Chapter 2
Two
FRANCINE
“I’m so sorry,” I stammer all over the place. But when I look up, I suddenly forget everything that happened to me today. My eyes lock onto his emerald green ones, and time stops. I forget how to breathe as my heart pounds wildly beneath my chest.
I forget everything except the alpha crouched in front of me, his scent wrapping around me like a warm hug that I never had as he helps me pick up bottles off the floor.
“Hey, no problem,” he says, his lips curving into a smile. My heart beats faster, as if I’ve never seen an alpha before.
Truth was, I’ve never been this close to one. And close to one that was actually talking to me.
He grabs the bottle, then effortlessly reaches for another that’s rolled under the display. His movements are fluid and confident. He’s a pure alpha. Before I can even register what’s happening, he’s stood up and grabbed a new bag from the checkout counter.
“You don’t have to,” I start to protest, but he’s already loading my scattered bottles into the fresh bag.
“It’s okay, hun,” he says, and my brain literally turns to smush.
His scent is like warm cinnamon and leather.
God, his scent is so strong and masculine.
My inner omega wolf flares to life, and suddenly, my scent begins to escape the scent blockers.
My skin prickles with awareness, too overwhelmed by this particular alpha’s presence.
His sandy blond hair is tousled in a way that looks effortless but probably costs a fortune to maintain.
Broad shoulders under a casual hoodie that fits him perfectly.
Expensive-looking cargo pants. And those white sneakers look good.
I don’t know brands, but I know money when I see it.
He’s tall too, at least six foot-two, making me feel tiny compared to him.
He hands me the new bag, our fingers brushing again. This time, I’m prepared for the electric contact, but it still makes my breath catch.
“Anything for the omega,” he says, and just like that, my brief obsession shatters.
Of course. That’s all this is. I’m a rare commodity—an unmated omega in her mid-twenties. We’re like unicorns, highly sought after for breeding.
My shoulders tense as I take the bag from him, careful not to touch his fingers again.
“Thanks,” I say, my voice noticeably cooler. I turn toward the exit, hoping he’ll take the hint and leave me be. But he clearly doesn’t.
He falls into step beside me, matching his long strides to mine. “Nasty weather out there. Do you have a long drive ahead of you?”
Something about his presence makes me uneasy, but I can’t pinpoint why. I’m not exactly scared of him. It’s more like my body is too aware of him, and way too responsive. It’s unsettling.
“Not far,” I lie, keeping my eyes fixed on the automatic doors ahead. They slide open with a soft whoosh, revealing the gray parking lot in front of us. The rain has finally slowed to a drizzle, but clouds cover the sky, making it a dreary day.
“I’ll walk you to your car,” he says immediately, and there’s no stopping him. Even though I’m trying to block out his alpha effect on me, my heart still beats faster.
“Fine,” I concede, too tired to argue. As we’re walking to my car, I suddenly notice my scent getting stronger. The smell of cherry blossom is floating around me.
Oh god, this is so embarrassing. Can he smell me?
I become acutely aware of my own scent. The scent blockers must be wearing off after the rain, or maybe it’s his proximity triggering my omega body’s natural response.
We reach my car, and I fumble with my keys, suddenly nervous. Will he just leave me here? Part of me hopes so. But another part, a part I don’t want to acknowledge, wants him to stay.
He opens the car door for me and gestures for me to go inside as he pops the trunk open, taking charge.
“Let me help you put those bags away,” he says, walking around the car while holding all the bags as I get inside the car.
I take slow, deep breaths while sitting in the driver’s seat. I’m never going to see him again after today anyway, I tell myself.
“I’m Drake, by the way,” he says, closing the trunk and walking back around. The wind ruffles his hair, blowing strands across those mesmerizing green eyes. Suddenly, he pauses before closing my door, his nostrils flaring as he inhales.
My stomach tightens, and I can feel slick start to seep from my pussy.
The thin material of his hoodie does little to hide the strength in his arms and chest. I catch myself staring and quickly look away.
“And you are?” he prompts, his voice gentle but insistent.
“Francine,” I answer, not entirely sure why I’m giving him my real name. I should be more cautious, especially with an alpha this attractive. He looks like trouble.
“Francine,” he repeats, and something about the way my name sounds in his mouth makes my knees weak. “That’s a pretty name.”
I put on my seat belt, ready to thank him one final time and drive away from this unsettling encounter.
But something changes in his expression.
His eyes harden, his lips pressing into a thin line. For a second, fear spikes through me. Maybe he’s not as friendly as I thought he was.
Then he reaches across me, his arm brushing mine, and picks up the tear-stained napkin I’d left on the passenger seat. He holds it gently, and I realize with horror that he can smell my distress, my grief.
“Oh ew that’s dirty,” I say lightly, trying to grab it from him.
“You’ve been crying,” he says, his voice low and concerned.
My heart hammers in my chest. How do I explain? I don’t want to talk about Mother, about the funeral, about any of it. Especially not with a stranger, no matter how attractive.
“It’s… it’s nothing,” I stutter finally. “Just a bad day.” I really don’t want him feeling sorry for me, and I haven’t had time to process anything.
His chest rises and falls with deep breaths, and there’s something almost pained in his expression. It’s the protective instinct of an alpha wolf, I remind myself.
“Look, I know it’s not my place, Francine,” he says, his voice softer now, “but whatever it is, I hope it gets better. Everything will get better.”
Suddenly, he unexpectedly reaches out and touches the side of my face, his fingers so gentle against my skin that I almost lean into the contact. The warmth of his hand is like a balm, and for a second, I want to cry again from the simple comfort of being touched with such care.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
“If you ever need anything,” he continues, withdrawing his hand and reaching into his pocket. “Anything at all, call me.”
He hands me a small business card. I take it automatically, not even glancing at it. I’m still reeling from his touch, and from the real concern in his voice.
“Okay,” I say, not knowing what else to say.
He nods once, steps back, and closes my car door with a soft click. Through the window, I watch him walk away, his confident stride carrying him across the parking lot to a sleek black SUV that probably costs more than my annual salary.
I sit there, stunned, trying to process what just happened.
My body has never reacted so strongly to anyone before. This alpha, Drake, has a magnetic presence that seems to pull at something deep and primal inside me. I want to be near him at all times.
I want to be hugged, touched, caressed by him.
I shake my head, trying to clear the image of being tangled with him.
He’s probably like this with every omega he meets, just another rich alpha player looking for a breeding mate to add to his collection. The thought leaves me feeling hollow. How would I ever know if an alpha has real feelings for me?
As I start the car and pull out of the parking lot, I realize that the emptiness I’m feeling has nothing to do with Mother’s death.
It seems cruel and cold. But the emptiness might be a longing I’ve always ignored—the need for a pack, for belonging.
I want the security and love that my sisters, Carmen and Lena, have found.
I drive to my apartment building, trying to focus on the road instead of the lingering scent of Drake that seems to have permeated my car.
The parking garage is dim and damp, with flickering fluorescent lights that give everything a sickly glow. I grab my bags from the trunk and head for the entrance.
The apartment building I used to share with Mother always depresses me. The corridors are narrow and dark, with peeling wallpaper that might have been floral once but has faded to an indeterminate grayish-brown. Spiderwebs cling to the corners of the ceiling, and dust coats the walls.
Empty beer bottles line the hallway, tipped over or standing in small clusters. The carpet is stained with substances I don’t want to identify, and the whole place smells of mildew and despair.
Home sweet home.
I drag myself and my bags through the door of the apartment, the key sticking in the lock like it always does.
The place still smells like the candles Mother always lights up. The lavender smell always fails to mask decades of cigarette smoke. The sudden smell makes tears suddenly spring to my eyes.
I drop the bags on the kitchen counter, and I sink to the floor, tears rolling down my face in streams.
I hate her, I try reminding myself, but I can’t stop the tears from rolling down as I cry like that on the floor, curled up on the dusty red rug.
She was the only one there for me. But deep down, she had a dark side I never knew. A dark side, I never thought she would be capable of having, until her deathbed confession.
The tears start to slow, and I slowly stand back up, clutching the kitchen counter as I sniffle. Once I move out of here, I won’t be stuck with the memories here.
I need to move on and forget about everything. I was still saving up to move before Mother died, and now I realize that it’s pretty urgent to move and get away from here for my own well-being.