll be able to focus again. To stop acting like a gaping virgin in a sex shop.
“I think we need to pick up our keys.” Sam walks up to the masked man and puts out a hand as if he wants to shake and make introductions.
The alpha doesn’t move. Doesn’t respond. His gaze still rakes over me as if he’s trying to till up my secrets.
Dammit.
I’m not supposed to be drawing attention. And this is the wrong kind of attention in so many ways. A tiny part of me is mortified that I’ll always have to remember this as the moment I met my mate while another part of me knows just how rare scent matches are and how I should treasure the fact that I have one at all.
What the hell!
Now, my brain is rebelling too. Treasure?
Recognizing that I’m in danger of simping out again, I decide that arrogance might be a decent shield for the moment until I can get away. Hardening my mouth, I try to shoot the masked figure a dismissive smile, the kind people expect to get from our family. The fake, utterly bored, completely rude grin that comes right before an ostentatious request.
His mask shifts slightly, and I’m not sure if he’s returning my smile or frowning. I don’t know which is more terrifying.
“Oh, look. Keys are right back here!” With false brightness, Sam edges carefully around the masked man, heading for a bank of mailboxes at the back of the foyer and thankfully moving my attention away from the alpha.
In front of the mailboxes, there’s another table set up. This time, no annoying staff man the table—perhaps because they’re too intimidated by the giant brute in front of it. Or is he supposed to be working at it?
Who is he?
Is he a student?
A teacher?
Administrative staff?
Why’s he here?
Why’s he standing like that?
What’s his name?
What’s his Zodiac sign?
A myriad of questions peck at me, but I know I won’t get an answer for a single one—partially because if I tried to ask, I’m sure I’d sound like a fool, and partially because I’m not sure he’d answer.
With emotions crackling like fireworks and my mind slamming down metaphorical pots over said explosions to keep them contained, I meekly follow Sam, remembering to drag my ankle a bit. Since it does lock up if I twist it right just a bit, it’s easy to make my old pain flare.
Quickly, I find the keycard for my room, a key for my mailbox, and the sheet of paper that provides the code to get into the laundry room here.
Ha.
As if I’ll ever wash a single fucking article of clothing in this place. I had my brother pre-wear everything I’ve got on.
But as we circle back around the silent, majestic Titanic of a man, I find myself swoonier than when I’m drunk. I’m sorely tempted to crash right into him. To grab one of his palms and place it squarely on my neck. Then grab the other and bring it up and kiss it gently as he squeezes my throat softly, fingers playing with my pulse—teasing at hurting me, but both of us knowing he could never, not in a million years, do it.
Beneath the bodysuit, my panties start to grow wet with slick.
Fuck.
Brylee, turn it off.
I need to get out of here and lock myself in my room quickly. If I don’t, the scent of slick could overpower my scent blockers. I’ve tested them out, but not against the draw of a scent match before—the most potent draw in our world.
In a panic, I dash for the stairs, backpack slamming down crazily on my shoulders as I hustle to the second story. My breathing ragged, I clutch the metal railing once I’ve gotten to the landing.
Thank goodness his scent isn’t nearly as potent up here.
My head clears, and the ridiculous vision I just had blows away like gauzy clouds in a sharp wind.
But when I glance back over the railing, the silent sentinel has turned his face upward. His skeletal mask is pointed right at me.
And the glare pouring through it burns the back of my throat like a shot of whiskey.
I came here tonight intending to fly under the radar, and instead I’ve attracted the attention of a masked mystery man who’s my scent match.
I don’t think I could have fucked up worse.