Chapter 1 #2
Instantly, heat pools low in my belly while my pulse kicks up, just enough to notice. There’s a sudden and inexplicable urge to lean closer, to press my nose to his neck and breathe.
What the hell?
I’ve been on suppressants for seven years, ever since I designated as an Omega at eighteen and my parents marched me through every test they could book, desperate to confirm I was fine.
They insisted that I didn’t scent right.
The results came back clinical and cold: dormant Omega.
No distinct pheromones. No cyclical biology.
No neat explanation for why my body didn’t behave the way everyone expected it to.
I hated those words so much that I cried for a week, then learned how to swallow the grief and smile like it didn’t matter.
“Being a Beta is easier,” my father had said on the drive home, his hands tight on the steering wheel. “People don’t look at Betas the way they look at Omegas. No expectations. No assumptions. No Alphas sniffing around like you’re a prize to be won.”
“You can choose,” my mother had added, turning to look at me in the back seat. “You can live as whatever you want. No one has to know.”
They bought me my first suppressants that day. Helped me file the paperwork. Never mentioned it again.
And I’ve been living the lie ever since.
I pull back from Seth slightly, but still loop my arm through his in case he stumbles again. His hip is still pressed against mine, and that smell is everywhere.
“You okay there?” He’s staring down at me, those blue eyes curious, and for a moment, he seems almost sober. “You went a little pale.”
“Fine. Just tired.” I inject as much confidence into my voice as I can muster. “Come on. Door’s this way.”
We make it through the sticky glass door and out into the cold, which helps. The sharp air cuts through the fog in my head, clears some of that warmth from my system. I take a deep breath, and my heartbeat starts to settle.
“Christ, it’s freezing,” Seth mutters, hunching his shoulders against the wind. Then, inexplicably, he starts humming again. Different song this time.
“Please don’t.”
He ignores me completely, his humming transitioning into actual singing as we make our way down the gravel path toward the main road. His voice isn’t bad, actually—low and rich, with a natural warmth to it—but the volume increases with every step until he’s practically serenading the empty street.
“Oh my God.” I tug at his arm, trying to move faster. “You’re going to wake up the entire town.”
“They should be awake!” He throws his free arm wide. “It’s a beautiful night, June. Look at those stars!”
I glance up automatically. He’s not wrong because the sky is clear, littered with more stars than you’d ever see in a city, the Milky Way a faint smear across the darkness. It’s the kind of sky I’ve seen my whole life and never gotten tired of.
“Very pretty,” I allow. “Now keep your voice down.”
“You know what else is pretty?” He spins, pulling me with him in a clumsy twirl that makes me yelp. “You are. Has anyone told you that? You’re real pretty.”
I stumble out of the spin, grabbing his arm to steady myself. “You’re real drunk.”
“Am not.” He says it with surprising conviction, stopping to face me.
We’re in the middle of the road we’re crossing now, streetlights casting orange pools around us, and he’s looking at me with those ridiculous blue eyes like he’s trying to memorize my face.
“I don’t drink. Well, I do sometimes, but not usually, and not tonight, and—” He frowns, visibly losing his train of thought. “What was I saying?”
“That you’re not drunk. Very convincing. But on the bright side, you seem like a happy drunk.”
“Thank you.” He beams at me, entirely missing the sarcasm. Then his expression shifts, curiosity replacing confusion. “You smell nice, you know.”
I stiffen. “Stop talking.”
“Like lemons. And honey. And…” He leans in, just slightly, nostrils flaring. “Wildflowers.”
My heart is flipping again—fluttering, more like it—sending warmth through my chest despite the cold.
The only explanation as to why he can pick up my scent at all is because my suppressants must be slowly wearing off, seeing as I took them early yesterday morning and now it’s 2:00 a.m. Another reason I shouldn’t have taken this job from Pete.
“Come on. You’re being ridiculous.” I tug at his arm, more urgent now, and we reach the other side of the road. “Car’s just up here.”
But he’s not moving again. He’s still looking at me with that soft, wondering expression, head tilted like he’s trying to figure something out.
“You smell like my scent match,” he says quietly.
I stop walking. Stop breathing, maybe.
“I don’t have one yet,” he continues, and his voice has gone dreamy.
“Never found her. Started to think maybe I wouldn’t.
But you…” He reaches out, slowly enough that I could stop him if I wanted to, and brushes a curl back from my face.
His fingers are warm against my cold cheek.
“You smell like I’ve been waiting for you my whole life. ”
For a moment, I let myself feel it. The possibility. The pull.
What if he’s right?
What if somewhere, beneath seven years of suppressants and careful denial, there’s something real? His hand lingers on my cheek. His eyes hold mine.
Then he hiccups.
And laughs.
Then sways so dramatically that he nearly takes us both down, grabbing on to my shoulders for balance and laughing like it’s the funniest thing in the world.
“Whoops,” he manages between giggles. “Ground moved.”
And just like that, the spell breaks.
I let out a breath, shaking my head to clear the fog. He’s not lucid enough to recognize his own feet, let alone some cosmic romantic connection.
“Okay, buddy.” I hook my arm through his again, more firmly this time, because if I don’t stop him, he’s going to attempt a heroic lurch and introduce his face to the ground. “You’re operating on fumes. Let’s get you to the car before you fall.”
“I’m… I’m fine. This is my normal walking.”
“Sure it is.”
He huffs, then leans closer like he’s about to tell me a state secret. “June.”
“No.”
“But, June.”
“Nope. Walk now, delusions later.”
He attempts a pout. Not a little one, either. A full, bottom-lip-out, wounded-pride pout that should not be possible on a grown man with arms like fence posts. It’s frankly unfair. He does it anyway, eyes bright and stubborn beneath the streetlight.
“You can’t just boss me around,” he mutters.
“Oh, I absolutely can,” I say, tightening my grip and steering him away from the bar, away from the people and the noise in there. “I’m doing it right now.”
He lets me guide him for three steps. Four. Then he plants his boots like a dramatic statue and turns his head.
“Stop,” he says.
“If you throw up on my shoes, I’m listing you as a fixer-upper and selling you to the highest bidder.”
He lifts a finger, solemn. “Darlin’.” The word lands wrong. Not bad wrong. Just… too intimate. Too natural in his mouth. It slides under my ribs like it knows the way.
I blink hard. “Don’t. Just walk.”
He allows himself to be moved again. “You know,” he says, voice lowering conspiratorially, “this isn’t even the first time I’ve been arrested.”
I laugh before I can stop myself. “That’s not the reassuring fun fact you think it is.”
“It’s a character fact.” He jabs a thumb at his chest like he’s presenting evidence. “I’ve got… layers.”
“Like in Shrek?” I laugh.
“And a record,” he adds proudly, ignoring me, then immediately squints as if trying to remember whether that’s something to brag about. “Not proud of the record. Well. Depends which one.”
“Please tell me you are not about to list your charges like they’re belt buckles.”
He gasps and sways slightly. “How dare you.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.” He leans against a storefront, eyes too blue, too sharp for how unsteady he is. “They made it sound worse than it was.”
“That sentence has never been followed by anything comforting.”
“It was a misunderstanding.” He waves his hand, and the motion takes his whole body with it. I tighten my hold before he can tip. “And I didn’t even start the fight.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I finished it,” he states, like that’s the important part. “Anyway, my dad would be pissed and even more disappointed in me if he saw me right now. Never can please him.”
There it is. The real thing, tucked behind the cockiness. The pressure. The image. The constant invisible audience.
He tries to pull away, jaw flexing. “Where’s the camera guy? There’s always a camera guy.”
“There isn’t,” I say, though there absolutely could be, which is why I’m walking him like a shield toward my car.
“June, listen. I’m not supposed to be like this. I’m supposed to be… respectable.”
My mouth twitches. “You? Respectable?”
He glares at me, then immediately loses the thread and points at my face instead. “Don’t laugh at me.”
“I’m not laughing.”
“You are. I can tell. Your eyes.”
“Your eyes are drunk,” I remind him. “They’re not trustworthy.”
He stares at me for a second too long. The air shifts, subtle but noticeable. “You’re my scent match,” he repeats, quieter now. Not goofy, not teasing. Certain. “I know it. I can tell.”
I snort, partly because it’s ridiculous and partly because if I don’t make it a joke, my throat is going to do something embarrassing. “You can barely tell which direction your feet are facing.”
He leans closer, breathing in like he’s trying to pull the truth out of my skin. His fingers flex at his sides, restless, like his body wants to reach for me and he’s holding himself back by sheer willpower. “It’s you.”
My pulse kicks once, hard, and I hate it. Not because I want him to stop. But because I don’t want my body to betray me. Not now. Not ever.
“I’m a Beta, sweetheart.” The lie comes easily, worn smooth from years of practice. “No scent match for you here. Just a very tired woman who wants to go home.”
His eyes narrow. “That’s bullshit.”
“Language.”