Chapter 3
My head is pounding like a jackhammer and the Bureau's fluorescent lights aren't helping.
I slump lower in the plastic chair, trying to find a position where the light doesn't stab directly into my retinas.
Last night's pre-wedding doom drinking seemed like a good idea at the time.
Three bottles of champagne and half a bottle of whiskey later, here I am, about to meet my government-mandated husband while my brain tries to escape through my eye sockets.
"Sit up," Diana hisses from beside me. "You look like death."
"I feel like death." The words scrape my throat raw. Even my voice has a hangover.
Ricky leans over from my other side, pressing two aspirin into my palm. Thank God for Ricky.
I knock them back, grimacing at the bitter taste. My stomach churns in protest.
The waiting room reeks of industrial cleaning products. Other couples sit scattered around, some holding hands, some looking like they're about to bolt. At least I'm not the only one who thinks this whole thing is fucked.
"Tell me again what you found out about him," I mutter to Ricky.
He pulls out his phone, scrolling through notes. "Jonah Wells. Twenty-one. Youngest of six kids. Home-schooled. Never went to college. No social media accounts.”
Thank God for that.
“Lives with his parents,” Ricky continues. “Member of something called Faith Heritage Fellowship."
"Which you said sounded like—"
"A cult, yeah." Ricky keeps his voice low. "They believe in traditional alpha-omega roles. Very traditional. Like, omegas-shouldn't-work-or-be-properly-educated traditional."
"Fantastic."
"He's probably never even kissed anyone," Ricky adds helpfully.
I press my palms against my eyes until I see stars. This is Diana's idea of making me settle down? Might as well handcuff me to a priest.
The door opens. I don't look up immediately—the movement would make me puke—but Diana's cough forces my eyes open.
Fuck.
It's like being hit by lightning. Every nerve ending in my body fires at once, my skin too tight, my lungs forgetting how to work. The hangover vanishes, replaced by pure, concentrated want.
Jonah Wells is... I don't even have words.
Dark hair trimmed neat and conservative, but I can see how it would curl if he let it grow.
Slim build in a suit that's clearly his best—the fabric's decent but it's been worn to too many church services, pressed too many times.
His shoes shine like mirrors, the kind of polish job that takes real effort.
But it's his face that kills me. Classic omega features but sharper somehow, like a Renaissance painting that could cut you. Full mouth, strong jaw, eyes the color of good whiskey—
He's not looking at me. He keeps his gaze down, focused on his clasped hands as his parents flank him like bodyguards. His mother, a soft-looking woman in a floral dress, leans close to whisper something. I catch the words "Remember this is God’s will."
Nice. The guy is here under duress. Just like me. What a wonderful marriage we’ll have.
"Mr. Colborne? Mr. Wells?" A smartly-dressed beta appears holding a clipboard. "I'm David Sun. I'll be facilitating your initial meeting."
I push to my feet, trying not to sway. Jonah nods, smooth and graceful, still not looking at me. His scent hits me: pure honey. It makes my mouth water and my cock take immediate interest.
Not now, I tell my dick firmly. We're hungover and this is already a disaster.
"If the guardians could wait here," Sun says, gesturing to the plastic chairs. "This first meeting should be just between the matched pair."
Diana's fingers dig into my arm. "Behave," she hisses.
"When don't I?"
Her look could strip paint.
Ricky gives me a subtle thumbs up as I follow Sun and Jonah down a hallway. Jonah walks ahead of me, spine straight as a ruler. Even from behind, he's devastating. That ass in those dress pants—
Stop it.
Sun leads us into a small cosily decorated room.
There is a sofa, armchairs, a small table and in the corner, a set of bean bags as if they tried to make every seating option available.
The lighting is soft and subdued. I suppose it helps makes a good first impression, but I’m just glad the light is no longer hurting my eyes.
"Please, sit." Sun gestures to chairs across from each other. "This initial meeting is just to establish contact, go over basic compatibility markers and discuss next steps."
I drop into my chair with zero grace. Jonah sits like he's in church—knees together, hands folded, eyes still downcast. Up close, I can see the flutter of his pulse in his throat. He's nervous. Or maybe that's just the omega reaction to being near a compatible alpha.
Sun launches into some spiel about the matching process. I tune him out, too busy staring at Jonah. Those eyelashes are criminal. The slight flush on his cheeks. The way he breathes so carefully, like he's counting each inhale.
"Do you have any questions before I give you some privacy?" Sun asks.
"All good here," I manage.
"No, sir." Jonah's voice is quiet, respectful. He still hasn't looked at me.
Sun leaves, and the silence that follows is suffocating. The vanilla-honey scent grows stronger, mixing with the sharp tang of Jonah's anxiety. I want to lean across the table and breathe him in. I want to touch that spot where his collar meets his neck. I want—
"So…" My voice cracks. I clear my throat, try again. "This is weird, right? Like Bureau-mandated arranged marriage weird?"
"Yes, Alpha."
"You can call me Alex."
"Yes, Alex."
I bite back frustration. "Look, I know this isn't what either of us wanted—"
Finally, finally, he looks up. Those whiskey eyes meet mine and the world tilts. But it’s not desire I see there. He looks equally terrified and furious.
Which, fair. I probably smell like a distillery.
"Okay." I lean back, trying for casual despite my body screaming to get closer to him. I need to get to know this guy. We’re going to be stuck together for life. Or at least until we get divorced. "What do you want from a marriage?"
This time he keeps up eye contact. "A good alpha. A family. Children." Each word precise, like he's reciting from a manual. "A godly life."
A godly life. With me. The snarky little shit. He knows what he’s saying. The humor of it makes me laugh out loud, which makes my head throb.
The words make him sound like he’s oh-so-sweet-and-pure, but the look he’s giving me with it? The pure fucking disdain?
"Godly isn't exactly my brand."
"I'm well aware."
The judgment in those three words makes my hackles rise. This kid who's never been anywhere, done anything, sitting there radiating disapproval like I'm something he stepped in.
"Right." The sarcasm bleeds through. "Sorry I'm not what you ordered from the holy alpha catalogue. But hey, at least you'll get some interesting stories for prayer circle."
I regret the words the moment they come out of my mouth. I’ve always been too bitchy for my own good.
A muscle jumps in his jaw. His gaze meets mine and I can see how much he dislikes what I said, but does he say so? No. Instead, I get a “Yes, Alpha.”
I sigh. I know I’m being a dick, but so is he. He could at least talk to me like a human being. “Look, I didn’t want this either. We’re just going to have to find a way to deal with it.”
“Yes, Alpha.”
“And it won’t be all bad. I know you’ve been brought up in a particular way, but you’ll have a bit more freedom with me. It’ll be different.”
His gaze snaps up. Okay, I’ve managed to piss him off further. “Yes, Alpha.”
Silence stretches taut between us. The vanilla scent spikes with something else—hurt? Anger? My alpha instincts scream at me to fix it, to comfort, but my brain's too scrambled to figure out how. What did I say wrong?
"Look." I rub my temples. "This is coming out wrong. I just mean... we're obviously from different worlds. You're what, twenty-one? Still living at home? I'm thirty-four and I've been around the block. Several blocks. In multiple countries."
"I'm aware of your reputation."
Oh my, I actually got a sentence that’s not ‘Yes, Alpha.’ But still, there it is again. That tone like I'm something that needs to be scraped off his shoe.
"Are you?" The words come out sharp. "Because you're sitting there like you're at a funeral. I'm not that bad, you know. I shower regularly. I tip well. I've never kicked a puppy."
Nothing. Just those carefully folded hands and that ramrod spine and the look in his eyes that says he doesn’t believe me. As far as Jonah Wells goes, he’s clearly convinced I do actually spend my day kicking puppies and laughing maniacally.
I try again. “What do you do for fun?”
He looks at me like it’s a dumb question. It’s not. It’s standard first date stuff. He doesn’t have to make it so hard.
"Come on. Pick anything? Bible study? Knitting circles? Judging sinners?"
His chin lifts. "I don't judge."
"Could've fooled me, sweetheart."
The endearment slips out before I can stop it. His whole body goes rigid, that pretty flush deepening. For a second, just a second, his scent changes—honey warming, vanilla going rich and sweet. Interest. Attraction.
Then it's gone, locked down behind that iron control.
"Don't call me that."
"What should I call you? Mr. Wells? Jonah? Church mouse?"
"My name is fine."
"Jonah." I test it out, let it roll off my tongue. Biblical. Of course. "Guy who got swallowed by a whale, right? Bet you love that symbolism."
He doesn't rise to the bait. Just sits there, radiating disapproval and that maddening scent that makes me want to climb across the table. He’s irritating the fuck out of me now. I’m trying for fuck’s sake. The silence stretches.
Oh forget it. I drum my fingers on the table, partly from nerves, partly because I know the sound will annoy him. Petty? Yes. Satisfying? Also yes.
"So what happens now?" I ask.
"We get married." Simple. Matter-of-fact. "The rest is up to God."
"God." I snort. "Right. I'm sure God's super invested in our government-mandated union."
Something flickers across his face. Hurt, maybe. But he smooths it away so fast I might have imagined it.
"The matching system is part of his plan."
The weight of what we're facing settles between us. "Look." I soften my tone. "I know this sucks for you. Pretty sure I'm literally your worst nightmare. But we can figure something out. Separate bedrooms. You do your thing, I do mine. We'll make it work."
"I don't believe in that kind of marriage."
"What kind do you believe in?"
He looks at me fully then, those whiskey eyes holding mine. "The kind my parents have. Partnership. Love. Children. Building something together."
My chest goes tight. The sincerity in his voice, the quiet conviction.
"I can't give you that. I don’t even know you and even if I did, I’m not the kind of alpha who wants an omega bringing him his slippers every night or making me dinner. I’m definitely not giving up my Sunday lie-in for church. Or whatever."
"I know. But it's what I'll pray for anyway." Those whiskey-brown eyes meet mine. “I’ll pray for you.”
Patronising little shit. A laugh bubbles up, inappropriate and bitter. "Good luck with that, sweetheart."
That muscle jumps in his jaw again. "Don't call me that."
"Why?" I lean forward again, caught by the way his pupils dilate. "Does it bother you?"
"Yes."
"Good."
He blinks, startled. For just a moment, he looks his age—young, uncertain, in over his head. Then the mask slides back into place.
Sun chooses that moment to return, babbling about next steps and wedding planning and bond consultations. I tune him out, too busy watching Jonah retreat back into himself: eyes down, hands folded, perfect omega posture.
The meeting wraps up with us signing paperwork and not looking at each other.
"The Bureau recommends spending time together before the ceremony," Sun says. "Getting to know each other. Building foundation."
I almost laugh.
We're ushered back to the waiting room where our people have been marinating in awkward silence. Diana rises. Jonah's parents flank him immediately, his mother touching his arm, his father's solid presence at his back.
The contrast hits hard. They love him. They'll protect him however they can, even from his own match.
"How did it go?" Diana demands.
"Spectacular," I deadpan. "We're going to be very happy together."
Jonah's mother makes a sound. His father's hand lands on Jonah's shoulder, and something passes between them. A whole conversation in a touch.
"We should discuss the wedding," Diana continues, already in planning mode. "The Bureau's basic package is... basic. We'll want to upgrade."
"That's not necessary," Jonah's father says. His voice is deep, careful. "Simple is fine."
"Nonsense." Diana waves dismissively. "A Colborne wedding should have certain standards."
I watch Jonah's family bristle at the implication. I watch Jonah himself go even stiller.
"How about before we leave," I say, struck by sudden inspiration. "let’s take a selfie? Document the big day."
It's a dick move. I know he'll hate it but some petty part of me wants to see him ruffled.
"No thank you, Alpha."
The formal address again, but this time with an edge. Like despite the vanilla-honey scent trying to draw us together, he'd rather be anywhere else.
Message received, church mouse.
We file out of the Bureau in awkward formation. Diana's already on her phone, terrorizing wedding planners. Ricky falls into step beside me.
"So?" he asks quietly. "How bad?"
I glance back at Jonah walking between his parents, that straight spine and careful control. Even from here, I can smell him. Even from here, I want him.
"I've been matched to a fundamentalist virgin who thinks I'm Satan incarnate,” I say the words spilling out of my mouth. "It went fantastic."