Chapter 1 #2
But her deathbed confession confused every memory I had of her.
“Why, Mother?” I whisper in the empty car, my voice cracking.
There’s no answer except the steady patter of rain that has begun to fall, tapping on the roof of the car. I wipe my face with the back of my hand, smearing mascara across my cheeks.
I can’t forgive her, but the memory of her asking me will always hurt.
I take a deep, shuddering breath and put the car in drive. I need scent blockers. My supply is running low, and with my babysitting jobs, I need it when I’m around alphas.
At least that’s something concrete I can focus on instead of the swirling mess of grief and anger inside of me.
The nearest pharmacy is fifteen minutes away, one of those big box stores with harsh fluorescent lighting that makes everyone look like they’re at death’s door. Appropriate, considering where I just came from.
I park in the nearly empty lot, checking my reflection in the rearview mirror. Ugh. I look even worse than I thought.
My eyes are swollen and bloodshot, black streaks of mascara trailing down my cheeks like war paint. My lipstick is gone, bitten away during the funeral. My hair has mostly escaped its bun, red curls tangling around my face in the wind and rain.
I look feral. Unhinged. Maybe people will leave me the fuck alone.
I grab my purse and step out into the rain, not bothering with an umbrella. The cold droplets feel cleansing on my hot skin. By the time I reach the automatic doors, my dress is soaked through in patches, clinging uncomfortably to my skin.
The store is nearly empty, just a few bored employees and the occasional customer meandering through the aisles. I head straight for the omega care section, my heels clicking loudly against the linoleum.
I need to focus on something mundane, something normal.
The scent blocker aisle is a familiar comfort, with its rows of neatly arranged bottles promising safety and anonymity.
I grab a basket from the stack at the end of the aisle and begin loading up.
Scent-neutralizing body wash. Clinical-strength lotion.
Unscented deodorant. Into the basket they go, one after another.
This has been my routine since I started working for Tiny Paws three years ago. The training for omega nannies is strict: always wear scent blockers when working in a home with alphas.
It’s a liability issue, Carmen explained when she hired me. An unmated alpha catching the scent of an unmated omega can lead to all sorts of complications.
Complications. Such a sanitized word for what we all know happens. If an alpha gets one whiff of an omega in their territory, especially one with a compatible scent, it can trigger a frenzy. And frenzies lead to a rut. Hard, desperate fucking that turns any sane alpha into a primal beast.
My thighs clench involuntarily at the thought. I’ve never experienced it myself, but I’ve seen the aftermath in omegas in online videos. The glazed eyes. The slight limp. The mixture of satisfaction and shame.
I’ve never been with a pack. Never even dated one.
At twenty-six, I’m practically ancient in omega terms—most are claimed by twenty-two, twenty-three at the latest. But I’ve always been careful.
Controlled. A few kisses with a beta here, a hot sigma there, but never anything serious. Never an alpha.
And definitely never sex.
I’m a twenty-six-year-old virgin omega. Mother was always pushing me to find a nice pack, settle down, and give her grandbabies, as Carmen and Lena did.
“Well, too fucking bad,” I whisper as I grab the strongest scent-blocking shampoo on the shelf. My cherry blossom scent is particularly potent, according to the one sigma I let get close enough to scent me.
“Like walking into a Japanese garden in full bloom,” he’d said, before promptly trying to get his hand up my skirt. I’d broken his nose for the attempt. End of that relationship.
I add more bottles to my already overflowing basket.
Better safe than sorry. I wander to the cosmetics section, adding eyeliner, concealer, and waterproof mascara to my haul.
The basket is getting heavy, pulling at my arm muscles, but I’m not done yet.
I grab a bottle of scent-neutralizing hair spray, the last one on the shelf.
My basket is now dangerously full, items threatening to spill over the sides.
At the checkout, the bored beta male barely glances at me as he scans my purchases.
I wonder if he can smell anything through my current blockers, if the rain has washed away enough to let my natural scent peek through.
But his expression remains neutral, bored.
Either my blockers are holding up, or he’s completely uninterested in omega scents. Probably the latter.
“That’ll be $87.53,” he drones, bagging my items.
I wince at the price but hand over my credit card. It’s not like I have a choice. These aren’t luxury items for me. These are necessities.
The beta hands me two plastic bags, bursting at the seams. “Have a nice day,” he says, already looking past me to the next customer.
I’ve barely made it three steps when the handles on one bag give way with a sharp snap. Bottles of shampoo and lotion tumble to the floor, rolling in every direction across the slick linoleum. One bottle of lotion hits someone’s shoe with a soft thud.
“Shit,” I mutter, crouching down to gather the scattered items. My dress pulls tight across my thighs as I reach for a bottle of shampoo that’s rolled halfway under a display stand.
A large hand reaches for the same bottle, fingers brushing against mine.