Chapter 4
4
brIAR
Whose idea was it for me to wear this dress?
Or these shoes? I’m one wrong move away from tripping over myself and breaking my neck.
That, or I’ll rip my dress right in half after one too many breadsticks.
Seeing Greg’s expression when he picked me up made it the tiniest bit worth the risks, though.
The subtle spicy shift in his warm citrus scent was a confidence booster for sure.
Even if he refused to keep it in the air for long.
Ever the gentleman, he was quick to usher me into his sleek sports car and drive us to the high-class restaurant without so much as a hand on my leg.
“How was work this week?” he asks, swirling the expensive red wine he’s chosen for tonight around in his glass.
I cross my ankles beneath the table and smile.
“It was busy. I was there for the delivery of the sweetest little girl last night. She had bright green eyes, and I don’t think they’ll change throughout the next few months like most do. They were just so vibrant. And her mom was a superhero. She squeezed my hand so hard that I thought she was going to snap it in half. There’s something incredible about a woman’s body, Greg. To be able to create life the way we can is out of this world,” I ramble, my passion for what I do throbbing with its own heartbeat inside of me.
Greg’s mouth lifts in a slight smile, but it feels placating, forced.
It has me slowly crawling back into myself before I freak him out, even as my stomach pangs.
I’ve come too close to risk losing my future pack now, even I have to trap a whine from escaping at his dismissal.
“That’s nice, Briar. Have you ever considered going to medical school? So you can deliver children for real?”
“No, I don’t want to be a doctor. Providing support and encouragement for women during childbirth is what I truly want to do.”
He takes a long sip of his wine as I reach for my once abandoned water, suddenly parched.
Setting his glass down after a moment, Greg leans his forearms on the edge of the table and gives me that pitiful smile again.
I hide my hurt with a swallow.
Sure, this alpha isn’t exactly the type of guy I gravitate toward, and he certainly isn’t my scent match, but he’s willing to give me what I want more than all else.
I only have to make it through tonight, and then I’ll get to meet his pack.
Maybe one of them will see my passions and be proud of them.
Or if I’m lucky, all of them will.
Greg can always learn to appreciate what I do.
We’ll have the time for that.
It helps that he’s handsome.
A bit too clean-cut with his perfectly swooped hair and expensive watches, but his eyes are a nice shade of brown that glows with knowledge and experience.
There are many things he can teach me, and I could be up for the challenge.
Right?
I give my head a subtle shake to clear that question and set my water down.
He clears his throat and folds his hands on the table.
“Well, if you’re not planning on going to school, maybe you would consider quitting.”
I pause, blinking twice.
“Quitting?”
“Your job. It’s nothing serious, which means you wouldn’t have anything to lose if we asked you to quit and stay home,” he explains.
“You want me to quit my job?”
His frustration leaks from him in the form of a huff.
“Yes, Briar. If we were to take you as our pack omega, there would be no need for you to work. Especially if your job was simply a hobby.”
“My career isn’t a hobby, Greg. I like what I do. It’s important. A good chunk of my clients don’t have support systems in place that could be there with them during childbirth. That’s what I am to them. I stand at their side and help them through the gruelling hours they spend in endless pain.”
“But you’re not a doctor. They could find someone else quickly. If you were our omega, you could be your own doula.”
Shock zaps through me.
I grip my knee beneath the table.
There are so many ifs in these statements, and each one sounds more and more like a threat.
Agree, or I’ll leave right now, taking your chance at having what you want with me.
“I thought these types of conversations would happen once I’ve met your packmates. You know, after we’ve all gotten to know each other a bit,” I ramble, fear burning the edges of my scent despite the de-scenting perfume I doused myself in before Greg picked me up.
He takes a sniff of it and twists his features in subtle disgust. I gulp, but my throat is so dry there’s nothing to swallow.
There’s a restlessness in my bones, a sign that something’s not right.
“I need to use the washroom,” I whisper, jerking to my feet.
My hands are ice-cold as I push away from the table and search for the washroom sign.
It’s too far away. For an outrageously expensive restaurant, it’s busy enough that with every step I take, I hear the sharp intakes of breath from those at the tables I pass.
Instead of a warm lemon shortbread, I’m spraying charred cookies everywhere.
With every gasp or judging guffaw, it grows in intensity.
The bathroom is so close.
If I just keep my eyes up, I can’t see anyone?—
There’s another burning smell over here.
It’s not anything like mine, though.
This scent is supposed to be this way.
There’s an intense cinnamon addition to it, and .
. . is that vanilla?
The combination is unique, and I breathe it in, something about it settling me.
I press a palm to my throat and sway, a low whine escaping me before I have a chance to shove it back down.
There’s an overwhelming longing sensation causing my chest to quake as if it’s about to cave in.
My feet move on their own, forcing me to chase the origin of my new favourite scent.
It’s second nature to ignore everyone now.
Without the putrid burning of my fear cutting through my blockers, I blend in, becoming invisible.
Turning past the last of the booth-style tables, I recognize this area as the same one we passed on our way to our more secluded section.
The windows out here make it brighter, illuminating my path.
The vanilla in the scent becomes more prominent, overtaking the burn of the cinnamon the further I walk in this direction, confirming that I’ve gone the right way.
I can’t be that far now?—
My heel catches on the carpet.
I don’t have time to gasp before I’m tumbling forward, my arms flailing helplessly.
There’s no chance for me to catch myself.
Preparing to smash my face on the floor, I cover it with my arms and hold my breath.
It’s not the floor I make contact with, though.
It’s a person.
The nauseating scent of tomato sauce and parmesan cheese slips up my nose, stealing my focus from the smell I was chasing as I grunt at the impact, my elbows jabbing against something hard and sharp.
Several things fall to the floor before I notice the sliminess on my skin.
I wince at the burn in my forearms and slowly lower my hands, exposing the sight in front of me.
I didn’t think it could get any worse than tripping over nothing in the middle of a high-class, busy restaurant.
That should have been the most mortifying thing to ever happen to me.
Surely, only someone with a lifetime’s worth of terrible karma would not just trip but also face-plant into the most beautiful man they’ve ever seen and spill his food all over them both.
From the pasta crawling down the front of the gorgeous stranger’s button-up and smears of red sauce that have been sprayed up his throat, beneath the collar of his shirt, and down his sleeves .
. . I’m very wrong.
Splatters of meaty sauce have flung onto his flexing jaw and down the strong, aristocratic swoop of his nose as the nostrils flare.
My heart tumbles behind my rib cage when I notice it clumping in his black hair.
The shiny curls at the back of his neck are accented with specks of cheese and whatever meat was in the sauce.
Mortified, I sprint into motion.
With shaking hands, I start sweeping the pasta from his shirt.
“I’m so—I’m so sorry. I don’t know what happened. It’s . . . not as bad as it looks. I’ll clean you—clean your clothes. Just give me a second,” I ramble, only half aware of the words escaping my mouth.
Oh, I’m panicking now.
With every passing second, I grow more aware of the people staring at me.
Their eyes have nothing on the flames burning through the skin of my face from the glare coming from the man I’m pawing at.
With every swipe of my hand across his chest, he grows stiffer, and I think he’s holding his breath.
I jerk back, my scent scorched.
Too many things hit me at once.
He’s an alpha, and I stink.
He’s an alpha, and I’ve just spilled his dinner all over him and the entrance of the restaurant.
The fact I haven’t been tossed across the place by a protective, angry omega or his packmates is a miracle.
My throat is constricted so tight I can hardly get a breath in as I search for something to use to clean him that’s better than my red hands.
I’m filthy, and with noodles hanging between my fingers and wrapped around my elbows, I’m doing more harm than good.
The first thing I see is a white tablecloth.
I reach for it, yanking hard.
The clatter of glass dishware hitting the ground and shattering only makes everything worse.
Tears prickle my eyes, but I keep moving, bringing the fabric to the skin of his neck and swiping away the sauce.
My stomach falls between my legs when a firm grip circles my wrist, stilling me.
The alpha’s touch sears me.
I crane my head back and lift my eyes, two crystal blue ones waiting.
One second ticks by, then another and another.
The air thins, my throat relaxing enough for it to slip through.
I inhale greedily, filling my lungs with vanilla and cinnamon.
Vanilla and cinnamon .
. .
A whimper escapes as I wobble, finding myself leaning against the strong body of the delicious-smelling alpha with my chin to his chest. The one I was searching the place for, just needing another whiff.
Needing to know who smelled so freaking amazing.
My scent spikes, an ache spearing between my legs.
The large, strong fingers still clutching my wrist somehow intensify the pulse of arousal between my legs.
I’m wearing two pairs of panties today, but not because I was expecting this.
I thought . . . I thought just in case I had this reaction to Greg’s pack, I’d be better safe than sorry.
This is not Greg’s pack.
This is a stranger. His scent isn’t like any of the ones I’ve smelled on him before.
To make matters worse, this male isn’t showing any sign of liking the way I smell.
For some reason, that makes the burn in my eyes intensify.
A tear clings to my lashes as I squeeze them shut, wanting to let my emotions out but refusing.
Scent blocker or not, if I’m having this type of reaction to him, shouldn’t he be able to smell me even a little?
Is that what this is, or is my scent just that charred?
The dominance he’s projecting is almost smothering.
It’s stronger than I’ve ever felt around another alpha before.
There’s no reason an alpha that strong can’t smell a regular omega.
That both intensifies my interest and worries me.
“Back off.” The deep rasp of his voice is thick with demand, stroking the line of becoming a bark.
“What?” I whisper, positive I heard him wrong.
He uses his hold on my wrist to push me away from him before releasing it like the thought of touching me any longer is repulsive.
The move sends shock waves of pain through my system to the point I stagger back a step.
“Stay away from me,” he spits.
My eyebrows knit together as I wrap an arm around my middle, not caring that I’m smearing pasta sauce all over my dress.
This stranger looks worse than I do.
I’ve ruined his clothes and covered him in his dinner.
It’s no wonder he doesn’t want anything to do with me.
“Ma’am, we have to ask that you leave now,” an unfamiliar voice says.
I don’t look away from the alpha in front of me.
“I’m sorry. I should have been more careful. If this is because I wiped your neck—I should have asked if you were mated first.”
Shame chokes me.
Shame and jealousy at the potential that this man has a mate and I was just touching all over him.
He could have an omega.
Something ferocious snaps in my chest. I bite back a possessive growl and drop my hands, fists clenched.
The alpha shakes his head only once, top lip curling.
He retreats, finally taking the time to look down at his clothes.
His eyes are like twin balls of blue fire as he huffs and shakes his hands out, sending pasta flying.
Someone places a hand on my back.
I flinch, a startled noise slipping free.
The cinnamon scent darkens, taking on a deeper, smoky edge.
“What is going on here?” Greg asks.
The loose snarl that appears doesn’t sound anything like him.
It’s too . . . rough.
He keeps a hand on my back but then drops it in a flash.
When I catch him lifting it to inspect the mess on his palm, I fear my cheeks will melt off at the heat in them.
“Are you together, sir?” the same voice who told me to leave asks.
It’s a hostess. A different one from when we arrived.
“Yes,” Greg says exasperatedly.
“What did she do?”
I straighten at that question.
The alpha across from me hasn’t looked away yet despite his obvious hatred.
My omega preens beneath the attention, trotting in a proud circle even as I scold myself, trying to force myself closer to Greg.
I almost wretch when his citrus scent washes over me.
It’s suddenly so . .
. wrong.
I don’t want it close to me, and I surely don’t want it on my clothes or skin.
I’d rather smell the parmesan in the pasta than citrus right now.
Acting on pure instinct, I lean away from him and take a generous step in the other direction.
Greg frowns, a vein in his forehead thumping.
“What are you doing?” he asks, lowering his voice.
What am I doing? Nothing makes sense.
I’m never this sensitive, yet every moment that passes without this mysterious, gorgeous alpha touching me, I’m flirting with an emotional breakdown.
My instincts are more prominent than they’ve ever been, my omega on edge and trying to tell me something that I’m too frazzled to understand.
Instead of searching for the meaning behind my actions, I look to the alpha in front of me, searching for clarity.
His stare is narrowed, his chest rising and falling rapidly.
I’ve been around big men before, but this one is intimidating even without his wide shoulders, intense dominance, and the thick pheromones that seem to be getting stronger?—
Greg reaches for me again, this time grabbing my bicep and tugging me into his side.
The mystery alpha snarls at where Greg’s fingers make contact.
He lunches forward a step before stopping, forcing himself to stay rooted in place.
My lips part, every inch of my body wanting to leap across the space between us and ask why he’s reacting this way.
God, I want to be close to him.
Maybe I just need one more sniff of his vanilla and cinnamon scent.
Right from his throat this time.
Not missing anything, the alpha grinds his teeth together and shudders, spaghetti-coated fingers curling at his sides.
Excitement claws at me.
Maybe he can smell me after all.
In one forceful movement, he spins on his heels and stalks out of the restaurant.
The door spits a forceful wind at me as he rushes outside.
I don’t move an inch.
He’ll come back. He has to.
Only no, he doesn’t.
When Greg tugs at me again, muttering something to the hostess about our bill, I fight him.
With a pull, I’m shaking him off and chasing after the alpha.
Panic threatens to send me into a spiral as I stand on the street and search for him.
Tears fill my eyes, and with my attention focused on finding the man, I don’t blink them away.
They spill down my cheeks as I stand on the street, more devastated than I’ve ever been.