Chapter 22
Stephen poured himself a third glass of wine, a cheap Merlot that had been on offer at Tesco, and settled back against his pillows. His dad had left for his night shift an hour ago, leaving Stephen alone in the flat with nothing but his misery and his mobile for company.
"To moving on," he muttered, raising his glass in a mock toast to his reflection in the darkened window. "And the absolutely industrial quantities of shagging in my immediate future."
He took a fortifying sip and unlocked his mobile, thumb hovering over the App Store icon.
This was ridiculous. He was ridiculous. But the alternative was spending another night staring at the ceiling, mentally cataloguing all the ways he'd failed to impress David Ryland with his sexual prowess, and his ego couldn't handle that particular exercise again.
The search bar blinked expectantly. Dating app. Dating app for alphas and omegas. Dating app for omegas who've been shagged and abandoned and need to build a sexual CV impressive enough to make the one that got away regret ever leaving.
God, he was pathetic.
"Alpha omega dating app," he typed, watching the results populate with increasing horror.
Knotworthy - Where Alphas and Omegas Find Their Perfect Match Heat Seekers - For When You Need Someone Special Forever Knot - Finding Your Forever Mate BondMate - Where Designation Meets Destiny
"Jesus Christ," Stephen muttered, scrolling through the options. Was there a single app that didn't sound like it had been named by a marketing team high on pheromone supplements?
He tapped on Knotworthy, because why not embrace the mortification completely? The app's logo featured a stylised knot that managed to be both anatomically suggestive and somehow corporate, like a particularly aggressive investment firm had rebranded with genitalia.
Create Your Profile -- Show the World Your True Self!
"My true self is currently drowning in cheap wine and self-pity, but sure, let's put that on the internet," Stephen told his mobile, even as he began the registration process.
Name: Stephen H Age: 25 Designation: Omega Location: London Occupation: Legal Counsel
"And now for a profile picture where I don't look like I'm being held hostage," Stephen muttered, scrolling through his camera roll.
The options were depressingly limited. Most photos featured either his father or Lysander, neither of whom he particularly wanted to showcase on what was essentially a digital meat market.
There was one decent photo from the Dabney gala, taken by the professional photographer. Stephen in his tuxedo, glass of champagne in hand, looking surprisingly sophisticated despite being absolutely terrified of spilling something on the rented formal wear.
The next step asked him to write a bio. The cursor blinked accusingly in the empty text field.
Tell potential matches what makes you special!
"Special how? 'Professional disappointment in bed, guaranteed to make you flee the country rather than face me over breakfast'? 'Barely used, only knotted once, previous owner left dissatisfied'?"
He took another sip of wine, then typed:
Junior Legal Counsel. Fan of good books, better wine, and people who don't use text messages to break things off. Not looking for anything serious, just some fun. No alphas who think designation is a personality.
"There," he said, hitting save. "Perfectly dignified. Not at all like I'm trying to get revenge-shagged to salvage my wounded pride and build up my sex CV."
The app chirped cheerfully, informing him that his profile was now live and he could begin the exciting journey of finding his perfect match.
"Perfect match," Stephen snorted, tapping to view available profiles. "As if such a thing exists."
The first profile belonged to an alpha named Marcus, 32, whose main photo featured him shirtless in a gym bathroom mirror, biceps flexed to the point of medical concern, with the bio: Knot game strong. Looking for an omega who knows their place (preferably on their knees).
Stephen's finger couldn't hit the reject button fast enough.
Next was Daniel, 40, whose profile picture was actually decent, a normal-looking man in a nice suit, until Stephen read the bio: Successful businessman seeking young omega to spoil. Allowance provided for the right match. Must be willing to travel, no heat suppressants, eager to breed.
"Dear God," Stephen muttered, swiping left with such force he nearly sent his mobile flying.
Jamie, 28, seemed promising until his bio: Alpha AF. Looking for my forever omega to cherish and protect. By cherish and protect I mean bend over the kitchen counter daily. No time wasters.
Stephen's phone pinged with a notification. Someone had matched with him already? That was unexpected.
AlphaAdam88 has sent you a message!
Curious despite himself, Stephen opened the chat.
AlphaAdam88: Hey beautiful. Bet that arse'll look even better bent over my desk. When can I see it?
"Charming," Stephen muttered, closing the message without responding. Another notification pinged.
DomAlpha4U: You're gorgeous. I can tell you need a proper alpha to put you in your place. I'd love to see more of you... here's a preview of what you'd get.
The attached image loaded before Stephen could stop it, presenting him with the most aggressive-looking knot he'd ever seen outside of a textbook.
"Jesus!" Stephen yelped, nearly dropping his phone. "That's not a knot, it's a bloody weapon!" He deleted the message, wondering if there was any way to scrub the image from his retinas. Perhaps bleach would do it. Or a sharp stick.
By his second hour on the app, Stephen had received seventeen messages.
Fourteen contained unsolicited pictures of alphas' anatomy in various states of arousal.
Two were invitations to heat hotels in Soho.
One was a surprisingly polite request to worship his feet that he almost considered out of sheer contrast to the rest.
None of these were viable options for his sexual reinvention tour. Walking red flags with knots attached, the lot of them.
Maybe he was being too picky. Maybe he needed to expand his search parameters.
His fingers moved almost of their own accord, typing "scientist" into the search filter.
Three profiles. One was clearly using AI-generated images of a sexy professor stereotype.
Another listed their scientific credentials as "School of Hard Knocks, University of Life," which suggested a concerning confusion about what constituted actual science.
The third was a legitimate scientist, but his profile picture featured him holding a taxidermied badger with an expression of such manic glee that Stephen feared for the safety of any small animals in his immediate vicinity.
He tried again. "Physicist." One result, a woman who worked at CERN.
"Renewable energy." Zero results.
"High IQ." Seventeen results, all of whom looked like they'd corner you at a party to explain cryptocurrency.
Stephen closed the app and tossed his mobile onto the bed beside him. None of these alphas had Ryland's precision, his intensity, his ability to turn a scientific explanation into foreplay.
None of them were Ryland.
The realisation hit him with the force of a particularly vindictive hangover.
He didn't want to move on. Didn't want industrial quantities of shagging with random alphas who thought "knot game strong" was a compelling personality trait.
He wanted Ryland, with all his brilliant, frustrating, meticulous glory.
Stephen drained his wine glass and stared at the ceiling, a hollow ache spreading through his chest. This was bad. This was catastrophically bad. Because if he couldn't even bring himself to chat with another alpha, how the hell was he supposed to get over the one who'd shattered his heart?
* * *
Stephen dragged himself through Dabney's glass doors with all the coordination of someone who'd spent the night pickling their brain in cheap Merlot. His head throbbed.
Sleep had eventually claimed him after he'd spent an embarrassing amount of time with his fingers buried inside himself, desperately trying to recreate the sensation of Ryland filling him.
His own touch felt clinical and inadequate, like trying to satisfy hunger by looking at pictures of food.
In a fit of wine-fuelled desperation, he'd ordered a silicone knot dildo for next-day delivery to a parcel pickup point near the office.
The confirmation email had arrived just as he'd finally passed out, mobile still clutched in his hand.
"Good morning, Mr Huxley," chirped the receptionist, whose relentless cheerfulness should really be classified as a form of psychological warfare. "Lovely day, isn't it?"
Stephen managed a grimace that might charitably be interpreted as a smile. "Absolutely stunning, Mary."
He shuffled toward the lift, squinting against the fluorescent lighting.
His reflection in the polished metal doors confirmed his worst fears: he looked exactly like someone who'd spent the night swiping left on alphas with usernames like KnotYourAvgAlpha and wanking pathetically to memories of the one person in the building he was desperately trying to avoid.
Janet from HR was holding court by the fancy coffee machine when he entered the break room, gesticulating with alarming enthusiasm to a small crowd of rapt listeners.
"...and then Ryland just looks at him and says, 'Your understanding of basic molecular compounds appears to be on par with that of a particularly dim-witted sea cucumber.' In front of the entire procurement team!"
"No," gasped Priya from Contracts, eyes wide. "Not the sea cucumber comparison."
"Oh yes," Janet nodded solemnly. "Thompson said he's never seen someone turn that particular shade of purple before. Three separate HR complaints from one meeting alone."