Chapter 3
Everett
Idon't even like Knot Club. I show up maybe once a month, if that, and it's not because I want to.
It's just maintenance. Like brushing my teeth or pretending I care about hydration.
Being an alpha in a courtroom means I have to keep my shit locked down so tight I can barely breathe, and if I don't let myself off the leash every now and then, I start to lose it.
That's all this is. I show up, get it out of my system, go home, pretend I'm normal for another month. Four weeks, six if I'm lucky.
Tonight was supposed to be routine. I've been here an hour, talked to a couple of alphas I recognize, scanned the floor without much interest. A few omegas have caught my eye.
One in a red mask keeps looking over, sending out signals so strong I can taste them from here.
Still, nothing's made me want to move. I'm not desperate.
I'll find someone or I won't, and either way I'll be in bed by two.
Then something cuts through the room and I stop hearing the guy next to me mid-sentence.
It's a scent. One specific scent threading through the heavy pheromone fog of the floor, cutting through the noise.
Not louder than everything else, just clearer.
Omega heat, unmistakable, but there's something about it that doesn't hit the way other omegas' heat scent does.
Other omegas smell like need. This one smells like need with something sharper underneath, almost combative.
I don't know what to do with that except turn my head and find the source.
He's standing at the gallery railing about thirty feet away, one hand on the rail, and he's looking right at me.
Matte black mask, full coverage, no features to read.
Dark hair, lean build, the kind of body that's more precise than bulky.
He moves like he does something deliberate with it, not just throwing weight around.
Good clothes. The flush on his throat and collarbones tells me he's in heat, early to mid-stage, and the scent backs it up, but his posture doesn't match what his body is putting out.
He's not leaning into it, not broadcasting the way an omega in heat usually does.
He's standing there like he's waiting for something specific, and it's aimed at me.
That's unusual. Most omegas on the floor put out a general signal: I'm here, I'm ready, come compete for me. The alphas sort it out among themselves. This one is different. He's not signaling the room. He's signaling me, directly, and my body is already responding before I've even decided to move.
I say something to the guys next to me. I don't even know what—some excuse, doesn't matter. I start walking.
He doesn't move. He watches me come to him and doesn't take a single step in my direction.
It's either the most confident or the most calculated thing I've seen here.
Omegas in heat move toward alphas. It's instinct, biology, the whole reason the club exists.
This one is making me cross the floor to him, and I'm doing it, and I know I'm doing it, and I don't care.
When I get close enough to catch his scent without the room in the way, I almost stop walking.
He smells—fuck, he smells good. Not just the usual omega heat.
It's like his scent was made to fit inside my head.
Sweet, but not too much. Warm, with a bite to it.
The slick is strong. He's soaked through, I know it.
My cock's already hard and all I can think about is getting my face between his thighs and breathing him in.
I have to force myself not to just grab him.
My body wants to close the gap in two steps. I make myself walk slow. Barely.
I stop in front of him with about a foot of space between us. Close enough to drown in his scent. Close enough to see the rapid pulse in his throat and the way his chest is rising a little too fast under that dark shirt.
"You smell like you've been waiting for me," I say. Low enough that only he hears it.
His chin tilts up. Even through the mask, I can tell he's not intimidated. "Don't flatter yourself. You're just the first alpha who looked like he might be worth the walk."
His voice surprises me. Sharp, controlled, a little mean, and no heat-haze in it at all.
An omega this deep into his cycle should sound at least a little wrecked, a little desperate, but he sounds like he's ordering a drink.
It doesn't match the scent pouring off him in waves of genuine, body-deep want.
One of those things is a performance, and I don't know which one yet.
"Is that right." I step closer, into his space, and watch his body react even while his voice stays cool. His fingers tighten on the railing. His breath catches, just barely. The scent spikes. "You always this picky, or is tonight special?"
"I'm always this picky." He doesn't step back. "Most alphas are boring."
"And I'm not boring?"
"You're here. Jury's still out."
I laugh, and it's genuine, which surprises me.
I don't usually laugh on the floor. The omegas here are beautiful, willing, and they smell like everything my biology wants, but they don't usually make me laugh.
This one is standing in front of me, visibly wet through his jeans, scent screaming fuck me, and he's busting my balls. I like it more than I should.
I reach out and touch the side of his neck, just below the mask.
Light, testing. His skin is hot, feverish, heat-hot, and the second my fingers make contact, his whole body shudders.
Not a small shudder—he shakes with it, head to toe, and a soft sound escapes him before he can catch it.
When I pull my fingers away, they're damp.
He's sweating. His body is screaming at him to stop talking and start presenting, and he's white-knuckling through it.
It's the most interesting thing I've seen in months.
"Jury's still out, huh?" I say, and I let my thumb drag along his jaw where the mask ends, smearing the sweat.
"You think one touch is going to impress me?
" But his voice isn't as steady as it was thirty seconds ago.
There's a crack in it now, a thickness he's fighting.
The scent pouring off him intensifies and I can smell the slick freshening — new slick, right now, because I'm touching his face, and he can't stop his body from responding no matter how sharp his mouth is.
An alpha near us has noticed. He's drifting closer, drawn by the scent, and I watch the omega's eyes flick toward him behind the mask.
Not afraid. Assessing. He shifts his weight slightly and the new alpha catches a stronger wave of the scent and takes another step, and I realize what's happening — this omega is using the other alpha's interest to test me.
To see if I'll posture, compete, get territorial. To see what kind of alpha I am.
I don't look at the other alpha. I keep my eyes on the omega and I put my hand flat on the railing on either side of him, boxing him in without touching him.
The other alpha gets close enough to catch the edge of the scent and I let mine flood out in response — not aggressive, not a challenge, just a wall of mine dense enough that the other guy stops in his tracks, reassesses, and decides it's not worth it.
The omega watched the whole thing. He tilts his head, and I get the distinct impression he's smiling under that mask.
"Subtle," he says.
"I don't need to be loud." I lean in until my mouth is close to his ear, close enough to feel how hot his skin is. "You wanted to see what I'd do. Now you've seen it. Are you done testing me, or do you need me to let a few more of them get close first?"
His breath hitches and his hips shift forward, just slightly, an involuntary roll toward me that he catches and kills almost immediately. I notice it, and he knows I noticed. His scent goes sharp with something that might be embarrassment or might be anger.
"I'm not testing you," he says, which is the first thing he's said that I'm certain is a lie.
"Sure you're not." I get my hand on his hip — not grabbing, just resting there, my thumb finding the strip of bare skin between his shirt and his waistband — and feel the muscles in his stomach jump at the contact.
He's burning up. His body is ready and his attitude is not, and I want to take him apart for it.
Most omegas in heat want to be touched and they show it.
This one wants to be touched and he's furious about it.
I run my thumb along the line of his hip bone and his hand comes up and grabs my wrist. Not to pull me off — his grip is tight but he doesn't push or pull, he just holds on, like he needs to be the one controlling where my hand goes even if he's not actually stopping it from being there.
"You're used to being in charge," I say. It's not a question.
"You have no idea."
"Yeah, I'm getting that." I lean into him and let my mouth graze the skin just below his ear, not quite a kiss, just breath and heat, and he makes a sound that's almost a whine and immediately hates himself for it.
I can hear the teeth clench. "You want to tell me what to do?
Go ahead. Tell me where to put my hands. "
He's quiet for a second, breathing hard through his nose, his grip still locked on my wrist. Then: "On your knees would be a good start."
I pull back enough to look at him. He stares back through the mask, defiant.
His scent is thick with arousal, almost visible in the air between us, and his thighs are pressed together in a way that tells me the slick is getting hard to ignore.
I should be annoyed. Most alphas would be.
An omega in heat telling an alpha to get on his knees is not how this usually goes, and he knows it.
He said it anyway just to see what I'd do.
I grin. I know he can see it.