Chapter 2
SANTOS
Qualcosa di bello.
"Fucking beautiful," I purr.
It's the only way to describe the omega in front of me, her scent hits me before her curves which my eyes are drawn to like a magnet.
"Hmm, did I say it out loud?"
Tomas is laughing, whereas Matteo turns and looks at me with the expression of a man reassessing his pack.
"You did," Tomas confirms.
In my defense, I wasn't prepared, and judging by my ever growing groin, neither was my cock.
I walked into the casino with my senses already overloaded, from three hours of recycled cabin air still sitting in my lungs.
But that isn't what made my alpha go nuts.
Not the collective scent of two hundred strangers pushing at me from every direction, but when I saw her walk across the floor.
Like she had already decided she owned the square footage and was simply allowing the rest of us to occupy it out of generosity.
I breathe in and immediately regret it.
Strawberry first, warm and ripe, then underneath it, sharp rose. It's as if she's an omega working very hard to hold something together and not quite managing to keep it all behind the smile.
"She's fucking hot!" Matteo agrees. At least one of the alphas in the pack isn't dead. I was beginning to wonder. Sometimes I think Tomas doesn't get aroused unless we're in a suite, bedroom or a penthouse and getting ready to knot.
We'll be on the app, HeatMe, omegas willing to knot with an alpha, on their heat date.
Matteo and I will be scanning for omegas like her, full women, curves we can hide and breasts we can suck on.
Tomas is always like, "You guys choose." As if he's not going to be knotting with them too.
When we're ready to knot, he's more than willing, but looking and putting some effort into finding an omega, it's as if it's too much for him.
My own scent gets stronger and saffron only spikes when I'm genuinely interested as opposed to the regular kind of interested, the kind that is just boredom wearing a better jacket.
Tomas sniffs the air next to me and raises an eyebrow.
Then shakes his head, disappointed as if I'm some wild alpha who can't control himself.
"Don't start," I warn him.
He puts his hands up. "We're here to gamble not to…whatever you're thinking of doing with her."
I know why he's defensive. It's because we swore off omegas. This is why we only select ones on the app. There's no misunderstanding, they know why we contract them and they're willing. Most of the time, they don't trust alphas, and this just makes it a win-win situation.
"Santos."
"I said don't."
Matteo is still looking at her. She has settled onto a stool at the roulette table and is doing something with her clutch with the focused energy of a woman who is only here for herself, which makes her infinitely more interesting than every person at this table who is here to be seen.
Her dark honey hair is pinned up, with loose curls, but it's her green eyes.
Sparkling as if they're emeralds. It's as if she has no idea how beautiful and stunning she is, I could tell her, but showing her would be even better.
I lick my lips, because the thing that really stands out about her, is the dress she's wearing.
Red.
Red for sizzling hot.
Red for I'm going to charm the panties off her, oh my she could be wearing thongs which makes this even more intriguing to find out what she is wearing.
"She's alone," Matteo observes, in the tone he uses when he is pretending to make a neutral comment.
I take another slow breath and wish I hadn't because the rose in her scent spikes again, that sharp edge of something raw sitting just beneath the defiance, and my chest does a thing I did not authorize. "Good."
They both look at me.
"Are we going to the table or not?" Matteo asks, already moving.
I watch her place a chip on red. One chip. She does it with one finger, sliding it across the felt.
The wheel spins and she watches it with this expression that I cannot look away from.
"Cazzo," I say, under my breath.
I straighten my jacket, and decide that if anyone is going to flirt and seduce her tonight, it has to be me.
"I'm going to the table," I say.
"Obviously," says Matteo, not turning around.
"To play roulette," I add.
"Sure," says Tomas.
I cross the floor. The casino noise does what it always does, slot machines and low voices and the shuffle of cards somewhere to the left, all of it blurring into a kind of white noise that Vegas manufactures specifically so that whatever you're walking toward feels like the only real thing in the room.
She is still watching the wheel when I settle into the seat beside her.
Up close, her scent is something else entirely. Warmer. The strawberry has this depth to it that the distance didn't carry, something almost edible about it, and the rose is right there, present and a little wounded and so real that it takes genuine effort to keep my expression neutral.
She doesn't look at me yet. The ball is still making its decision.
My saffron is doing absolutely whatever it wants at this point.
"Red's a bold choice," I say.
She turns. Green eyes, very direct, the kind of look that measures a person in about four seconds and files the result.
"It matches the dress," she says.
"It does." I glance at the table, then back. "Did you pick the dress first or the strategy?"
The corner of her mouth does something that isn't quite a smile but is thinking about it.
"Both at the same time," she says. "It was that kind of day."
The ball drops. Red. The croupier pushes her winnings across and she looks at the chips for a moment with an expression that is one part surprise, two parts something fiercely, quietly satisfied, and I feel the shift in her scent before I see it on her face. The rose slightly softens.
"Looks like your luck is turning," I say.
She picks up her winnings and stacks them neatly without hurrying.
"Ask me again in twenty minutes," she says.
My alpha tells me that I better not have lost my touch, because within the next twenty minutes, she'll be in my suite, screaming my name.