4. Sophie
Sophie
Ten Years Later
The knife slides home into the sheath on my inner thigh.
I shift my dress to the side, adjusting the holster until it sits flush against my skin, invisible beneath the red silk.
The blade is ceramic so it won’t set off metal detectors, and sharp enough to slice through bone.
I’ve used it exactly seven times in the past decade. Each time, the alpha had it coming.
I straighten up and study my reflection in the hotel mirror. It’s like looking at a stranger, a woman with my face who moves when I move but feels nothing like me. I watch her from somewhere behind my own eyes, a step removed, like she’s a tool I’ve created specifically for this job.
Red dress, low in the front, the back completely covered.
The slit bares my good thigh, the one with fewer scars.
It’s designed to draw attention exactly where I want it and away from everything I don’t.
Stilettos that add four inches to my height and double as weapons if I aim for the right arteries.
Nails painted dark cherry red. My hair falls past my shoulders in long, dark waves, back to its natural color.
Softer. Prettier. Easier for alphas to underestimate.
Dark makeup that makes my eyes look bigger and more vulnerable.
Contact lenses that turn my green eyes a soft brown.
The costume of an omega looking for trouble.
I barely notice any of it anymore. After a decade of missions, getting dressed for a target feels as routine as brushing my teeth.
My fingers drift to my throat, pressing against the glands just below my jaw.
They are slightly swollen and tender. I went off my military-grade suppressants two days ago, same as always, and my body is already responding to the absence.
My true scent, rain and crushed rose petals, is starting to seep through the cracks.
On suppressants, I smell like coffee and steel, the kind of scent that makes alphas instinctively give me a wide berth.
Off suppressants, I smell like prey.
But I guess that’s the point.
Tonight’s mission is simple, the same template I’ve followed dozens of times.
Lure the target to my room, where Declan has already set up cameras and microphones in every corner, flirt and smile and let him think he’s about to get lucky.
Then, when his guard is down, inject him with the sedative hidden in my clutch.
They’re usually unconscious within seconds.
After that, I go through his phone and connect everything to my laptop, give Declan remote access. Nine times out of ten, what we find is enough to justify bringing the alpha back to Sentinel headquarters for a more thorough interrogation.
The tenth time, they’re clean, and I slip out before they wake up with nothing but a headache and a story about the omega who got away.
Tonight’s target is not going to be clean. I’m already sure of that.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand. I cross the room and pick it up, swiping to open the message.
The first image loads slowly—a man in profile, tall, wearing a suit in a shade of green so aggressive it’s almost offensive. I can’t make out his face clearly, just the general shape of him, broad shoulders and a confident posture.
Frederic Zimmer.
Just seeing the name makes me feel sick.
Zimmer is notoriously good at keeping his picture off the internet. Whatever Gary is sending me is the first anyone has managed in years.
I wait for the other images to load, but my reception is terrible and the progress bar crawls at a glacial pace. Another message pops up while I’m staring at the screen.
He just arrived at the gala. - Gary
Gary’s my handler tonight, reliable and thorough, though terrible at choosing rendezvous points. But nobody’s perfect.
I tap the images impatiently, like that will make them load faster. It doesn’t.
My mind drifts to Cindy.
She was seventeen years old, rescued last week from a penthouse downtown. She could barely walk when Nolan carried her out, couldn’t speak above a whisper, and flinched every time someone raised their voice.
She was so young, too young, with her whole future ahead of her.
Then she met Frederic Zimmer at a charity event, and everything went to shit.
The images still won’t load. I tap the screen again, harder.
Fuck it.
How many alphas at this gala are going to be wearing a suit that ugly? I’ll find him.
I grab my clutch and head for the door.
The ballroom is obscenely beautiful, the way only obscene money can buy.
Enormous crystal chandeliers scatter fractured light across marble floors polished to a mirror shine.
Gold gleams from the columns and ceiling moldings, catching in the ornate frames of oil paintings along the walls.
A string quartet plays something classical in the corner, barely audible over the noise.
Servers weave through the crowd with champagne balanced on silver trays.
I take a glass from a passing tray and position myself at the bar, crossing my legs on the stool in a way that makes my dress ride up just enough to draw attention. The bartender notices. So do three alphas at a table near the window.
I ignore them all.
My eyes scan the room with practiced casualness—the bored omega looking for some fun—while I quietly map the space, noting where the doors are, the guards stationed beside them, and the clusters of guests that would slow me down if I had to move fast.
And there.
Across the room, laughing at something someone said, wearing that godawful green suit.
Frederic Zimmer.
He’s charming. I can tell from here. I watch him tilt his head when he listens, like whoever’s speaking is the most interesting person in the room. The omegas near him lean in, moths to a flame, as if they can’t help but want to be closer to him.
He’s taller and broader than I expected. Even from this distance, I can see the way the suit strains across his shoulders.
No wonder Cindy fell for him.
The image of her, curled in on herself, unable to meet anyone’s eyes, feeds the anger already simmering beneath my skin.
I pretend to sip the champagne and watch him for another minute, studying his movements, the way he gestures when he talks, the rhythm of his laughter.
Then I set down my glass and move.
The trick to approaching a target is making it look like you’re not approaching them at all. I drift through the crowd, pausing to admire a painting here, accepting a canapé there, always angling closer to that green suit without ever looking directly at it.
There’s a sculpture behind him, some abstract bronze monstrosity that has no business being called art. I stop in front of it, tilting my head like I’m contemplating its deeper meaning.
It’s hideous. Exactly the sort of nonsense that exists solely so rich people can pretend they understand it.
I pretend it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
After a few moments, I feel him turn. I can practically feel his eyes moving over me.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”
His voice is warm and easy, enough to make you want to lean in and tell him all your secrets.
He’s closer now—close enough that his scent reaches me.
He smells like sunlight. Like warm skin and open fields and something sweet underneath, honey maybe, or brown sugar. It’s the kind of scent that makes you want to close your eyes and breathe deep, that makes you forget you’re supposed to be thinking.
Fuck. I snap myself out of it immediately.
This is the problem with going off suppressants. My senses come roaring back whether I want them to or not. Normally I can ignore it—most alphas smell like aggression and entitlement, which makes hating them easy. But this one... this one smells different.
But I know he’s not different. Because scent is just biology, and it doesn’t mean anything.
I realize he’s waiting for an answer.
I turn to face him. His expression is earnest, admiring, but his eyes catch mine and hold a beat too long, like he’s daring me to agree, waiting to see whether I’ll lie to be polite.
Oh. He thinks it’s hideous too.
“Beautiful,” I agree, deadpan.
The corner of his mouth twitches. Neither of us looks at the sculpture.
Up close, he’s striking. Sharp jaw, warm eyes, a mouth that curves like he finds everything quietly amusing. A face that is very easy to look at and trust.
“I’m Finn,” he says.
Finn. An interesting choice of nickname for Frederic, like he thinks it makes him seem harmless. More trustworthy. Whatever.
“I’m Sylvie.”
“Sylvie.” He says it slowly, like he’s savoring each syllable. His eyes haven’t left mine. Blue, I notice. Very blue. The kind of blue that makes you think of summer skies and swimming pools and other things that I know are meant to mess with a woman’s mind.
“So, Sylvie.” He shifts slightly, creating space between us that feels more respectful than distant. “Are you here alone, or did you come with friends?”
“Alone.”
The word lands exactly the way I want it to, like an invitation and a vulnerability all at once.
His smile widens, and that’s when I see the dimples.
Oh, for fuck’s sake.
“Good,” he says quietly.
He’s beautiful. So beautiful that for one dangerous second, I almost forget my own name and every warning I’ve ever learned, and I’m no longer a trained operative on a mission, just an omega who’s been starving for touch for a decade.
But I know better.
I know so much fucking better.
“What about you?” I ask, letting my voice go soft and breathy. “Did you come alone?”
“Guilty as charged.” He glances around the ballroom with an expression of mild suffering. “Truth be told, this isn’t really my scene. But my packmates refused to come with me, and I suppose it’s a small sacrifice for a good cause.”
He’s good, really good, pretending to be humble and a bit self-deprecating, making himself seem approachable instead of intimidating.
Classic predator behavior.
“I know what you mean.” I smile like we’re sharing a secret. “These things can be a bit of a drag. But like you said, good cause.”
“If you weren’t here,” he asks suddenly, “what would you be doing right now?”