Perfectly Naïve

Chapter 1

Chapter One

OLIVIA

“Flight attendants, prepare for landing.”

Righting my seat, I stretch my arms overhead, eyeing the happy omega across the aisle and fighting a twinge of envy.

The male omega sits in the middle of two packmates, while the other two packmates sit directly in front of them—taking up five seats total—and the pack has been hard to ignore.

If it was a short flight, it wouldn’t be so bad, but I’ve been listening to them take care of the omega for well over twelve hours.

The love and adoration are enough to make me consider stopping my scent control so I can catch their scents.

The tiny round pill I take every morning like clockwork not only blocks my pheromone and sweat-gland production, but it also blocks my olfactory receptors.

Basically, someone could pass gas right next to me, and I wouldn't know the difference. The scent control, in combination with heat control, is what’s helped me focus on my career, though.

Scents can mess with an omega’s head, but it’s the quarterly heats that really would have complicated things.

An omegas scent manifests early, and it gradually strengthens with age until their heat manifests at eighteen.

Biology says omegas are ready to bear children by that age.

My brain very much said not yet. There’s so much to learn.

More to do before becoming a parent. Besides, with the mom I have.

. . I’m not sure I’d make a good one. I’m not sure I know how to love correctly.

If you asked my mother, she’d say I don’t even know how to behave.

Hence working abroad.

I’ve spent the last year trying to learn who Liv Wellington is while assisting with research to develop medicine to help feral omegas whose packmates died or have experienced severe trauma.

It’s an ongoing effort. Both discovering who I want to be and working toward a cure.

Though, the research may actually be easier.

Especially considering I’m awkward and introverted.

I want what the happy pack across the aisle has. I just have no idea how to get it.

The descent into Chicago is quick, and before I know it, the plane’s wheels are touching down.

The brakes scream as they slow the aircraft, an echo of my internal cry when I realize that, within the hour, I’ll be home.

I’m both looking forward to seeing my parents and dreading it, because they don’t understand why I’m still unmated and packless.

In my mother’s eyes, that’s a cardinal sin.

So I’m certainly not going to tell them it’s because I haven’t been looking.

Maybe it won’t be so bad. It’s been a year, after all. Maybe they’ll be happy to see me.

I repeat the positive thoughts as everyone disembarks, watching the pack out of the corner of my eye, fascinated with how easily they work together. Moving in a coordinated dance. A familiarity that only comes with years of knowing one another.

My phone buzzes with a text notification as soon as I turn it on. Henry texted me. I smile as I make my way down the long corridor and into the main part of the airport. It’s been so long since I’ve seen him, and he’s one person I really missed.

HENRY

Welcome home, Liv! I missed you so much. I can’t believe it’s been a whole year since I’ve seen my favorite sister. Dinner soon, okay? Don’t let Mom get to you.

Favorite sister? I shake my head, smiling.

I’m his only sister. And I’m sure he’s missed me, but Henry is all loved up with his pack and their omega, which is the only reason he never came to visit me in London.

I’m happy for him, I am. But I also can’t deny the twinge of loneliness pinching my insides when I think about it.

At baggage claim, I find that pack from the flight again, almost like the universe is taunting me. The omega glances over his shoulder, catching me observing them. He tips his head and grins. My cheeks burn, and I glance away. Way to be a creep, Liv.

I grab my bag as soon as it’s launched out of the baggage chute and hightail it out of the airport, sucking in the crisp morning air of an early Illinois autumn and berating myself for being weird. Being caught by the omega is going to haunt my dreams for a minimum of two years, at least.

Maybe this is punishment for waiting so long to settle down.

“Liv?”

The familiar voice draws me out of my inner spiral, and my gaze zips to Nigel.

He’s been my parents’ driver for well over thirty years, but he’s always been so much more to me.

Nigel has aged since I last saw him, the gray in his hair a little whiter and the wrinkles around his gray eyes more pronounced as he beams at me.

His smile is warm enough to cut through my worries.

I launch myself at him, wrapping my arms around his sturdy frame.

“I thought that was you!” he says with a laugh, patting my back and squeezing me tightly. “Welcome home, Livvy.”

Tears prick my eyes, and I blink rapidly, pulling back to look at him again. It’s been so long since I’ve seen my family, and although Nigel is seventy, he’s like a second dad. Honestly, sometimes he feels more like a father than my own. “Hi, Nigel.”

His features soften, hands squeezing my shoulders and eyes watering a little. “I didn’t expect that,” he murmurs.

Nigel is a beta whose pack lives in the staff house on my parents’ property.

His omega, Emeline, is the chef, and Theodore, the alpha, leads the landscaping team.

Trevor, their other pack member, who died while I was in London, worked side by side with Theodore.

I’ve always considered Nigel’s entire pack to be family.

“I’m so sorry I didn’t make it back for the funeral.” I choke on the last word, vision blurring. I’ve come to terms with the grief of Trevor’s passing, but seeing Nigel reopens that wound.

“It’s okay, sweetie. I understand.” He hugs me again. “He loved you, you know.”

Sniffing, I nod and blink away the tears. The last thing I want to do is make Nigel sad by bringing up memories. “I missed you so much.”

He pulls back and studies me. “Missed me, huh? Even the bad dad jokes?”

Giggling, I nod and swipe at an errant tear. “Yeah, even the terrible dad jokes.”

A breeze sweeps through the covered airport pickup area, a vague threat of the winter to come in a few months. The chill sends a shudder through my body. I’ll definitely miss London when January strikes Chicago with a flurry of white and freezing temperatures.

Nigel notices my chill with a grin. “Let’s get you warmed up.” Despite insisting I can load my own bag, he grabs it off the sidewalk and pops it into the back of the Land Rover. “I get paid for this,” he reminds me as I linger outside the vehicle.

“I know, but . . .” I trail off, not wanting to admit that I’m worried about his aging because he’d definitely be offended. “I don’t mind helping, is all,” I say instead, shivering again. It’s so cold in the shade.

“London made you soft,” he observes, shaking his head. “Get in the car before I put you there.”

If he ever spoke to my parents that way, he’d be fired, but Nigel developed a fatherly bond with me and my brother when we were kids. I’m not mad that he cares. I kind of wish my own parents felt the same way.

“Okay, okay, old man. Don’t wet your Depends.”

His mouth pops open in shock and he barks out a laugh. “London was good for you,” he says once he catches his breath. His expression sharpens, and I scurry to the passenger door before he has a chance to say don’t make me tell you twice, young lady.

The familiar groove of Nigel’s favorite Grateful Dead album spills out of the speakers, and I buckle myself in with a funny little grin.

I never particularly liked jam bands, but while Jerry sings about Casey Jones, warmth blooms inside my chest. As much as I dread living with my parents for a few months while I search for my own place, at least I’ll have this.

Nigel slides into his seat and turns the song up, humming along with the Dead while he navigates out of the airport with ease. Right on cue, he taps his finger on the steering wheel and starts singing.

The smile I’m wearing makes my cheeks ache.

Some things never change.

“Oh my god, what happened to your hair?” Mother gasps, heels tapping along the marble flooring in the foyer.

She’s wearing a pink Chanel dress and dainty nude heels.

Her hair is perfectly styled, shoulder length, and shiny from a recent gloss treatment.

The same treatment she forced me to have once a month after I turned thirteen.

This is how an omega keeps her pack happy, she would say.

The smile Nigel put on my face immediately falls. Some things never change. The same thought from earlier echoes through my head, only this time, it’s doused by an all too familiar sense of inadequacy.

I finger the strands of my hair that I’ve been growing out. “Um, I like it.”

She wrinkles her nose. “It’s so dull.” Her gaze sweeps over the rest of me, and I can see every fault she finds.

My nails aren’t done.

My lack of foundation and contouring is practically a sin.

My leisure wear gets a curled lip.

“I see you’ve been lost without me,” she says with a heavy sigh. “Don’t worry, though, Mommy will fix everything. I already scheduled a salon appointment for this afternoon and ordered a few dresses, which hopefully will fit. Your hips are a little”—she clears her throat—“wider than I anticipated.”

Each word is like a slap to the face, and I avert my gaze as she prattles on about everything she plans to fix. The confidence I built in London wavers on its shallow foundation.

“I missed you,” I try when she finally pauses to breathe.

She smiles at me. “Oh, stop it, you just want to know the surprise I have for you.”

Disappointment pours through my veins like acid. I should know better than to get my hopes up. She’s never been big on affection. Scrolling on social media has made me think two things—her parents never gave it to her, or she simply doesn’t love me.

For my own sanity, I choose to believe the former.

“Well,” she says, one perfectly shaped eyebrow lifting. “Aren’t you going to ask me what it is?”

Forcing my features into a pleasant mask, I ask, “What‘s the surprise?”

“You’re going on a date tonight with Pack Johnson!” Squealing, she does the tiniest little dance. “Isn’t it fabulous? They’ve been building their company and haven’t had time for an omega, which is perfect because while you’ve been frolicking around London—“

“I wasn’t frolicking,” I cut in. “I was working on a very important research project to help feral omegas.”

She pulls a face. “Ugh, those vicious things should be put down.”

This is something we’ll never agree on. While it’s within an omega’s nature to have a pack, I can’t accept that we’re only useful if we’re mated.

Accidents and tragedies happen every day, leaving omegas without their bonds.

Some people, like my mother, scoff at the idea of scent matching, despite all the evidence that it provides the pack with more emotional stability and a higher probability of reproduction.

She married for money, though, not stability.

“Honestly, this is what happens when you let your nose make the decisions.”

Her rant is a familiar one, though not everyone is as vain as my mother and her group of friends. In fact, the statistics show that the majority of formed packs relied on their instincts and scent compatibility.

It’s simple biology, really. The more compatible and complementary the scents are, the stronger the pack bond will be.

But with that strengthening bond comes its own set of issues.

If a mate dies, the pain of losing that mate can be so powerful, it turns some omegas feral.

Omegas who suffer sexual abuse or assault can also turn feral.

We’re meant to be cherished, and when rough hands and vile intentions rip that sense of safety away, the body does what it feels necessary to protect itself.

“Honestly, how hard is it to control yourself?”

That’s the thing. Feral omegas can’t. It’s an extreme imbalance within the body: hormones, chemicals, microbes.

There are even documented changes in how the frontal lobe functions.

It’s a perfect storm of complications that omega bodies can’t handle.

Feral omegas are just that—wild, uncontrollable, violent toward themselves and others.

The government has taken to putting them down because they don’t see the value in finding a solution. McKinley Labs is committed to changing that, and I’m honored to be part of the journey.

“You know what they say, there’s no saving an omega once she loses her pack.”

“That’s not true—“

Mother waves her hand. “Enough of that, let’s talk about your date! I’ve got flashcards for conversation topics, the cutest shoes, and . . .” She pauses and sniffs the air, her brow wrinkling. “Where’s your scent?”

I grimace. Though I knew this was coming, I find I’m still not mentally prepared. “I’m on scent control.”

She recoils. “Why would you do such a thing? Your scent is your power.”

My power. She wants me to use my scent to weasel my way into a rich pack.

To continue to grow the family wealth. She doesn’t care about compatibility so much as tolerability.

If a well-to-do pack can tolerate my scent, well, then, that’s all I need.

Who cares about love? If she only knew I was on heat control, too, she’d probably faint.

I keep my lips pressed together to keep from informing her that there’s a lot more to me than my scent alone.

My lack of response irritates her.

“How will they know how nice you smell, dear?”

“I guess they’ll know in time,” I murmur.

Her glare sets my teeth on edge.

“It’s not permanent.”

Rolling her eyes, she shakes her head. “I’ve never understood you. Omegas should want to be loved. They should want nice things.”

“I do want to be loved.” I simply want a career too.

Is that so much to ask? I’m not built for being a house omega.

Idle hands turn me into a jittery mess. I like to be productive—a side effect of all the etiquette, music, and society lessons I was forced to endure growing up.

My desire to stay busy is technically Mother’s fault, but I don’t dare say that out loud.

“Well, then, you have no reason to avoid going on this date.”

I don’t want to go is on the tip of my tongue, but after a long flight and the tension already clouding the air, I can’t bring myself to tell her no.

“I guess I should shower.”

Mom beams at me, and for a second, I pretend that’s the look she gave me when I first walked in. “You won’t regret this!”

Famous last words.