One – Morgan
One
Morgan
10 Years Later
M ost omegas could determine their attraction to another person with a single sniff. Enticing scents were a good predictor of physical attraction and genetic compatibility, the cornerstones of most successful packs. Happy olfactory bulb, happy omega.
But I was not a happy omega.
Settled on a plush chair with a cup of chamomile tea and a blanket draped across my lap, I should have been a pliable lump of pure instinct.
But no, my designation counselor, Dr. Chantal Avila, had to pull out the scent cards.
They covered every inch of her desk—crisp-edged, sleek, yet user-friendly, embossed with the Harborview Designation Services Center logo. Even the tracking barcode in the lower right corner looked inviting.
So many people dreamed of this moment, of falling under the mystical spell of scent compatibility. But for me, the scent cards were a cruel joke, little white cardboard gravestones for my sense of smell.
Near-total anosmia was a first-rate cockblock.
“What’s the going rate for a heat waiver?” I asked, adjusting my glasses. “Last time, it cost seventy-five cards.”
“This isn’t a negotiation,” Chantal said, her denial imbued with subtle steeliness. Thin metal bangles clinked on her olive-toned wrist as she took her sweet time dipping biscotti into her coffee. It was as polite of a refusal as one could expect from an alpha .
She wore a loose black velvet jacket embellished with intricate, jewel-toned embroidery. Her eclectic, upscale bohemian style was just like her precise winged eyeliner—not my taste, but still worthy of admiration.
“Surely,” I insisted, “it can wait until after my fellowship.”
“I appreciate you’re busy, Morgan. I do,” Chantal said, taking a ladylike nibble of her biscotti. “But you’re not my only client with a demanding schedule.” She flashed a pert grin. “And they’ve all had at least one heat in the past year.”
I took a deep breath, trying to keep myself centered. “You know how much of a struggle it’s been to get to this point.”
“Yes, you have worked incredibly hard. That’s not up for debate.” Chantal set the remains of her biscotti aside and dabbed her fingers with a napkin, gemstone rings catching the light. “But your last heat was three years ago. A good run, for sure, but the prescribing guidelines have caught up to you. There’s no medical reason to fight them.”
“I know.” I dragged my fingers through my hair, trying to relieve the pressure building around my temples, inadvertently messing up my plum-red bob. “My last counselor indulged me too much.”
Chantal let the blame for my current predicament, an inherited mess of epic proportions, slide without comment—gaze lingering on my hair. She wasn’t used to the color.
The dye job was a recent development. My hairdresser claimed the start of my yearlong sports medicine fellowship with the University of Northport was the perfect opportunity to create a visual calling card and that my minimalist tendencies could do with a bit of vibrant sophistication—whatever that meant.
I let her have her way. It was just a hair color.
“You can’t keep avoiding everything,” Chantal said. “Pack profiles and cocktail mixers are good for you. So are the phone numbers of nice guys who might lend you their knot on occasion.”
“Chantal,” I said, my tone veering on the edge between friendly warning and admonishment.
“Walk me through your worst-case scenario.” She leaned forward, voice low and gentle, threaded with persuasion. “What are you afraid of?”
There was no point in denying the truth—even if I wanted to. “That my hormones will suddenly go haywire. Or I’ll have a random heat spike during a football game. That I’ll be so desperate for sex that I proposition someone I shouldn’t. Someone that won’t understand. Or respect my needs.”
“I see.” She paused, carefully imbuing her next question with an inordinate amount of tact. “You’re still concerned about finding partners who can appropriately compensate for your arousal disorder?”
“Of course.”
I sucked a breath through my teeth, potent kindling for my endless resentment. Of all the things my accident and traumatic brain injury had cost me, losing my sense of smell hurt the most, second only to the abrupt end of my gymnastics career.
An omega who couldn’t smell scent signatures—even their own—was defective. Vulnerable. Something my heat partners claimed didn’t bother them, that they’d take care of me…until they realized pumping out pheromones wasn’t an adequate substitute for foreplay.
Was asking for more lube really such an affront to alpha pride?
“There can’t be a repeat of last time. Having to bail three hours in because they were too lost in the haze to listen, and it started to sting—”
“Pillow,” Chantal said, seemingly apropos of nothing.
“What?”
“Morgan,” she directed with quiet strength, “hug a pillow.”
I blinked at her a few times before leaning over and running my hand through the basket beside her desk. Black velvet soothed my unsteady nerves. The lingering insults and pain from my last heat receded.
Chantal kept a companionable silence until I regained my composure.
“Here’s our course of action. We’ll gradually decrease your suppressant dosage, nice and slow, hopefully avoiding any nasty blips. And you’ll pick a week for a chemically induced heat in December. Okay?”
“Fine,” I said, with reluctant acceptance. “My fellowship agreement includes heat leaves, so pick whatever week there’s an opening for a suite here. This should be enough notice to ensure I get the time off.”
“Fabulous.” Chantal turned to her computer and began making notes in my file. “And since you’re here… It wouldn’t hurt to try picking out a heat companion or two.”
“I can’t believe you’re still calling them that. Knotty buddy is right there.” Sarcasm was a fantastic crutch.
Chantal smiled and played along. “Administration wasn’t a fan. They even turned down my suggestion of pocket rocket.”
“So uncultured.” I picked up the first card. Nothing registered until the cardboard touched my nostrils. The alpha’s scent was faint yet sour—at least, I thought it was sour. I couldn’t be sure. The following four cards didn’t smell like anything.
“Your dosage will still be a little higher than normal after December,” Chantal said as she continued typing. “Which might get you through July without needing another heat.”
“That would be amazing.” The next card had an oddly fresh note. Ozone, I thought. Or canned air. Something yet absolutely nothing.
“Not making any promises. A lot of things could change between now and then, but one thing’s for sure—you must start having heats on a regular basis. At least once a year. You already know why, but I’ll tell you again because you need to hear it.” She stopped typing and turned to face me, fingers wrapped around the large amethyst pendant on her chest, thumb stroking the chain. “You’re on the verge of permanent damage. I don’t know if it will be your scent glands or fertility, but it will be something. And it might be something bad . We’ll only know more after your heat.”
I hated how much she cared about me. About a future I couldn’t even imagine. The only options I could fathom were to become a sports medicine physician with a permanent placement at a top-tier program—or nothing.
“How bad’s the withdrawal going to be?” I asked.
“It’s going to be rough,” she said. “Especially this first decrease. Could be a headache and some abdominal discomfort if you’re lucky. Or it might feel like the flu from hell.”
“Hurray.” Growing more desperate to escape by the minute, I cheated for the following few cards, breathing through my mouth.
I finally found an alpha that seemed natural and woody, like sawdust. It wasn’t swoon-worthy, but at least it wasn’t repulsive.
Every omega’s dream. Invite an alpha with barely tolerable pheromones to spend your chemically induced heat boning in a rented room above your designation counselor’s office. The epitome of romance.
Ironically, my real problem with the scent cards had nothing to do with my anosmia. It was that none of them were right.
None of them belonged to Wyatt Redmond. My scent match, my long-lost, unrecognized scent match.
I could still smell him.
The subtle sweetness of sun-soaked boxwoods—reminiscent of a lazy summer afternoon in a European garden. Condensation on the side of a crystal glass, fresh lime wedges glinting in the sun. Secret laughter in the long shadows.
Forever just out of reach.