CHAPTER 5
WINDY
I’m so lonely.
Nothing about this feels right, and the injustice stings deep inside me.
It’s been a month since that night at Luscious.
Every night, I ache for the memory of first breathing in that scent.
It was so strong and electric, it burned through me.
My mind never changes the dream. The club is always hot, packed with people moving to the music.
Then, that scent hits me, stopping me in my tracks.
Two or three times a week, I find myself back at Luscious, hoping that scent will be there. Sometimes it feels like the owner of that scent walks right past me; other times, I sense it drifting through the humid air.
No owner.
Nothing.
Sometimes, it almost feels like I imagined the scent. I wonder if it was ever really there at all.
The longer I go without breathing in that scent, the more my depression and anxiety grow. I feel sure I should know who it belongs to, like it was made just for me. That’s the only thing that makes sense.
The scent belongs to my mate.
Has to be.
There’s no way around it.
My omega lost control when I smelled that cinnamon candy scent.
She pushed me to get closer, begging and pleading for it.
But that night, I was with a client and couldn’t leave him.
If I did, I’d lose my job. I’m paid to escort certain men wherever they want to go, not to leave them behind while I chase a scent I think is my forever.
Oh, how I wish I were paid to find that scent again. Just the thought of it claws at me, wild with desperation. The moment it reached me, it invaded my senses, sharp and electric, impossible to dismiss. I gasped for it that night, greedy for more. It was warm, aching with memory.
I lie on my back and stare at the ceiling, hoping it might give me answers. The quiet in my bedroom feels heavy. It makes me restless, like I should be doing something, but I don’t know what. It’s like a thought I can’t quite reach.
I groan. My head rolls to the side, more out of boredom than anything. My eyes land on my computer desk, spying the sheet of paper folded up. The one Jazmyn gave us when we were at the book club meeting at Sip-A-Brew. She had that naughty gleam in her eye when she slapped it down onto the table.
I wasn’t going to do anything with it. I took one just to satisfy Jazmyn. But now, I’m not so sure. Maybe.
Jazmyn handed it out, all casual, like it wasn’t some mysterious little invitation that she swore “changed everything” for us.
I forgot I even put it in the book I was reading as a bookmark.
Now, though, my interest is piqued. If Remi can find what she’s looking for, then maybe the same thing can happen for me.
With everything pulling me forward, the paper suddenly feels heavier than it should. I sit up, slide off the bed, and pad over to my computer desk. Reaching out, I drag the book closer to me, then slip the paper from inside its front cover and unfold it to read.
Select-A-Mate
Take a chance at your Happily Ever After ...
I bite on my bottom lip as I contemplate whether I really want to do this or not. My pulse kicks up. Not a lot, but just enough to make me aware that this is affecting me. The possibilities. Maybe it can shift something the same way it shifted for Remi.
Rubbing my fingers over the paper, I question if luck will come my way. What did Remi see in it? How did she find the strength to go for it?
Why am I hesitating?
I’m supposed to be fearless, not someone who stands back and lets life pass by. I feel stuck between wanting direction and being frozen by fear. Do I have the courage to move forward, or will I let anxiety keep me on the sidelines, always questioning and never acting?
I really don’t want to give up on that scent from Luscious, but I’m also not getting any younger. I want to belong to a pack, grow old with my mate or mates, have babies, and love and be loved.
I crave everything—love, belonging, family, purpose, all of it, burning inside me.
I’ve never told anyone, even Remi. She thinks I’m fine on my own, but I want to belong, to mean the world to a pack, to spend my heat with them instead of in those impersonal heat dens. The alphas aren’t interested in me—they just want an omega to knot.
I refuse to settle for emptiness anymore.
I want what the whole world has to offer.
For once, I want to be shamelessly greedy. I want to matter. I want to be everything to someone.
I want all those things, but I hesitate.
Remi had a tough time with the pack Select-A-Mate picked for her, and I’m afraid I’ll go through the same thing.
I want what she found—her scent match—but I worry I won’t find mine or that it will be too hard.
My hope and fear fight as I think about signing up.
The thought of finally belonging to someone drives my actions as I pull out my chair and fire up my laptop. Before I can talk myself out of it, I bring up the website and start creating an account. The moment the questions pop up on my screen, my eyes widen to the size of saucers.
They want me to answer these?
There is no way I could possibly. I know Remi told me that they were invasive, but I didn’t realize they were this invasive. I figured she was just playing tricks on me. But, no, these questions are questions that I’m too embarrassed to think about, let alone voice.
Have you ever experienced a heat before?
“Well, that’s easy,” I murmur, clicking yes.
The next one has my eyes bugging out of my head.
Are you into primal play?
The question after that makes me blush so hard that my cheeks are on fire.
Have you been knotted by two alphas at the same time?
If not, then do you want to be?
“Sweet baby Jesus.” I fan my face because it’s on fire.
For the next two hours, I painstakingly go over each question. One at a time, I sign another piece of my soul away.
That’s what it feels like; signing my soul away. I know I’m not, but I can’t shake the feeling that this is pointless, and Remi just got lucky with her scent match mates. I’ve never been lucky before.
By the time I finish, it’s nearly midnight.
I heave a sigh as I sit back in my chair, relieved that’s done.
Now, I just have to wait for Select-A-Mate to match me with a pack.
Hopefully, it’s fast, and we hit it off, since my heat is due at any time.
I’d really love to avoid using one of the heat dens this time; their impersonal care makes me anxious.
Remi was not lying when she told me what she went through when filling out the questionnaire.
That was intense. I don’t know how I feel about putting all of that information out there when there’s no guarantee that I will get a match.
There's a chance my scent match mates aren’t even part of the program.
What then? I’ll get matched with a pack that isn’t mine.
Scooting away from the computer desk, I watch in silence as my laptop shuts down.
When the black screen pops up, I peer at my reflection.
A hopeful woman stares back. There are so many "what ifs" in life nowadays.
How I wish there was something tangible to grasp with both hands.
Maybe this program will give me that chance. I just need to trust that it will work.
If only I could trust that easily. I always wrestle with trust, pulled between wanting to believe and fearing letdown.
That’s why I lie or keep secrets about my life. Remi thinks I work for this man in the city who is a slave driver. I’d hate for her to know the truth. I don’t think I could take the disappointment in her eyes if she were to find out that I was really an escort to wealthy men.
I push back from the desk with a sigh. The wheels of the chair give a soft, tired groan as I stand.
My back protests after so long sitting hunched over a computer screen.
It slowly unfurls, and I stretch my back with a satisfied pop.
The stress of my life has me sighing and rubbing the back of my neck to relieve the building tension.
The house is so quiet it hurts. I stand still, letting the silence settle on me like dust. My bones ache for a life full of laughter and chaos.
I want little arms around me, lovers to hold me close.
I long for everything I’ve never had, and the only way to change that is to risk it all, so I signed up for this website.
Even though I know my scent match is out there, smelling of cinnamon candy—warm, sweet, aching with memory—it's agony to think I may never inhale that scent again. The thought crushes my chest. Longing claws at me, desperate and aching, but I’m lost on how to reclaim it.
Making my way down the hall, my socked feet whisper across the floor.
The warm air shifts as I move, cooler in some places and warmer in others.
Warmer where the walls hold the day’s leftover heat, as if the walls are trying to give me a sun-kissed hug.
When I step into the kitchen, the only light is the soft glow above the stove.
It’s a little halo in an otherwise shadowed room.
There’s enough light to see, but it still lets things remain private.
Privacy isn’t what I want. I want so much happening in my home that privacy is a thing of the past. I’ve been alone since I was eighteen, since I packed my meager belongings and left my childhood mansion.
Mansion, not house.
You see, my family is richer than rich. One of my fathers is the governor of this state.
The other owns a tech company. My third father is a stay-at-home dad.
My fourth father runs the biggest empire this town has ever seen.
My mother was one of the world's top omega supermodels. Everyone adores Michela Carmichael.
If only they knew the Michela behind closed doors.
I grew up in a world lined with marble floors and quiet expectations.
I grew up with the kind of wealth where nothing was ever truly out of reach.
Except freedom. I yearned for the freedom from the constraints that such a life imposed on me.
Every moment of every day, someone was always watching my every move.
My parents weren’t unkind; they were just strategic.
My mother had certain expectations of me, and if I didn’t meet them, she let her unhappiness be known.
And if she wasn’t happy, my fathers weren’t happy, either.
If my fathers weren’t happy, it made for a very awkward home life.
They saw my future like a business merger waiting to happen.
They wanted their omega daughter married off to a higher-ranking power.
They wanted me to seal alliances, expand their influence, and keep the family name going.
I wanted none of that. I still don’t. All I want is a future with my scent match mates.
I want them to want me and me to want them with everything inside of us.
I want them to want a family as much as I do, not because they have to, but because they want to hear the pitter-patter of little feet running through the house.
Most of my childhood, I played along. I had friends, hobbies, a life that was more than comfortable.
However, year after year, the walls of my life started feeling a little tighter.
Every birthday was a reminder of who I was supposed to become.
They never let me forget it, either. They were always making little comments about what I was going to do for the family, where I would be taking it, and how good it would be for the family.
By eighteen, I saw the path they wanted for me, and I didn’t like it.
Life was luxurious, yes, but it was also one chosen for me rather than one I chose for myself.
When I left, I found a completely different world waiting for me.
For once, it was loud, messy, and imperfect.
It was so imperfect that it was perfect.
I worked odd jobs. I learned to live with the safety net of money.
I discovered that I was stronger than my family even bothered to notice.
I was stronger than they thought. Much stronger.
And while I still stay in touch with them, I’m not as close as I once was when I was under their thumb.
I don’t allow their money to touch my life.
I work for everything that I own, and I’m so proud that I can say that.
I built a life for myself. I don’t need status or wealth. What I want, what I truly yearn for, is simple: someone who sees me, not my last name or my designation. I want someone who is made for me in every way. I want someone to want the woman I’ve worked to become.
I walk toward the counter, toward the coffee pot.
It gurgles, like it knows I’m after some of the inky liquid.
I reach for a mug, the familiar weight of it grounding me as I pour.
The sound is small but somehow loud in the quiet of the house.
It’s steady, comforting. Most people think I’m all sugar and cream when it comes to my coffee, but it’s not.
When I’m out with them, I choke down those types of drinks because that’s how I’m portrayed in front of others.
But really, here in the hush of my kitchen, I drink it black. I love it black.
Bitter, honest, and nothing to hide behind.
It’s one of those truths I keep tucked away.
One more secret I don’t let my friends see.
It may not be something that’s worth hiding, but I do.
If I hide the smallest parts of myself, then no one can get too close.
Remi is already a childhood friend of mine, so she knows the kind of family that I come from.
But she doesn’t know that everything with me is a secret.
She doesn’t know that I only allow people to see the person I want them to see.
I yearn for the day when I don’t have to hide anymore. I yearn for the time when I don’t have to be embarrassed by my life.