Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
OLIVIA
Scent control has been such a longstanding part of my morning routine that I have to audibly tell myself no when I reach for the little orange bottle of pills.
My gaze strays to the heat control. I take both prescriptions every morning.
Sawyer didn’t ask me to stop taking the heat suppressant, but maybe I should.
If I’m going to learn, I may as well learn everything. Otherwise, it’s a wasted opportunity.
Skipping the medicine is hard the first couple of days, but it’s gotten easier to bypass those pill bottles.
So far, no one at the lab seems to have noticed any change.
The first day, I didn’t observe any, either.
The drugs will stay in my system, weakening exponentially as each day passes, until they’re fully out of my system.
Which should happen around the one-week mark.
But today, on day three, I’m starting to smell things.
It’s all muted. The slightly burned scent of black coffee in the office pot, the faint stinging scent of bleach clinging to the work surfaces in the lab, and even the lightest hints of my coworkers’ scents.
Autumn leaves, sage, the smoky scent of a candle wick that’s been recently snuffed out.
And then there’s my own scent. The subtle notes of vanilla and honey that permeate the air around me with a sweetness my coworkers are only beginning to notice, if the curious second glances they give me when they walk by are anything to go on.
None of this should make me feel insecure.
Scents are a normal, accepted part of life.
I’m not the only omega working at McKinley Laboratories, but the others don’t take scent control.
At least, not that I’m aware of. They’re respected members of the team.
They don’t seem overwhelmed by the scents of the alphas and betas working around us.
Nor do they seem overly affected by the cacophony of smells battering me from all sides the way I am.
Perhaps it’s simply due to the fact that I’ve been on the medicine for so long. I’ve only forgotten how distracting all of this could be.
“Olivia, good morning.” Vicki, the lead biologist, knocks on the open door of my closet-sized office as she pokes her head inside.
“We’ve run into some issues with the calculations the Madrid office sent over, and I was hoping you could take a look.
We can’t advance to preclinical trials until we’ve ensured the formulation is perfect.
The cursory look I had this morning has me concerned about a potential adverse chemical reaction. ”
“Of course.”
She smiles at me, but it’s a tense, tenuous thing. We’ve all put so much work into this research, and while this is headquarters, developing the medicine has been a global effort. The last thing we want is a setback. There is too much at stake. “I sent you the file, let me know what you think.”
She cocks her head to the side, studying me. Her nostrils flare slightly, and I shift in my seat, feeling self-conscious. Is she going to say something about my scent? I try to covertly sniff myself. Do I smell bad? I like the scent of vanilla and honey, but maybe she doesn’t?
But Vicki doesn’t say anything. She simply smiles, the expression more genuine this time, and taps the doorframe. “Thanks, Olivia. If you need a second opinion, Gus is also doing an assessment of the calculations.”
I return her smile, relieved that she doesn’t seem bothered by my slowly blossoming scent, and get to work. Once I’m alone and able to throw myself into my work, all my worries and the distractions fade away.
This is what I was made to do. I take comfort in that knowledge and let it support me throughout the rest of the day.
My newly reinforced self-confidence lasts all of five steps into the house. Mother is waiting, greeting me with a frown and a critical sweep of her eyes that makes me feel as tall as a sugar ant.
Once again, she’s found me lacking in some fundamental way.
“Olivia, there you are. I’ve been waiting to speak to you for days.” She rests one manicured hand on a designer-clad hip and pauses for dramatic effect. Before I left for London, this kind of interaction would have had me going out of my way to immediately placate her, but now, I wait her out.
Sighing deeply, my mother rolls her eyes. “You don’t have anything to say?”
“I’m not entirely sure what we’re talking about, so no.” I brush past her and head into the kitchen. A glass of wine sounds nice after a long day of calculations and intense research. It will also have the additional benefit of blunting anything hurtful my mother may say.
“My god. I swear, you are purposefully obtuse,” she says, following me.
Of course, she’d accuse me of being stupid. Anything to make me feel less than.
Opening a bottle of rosé, I keep my back to her while pouring myself a generous glass.
Sweet, fruity scents tease my nose, and I close my eyes, enjoying it.
I really have missed the ability to smell the world around me, even if I also find the additional sense to be somewhat overwhelming as it returns.
“Are you even listening to me?” My mother’s shrill voice disrupts my moment of reprieve.
“How can I help you, Mother?” I turn, leaning against the cool marble countertop, and give her my attention. The bite of the stone against my hip, and the sweetness of the wine, ground me as her eyes flash with annoyance. They buoy me. Helping me keep afloat for the storm that’s coming.
I really forgot how much I hated this when I was out of the country.
Though living here is only temporary, it’s already wearing on me.
The smart thing to do would be allow myself time to settle back in and reacclimate to life in the States and spend some time looking for the perfect apartment, but I’m not sure I can last here.
“How can I help you, Mother?” my mom says in a high-pitched mimic of my own words.
I try to hide my flinch behind the glass of wine as I take another sip.
How is this woman my parent? We have absolutely nothing in common.
I’d take a DNA test if not for the fact that I have her nose and the shape of her eyes.
The similarities are too stark. As much as it disappoints me—almost as much as I do her—she’s my mother.
“You know exactly what I want to speak with you about, Olivia Rose. The dinner with Pack Johnson. Those nice men are ready to take on an omega, and you couldn’t even be bothered to play nice.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Play nice? We had absolutely nothing in common.” Not to mention, they insulted me half a dozen times in ten minutes.
“Who said you have to have anything in common? Your dads and I have different interests, but we’ve been mated for over thirty years.
Alphas are simple creatures, dear. They want an omega who keeps herself in good shape, knows how to cook a good meal, and lets them knot her whenever the mood strikes.
” She sniffs condescendingly, as though I should already know what is expected of me.
Housemaking and sex. Not that there’s anything wrong with all of that, of course. If you want it.
And that’s the thing. Part of me does want that.
At least, to a degree. But I want more than some rich pack.
I want love. I want to feel safe and cared for, something I’m not sure I’ve ever experienced, and I also want to feel supported.
I want a pack that won’t ask me to give up my dreams in order to take care of them.
I don’t think that’s asking too much.
“Maybe those things make you happy, but that won’t work for me. You have to understand that we’re different. My research—”
My mother scowls and cuts me off. “No, you have to understand that there are certain expectations as the only daughter in this family. Your fathers and I have given you more leeway than we should have, and—”
“Princess!” One of my dads, Darren, sweeps into the room like the charismatic force of nature he is and pulls me into a brief hug, cutting off Mother’s beration. Thank god. “We’ve missed you, kiddo. Settling back in okay?”
Darren gives my mom a kiss on the cheek before opening the refrigerator door and poking his head inside.
He hums as he searches for something to eat.
My dads are as elusive as a full moon. They come and go, and if you’re not paying attention, you might miss seeing them.
But they’ve always been busy. They practically live for their work.
Why can’t mother understand I want the same?
Avoiding her gaze, I smile at Darren. “Yeah, settling in fine. It’s an adjustment, but that’s to be expected.”
“Good. Family dinner soon? I haven’t seen Henry in ages.
It would be good to get everyone together.
” He grins widely, completely unaware of the tension simmering between my mom and me.
But this is how he always is. Energetic, charismatic, and too busy with his own life to notice what’s going on in his family. Both of my dads are like that.
It used to hurt, the way they’ve always been oblivious to my struggles with her, but over the years, I’ve learned to accept that this is who they are.
“That would be nice,” I say. It earns me a luminous smile. That small expression of affection used to be enough to counteract my mom’s criticisms, and even now it helps soften things, but it doesn’t hold the same power it once did.
“Perfect. Well, I’ve got to run. Love you, kiddo.” He presses a quick kiss to my forehead, then leaves me with Mom.
“Love you too.” I fight to push down the disappointment that squeezes my chest at his quick departure.
He hasn’t seen me in a year, and he acts like I never left.
Was it always like this, and I’d just been so desensitized that it didn’t register?
Or am I simply recognizing how little effort they all put in because, after spending a couple of evenings with Sawyer, I’m finally learning what it feels like to be wanted?
My mom waits until Darren is out of earshot before turning her unimpressed gaze back on me. “Do you even know how much embarrassment you caused me with the omegas at the club? The way you treated Pack Johnson at dinner was all they could talk about.”
Dissociating, my mind wanders as she drones on and on about all the ways I embarrassed and disappointed her.
“And then they said some random alpha interrupted your date? Honestly, Olivia, I almost died of shame. They recognize him, so clearly, you’re associating with men of ill repute.”
Sawyer would love to know my mother called him a man of ill repute, I think to myself, grinning. I’ll have to text him after this and tease him.
“Why are you smiling?” Even my mother’s shrill voice isn’t enough to wipe the smile off my face.
Sawyer saved me from a mortifying situation that night.
With our arrangement, we’ve been talking almost every day.
He’s helped me feel less alone. And when I manage to forget that he’s probably only humoring me because I’m his best friend's little sister, our conversations make me feel all warm and fuzzy inside.
That’s without even considering that Sawyer has agreed to teach me all of the skills and perks of being an omega that I’ve been too preoccupied to learn.
“Are you listening to me?” Mother sighs dramatically. “I don’t know what to do with you, sometimes. If only I’d had another alpha.”
Pain lances through my chest. That hurts.
To be such a disappointment, she wishes I was someone else entirely, or not even born.
The hurt manifests into frustration, and words I’m sure I’ll come to regret pour out of me.
“I told you I wasn’t interested in being set up.
I went out with Pack Johnson as a courtesy, not to make you look good in front of those vain omegas from the omega club.
” And because I knew she’d bug me about it until I gave in.
“Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m very tired, and my shower is calling my name. ”
Ignoring her sputtering and muttered words of displeasure, I head to my room. I text Sawyer about the confrontation.
The omega club? What do they even do there?
A grin tugs at my lips.
It’s a social club.
Sounds like a cult for stupid people.
Fighting a chuckle, I think about what to send next to continue the conversation, but I’m trying not to be clingy.
I’m proud of you for standing up for yourself. How are things today?
I’m beginning to smell things. It’s overwhelming.
I imagine you’ll adjust to it. Are you still comfortable not being on it?
My goal is to learn what it means to be an omega, and I can’t do that if I’m taking scent and heat control.
The typing bubble appears and disappears, and then it appears again. Four words that send my heart jackhammering.
You stopped heat control?
Yes. Is that okay?
Will that disappoint him? What if I should have talked to him before? What if he doesn’t want to support me through my heat? All those doubts swirl in my mind, triggering a flutter of nerves in my gut.
For science?
Exhaling in relief, more than happy he isn’t mad, I send a quick response.
For science, of course.
At least, that’s the story we’re telling.