2. Sterling
STERLING
T he dock moves beneath my boots as I shift my weight, pulling my favorite green hoodie tighter around myself, zipping up the beat-up raincoat I grabbed last minute to hopefully beat back the chill the Pacific Ocean brings with it.
I tug my black beanie down as low as I can while still being able to see.
The perpetual fog seems to find every loose seam and buttonhole, intent on caressing my skin with its frigid molecules. It’s too early. Too cold.
I haven’t had enough coffee. And it’s too late to back out.
Making plans always seems like the best idea until you actually have to go and do them.
I’m standing on the slip where the North Star is docked, the sky above still ink-dark, the only light spilling from the harbor’s old-fashioned lamps. The ocean stretches into the horizon, a restless, breathing thing, and I swear it’s watching me, waiting for me to make a mistake.
“Why did I think this was a good idea?” I mutter under my breath.
It’s 5 AM, and I should still be curled up in my makeshift nest back home. I should be wrapped in the comforting scent of my blankets, wishing I had someone to make me coffee—not standing here, waiting for a fishing boat full of Omegas to set sail.
Big groups make me nervous, and small talk is my literal idea of hell, but if there’s a secret to making friends without those two things, I sure don’t know it.
With a sigh, I decide to work on my mantra. This will be fun. I’m full of wit and wisdom. I’m good enough. I run through all the positive things I’m supposed to tell myself.
Past Sterling likes adventure. Past Sterling said this will be so fun.
You need to get out more, Sterling.
Push yourself outside your comfort zone.
Adventure is good for the soul.
Past Sterling was an idiot.
Twilight Harbor isn’t exactly what I expected. It’s got that quaint, coastal charm—weathered clapboard houses and fishing boats rocking gently at the docks—but there’s an undercurrent, sharp and wild, just beneath the surface.
There are rules and a rhythm to our designations.
I learned early to avoid the attention of Alphas.
To keep my head down and my scent buried beneath layers of pills and practiced indifference.
I’ve been on suppressants since I presented at sixteen.
The alternative was worse. Here it’s different, but I’m still grateful for the pills, for the safety of blending in.
I pull my coat tighter around me and my hood lower, trying to stop the biting chill. I glance around as other Omegas begin gathering on the dock, their voices hushed but buzzing with excitement.
The Adventure Babes, as the club is called, is a small, tight-knit group of Omegas who pride themselves on pushing past boundaries, embracing adventure, and proving they’re more than just delicate, pampered things. More than what society believes Omegas are meant to be.
It is a little weird to have an adventure group where the sole purpose is to do weird, dangerous, adrenaline-inducing activities started by Omegas. Though it does help that they’re all mostly mated. Their packs are supportive, progressive Alphas who seem perfectly happy letting them roam free.
Twilight Harbor seems to breed that kind of Alpha.
Where I’m from? That is…definitely not a commonly held belief.
“ Take a leap once in a while, Sterling ,” my mom loved to say.
But when she said it, she usually meant: find the first Alpha you can, join a pack, fuck like bunnies, and get me a grand baby.
At twenty-six, I’m too old to be unbonded.
But it has been entirely my choice. Though it helps that slightly chunky, tomboy-ish, introverted, quirky Omegas who don’t necessarily want marriage and kids before twenty-two are not a hot commodity.
Daisy said, when I first got to town, how brave it was to leave. But I don’t think it was bravery that got me behind the wheel of my beat-up Honda Civic, driving over 2,000 miles away from anyone who knows me. Though abnormal for an Omega to be so independent, it was a necessity.
I had to get out.
But that was the old me. And Kansas feels a million miles away at the moment.
Present-day Sterling is having an introvert’s social crisis and almost ready to hyperventilate. Sigh.
Looking around, it’s hard not to feel like I don’t belong here, either. These other women seem easy in their skin—confident, or at least settled in their lives. Meanwhile, I’m here, pretending I’m not already preparing for catastrophe and playing at being a grown-up.
And it doesn’t help that, in addition to an overabundance of embarrassing social faux pas, I have an ongoing and well-documented history of being unfailingly clumsy.
It’s practically a law of nature at this point—where Sterling Hart goes, disaster follows.
I know exactly how this will go.
I will embarrass myself in front of everyone.
I will trip.
I will fall.
I will land in the ocean and possibly drown in the process.
Deep breaths. You are a capable adult. You can do this.
Then, just as I’m considering making a break for it, a familiar voice cuts through the early morning chill.
“You’re making that face again.”
Daisy’s voice is bright, warm, and as comforting as a sunrise, and I sag with relief as she steps up beside me and pulls me into a hug.
It’s been so long since I’ve had hugs or any touch at all that I nearly melt, and I squeeze her extra long, breathing in her sweet scent: sunshine and honey.
Her presence makes everything seem a little less overwhelming.
Omegas need touch, crave it—even social pariahs who can’t make small talk.
Daisy is a local, born and raised in Twilight Harbor. She was one of the first people I met when I arrived in town, and from the second she pulled me into a conversation at her restaurant, she decided I was her new project.
“You look like you’re about to vomit,” she teases, linking her arm through mine.
“That’s because I might,” I admit.
Daisy laughs: an easy, infectious sound.
“You’ll be fine, Sterling. It’s a boat, not a death trap.”
“Are you sure about that?”
She nudges me.
“Come on, this is going to be fun.”
“Those are very famous last words,” I mutter.
As we walk toward the boat, my skin prickles and tightens in a way that sends goosebumps cascading in waves over my body.
Alphas. A distinct smell of stormy sea air mixed with licorice wraps around me.
I’m aware of them before I even see them.
Which is weird.
I usually spend most of my time avoiding and being wonderfully unaware of Alphas, and my suppressants have been great at dampening the effect their scent has on my lady bits.
It’s been a year since my Omega perked up, so her sudden interest catches me entirely by surprise.
She’s at full attention now—which I really don’t like.
The way Alphas affect Omegas is unfair, primal, and utterly outside my control.
Sure, suppressants can help, and I naively thought I’d become immune.
But one stray whiff of that scent has my body reacting like I’ve just presented, instincts rising to the surface I’ve spent a long time trying to ignore. It’s humiliating.
“Oh God,” I mutter, squeezing my legs a little tighter, one hundred percent aware of the sudden tension radiating from my core. Like my own body’s betraying me just because an Alpha’s close by.
A shift in the air brings the full force of the Alpha’s scent. It’s subtle at first, but then I inhale because it smells too good to not and?—
Oh.
Oh no.
The scent is clean and sharp, like sea air before a storm, undercut with something woodsy, rich, and unmistakably Alpha.
It makes me feel like every wild fantasy I’ve ever wanted is at my fingertips—like there is a version of me, hair loose, running naked through a storm, wild abandon pouring off her in waves that exists in this scent.
Then there’s the other scent: licorice and spice.
It’s so comforting it makes me feel sleepy.
It makes me want to be curled up on that Alpha’s lap, reading a book while held in his arms or doing something decidedly much more X-rated—hands gripping my hips, teeth scraping down my neck, voice growling my name like it’s something desirable.
The scents are polar opposites but strangely, perfectly in sync.
My knees feel like jelly.
It smells so good that I’m fighting the intense urge to close my eyes and groan.
I swear to God, my mouth waters.
I grip Daisy’s arm, suddenly lightheaded.
“You okay?” she asks, eyes sharp with curiosity.
“Fine,” I say too quickly, straightening. “Just got the chills all of a sudden.”
“Welcome to the Pacific Northwest,” Daisy laughs, pulling me in closer—clearly thinking my weirdness is related to the weather and not my primal response to the best damn scent I’ve ever smelled.
That’s never happened before.
Not even my ex made me weak in the knees like that.
My body has never done…whatever that just was.
I scan the dock, searching for the source, my pulse kicking up.
Whoever they are, I need to stay far, far away from them.
Anyone who makes me feel like that?
Pure. Fucking. Trouble.
Me and Daisy reach the slip behind the other Omegas. I follow the group and the excited whispers to the two large figures in front of them.
They stand on the dock—one with a clipboard, the other standing on the boat, coiling some rope.
Definitely the source of all those pheromones.
Both are large. Both Alpha in a way that makes my insides clench.
My Omega is at full attention. Practically sitting up with her tongue out. They are both easily the best looking men I have ever seen. And so much larger than any Alpha I’ve ever met. What do they put in the water out here?
This is so not good.
Mr. Clipboard is tall—easily a head taller than me—broad, dark-haired, all rough edges and pure intensity. He hasn’t seen a razor in a few days, but it works for him. Too well, actually.
He’s got that chiseled jaw, those high cheekbones I’ve always been a sucker for. He’s sharp looking, like he could cut you just by looking at you. But beneath all the angst is a softness that reminds me of Daisy. This must be her brother.
Tattoos snake across his hands, disappearing beneath the cuffs of his jacket, peeking out from the collar of his shirt, hinting at something untamed, wild, fierce, and all-consuming beneath the surface. His energy seems ready to combust.
He smells like my favorite licorice tea— in a sexy, I’d come for days kinda way. His looks are so at odds with the comforting way his scent wraps around me and makes me feel.
His eyes flick toward me—an intense hazel, sharp and assessing—before moving away, as if I don’t even register. And I’m suddenly reminded of every one-sided crush I ever had in high school.
Intense and frustrating.
And there’s the other one.
He’s beautiful. Breath stealing good looks.
I see his eyes first—piercing, sharp, somewhere between blue and gray. Even from this distance, I know they’re stunning.
Then there’s the rest of him.
Tall and lean, powerful muscles, built like an Alpha should be. But it’s his hair that snags my attention—wild, curling softly, like afternoon sunshine, like he belongs somewhere on a beach with a turquoise ocean, white sands, and fluffy white clouds.
I suddenly want nothing more than to slide my fingers through those curls, to test their softness for myself.
He looks like something that doesn’t belong to civilization, like he should be prowling the edge of the world instead of standing on the deck of a boat.
His presence makes the air feel thicker, charged, heavy with something unspoken.
And when his gaze lands on me?—
My stomach flips.
I force myself to keep my expression neutral, my spine straight, my breathing even.
Except my body doesn’t get the message.
I shift uncomfortably, heat curling low in my belly, my skin prickling with awareness.
Suppressants. I’m on suppressants. It’s fine. I’ll be fine. They won’t really notice my scent.
When it’s my turn to tell them my name and get on the boat, I’m wishing that the dock would open up and swallow me whole.
“Don’t be weird,” I whisper to myself. Unfortunately, my natural state is weird .
“What’s your name?” tall, dark, and too many tattoos, asks me without looking up.
I’m mesmerized. His voice is like whiskey and velvet. It slinks under my clothes and it goes straight to my core. I actually think I could come from him reading me the dictionary.
Name. Name. Name.
I try to act casual. I fail miserably, as if there was ever going to be any other outcome.
I go for a confident smile but overshoot it, grinning too wide, like a psychopath.
He just looks at me and raises an eyebrow.
“…Uh, name?”
“Sterling Samantha Hart, but you can probably just call me Sterling.”
He just stares at me, and I feel my face turn red.
“Ookaaay.”
And the way he draws out those two syllables tells me I definitely failed at acting normal.
To add to my mortification, the blond Adonis is now also staring at me—nostrils flaring, a particularly unhappy look on his face.
I attempt a smooth step forward, but my foot catches on nothing, and I have to flail awkwardly to catch my balance.
Mr. Clipboard’s brows lift slightly.
But the Blond Sex God’s expression doesn’t change at all.
Behind me, Daisy chokes on laughter.
“Wow,” she whispers, leaning in. “So smooth. So natural.”
“Shut up,” I hiss back.
She only laughs harder.
Blondie steps forward, gruff and all business. His voice is deep and commanding, It does things to me that no voice should be allowed to do.
“Alright, ladies. I’m Cass, the captain, and you all know the drill. Gear’s on board. Life jackets required. If you fall in, don’t panic—we’ll fish you out.”
The way he says it makes it sound like a mild inconvenience instead of a potential drowning or death by hypothermia.
My stomach tightens as his gaze flicks toward me again, lingering this time.
His nostrils flare, just the smallest fraction, as if he’s scenting something that is clearly distasteful.
My heart pounds.
Then he looks away.
“Let’s get going.”
I exhale, only just realizing I had been holding my breath.
Daisy bumps my shoulder. “You sure you’re okay?”
“Absolutely not.”
As the North Star pulls away from the dock, the water stretching out around us, I grip the side railing, forcing myself to breathe evenly.
Icy air and light raindrops sting my cheeks.
I can do this.
It’s just a boat ride.
Nothing will go wrong.
…Right?