Chapter 6
Lucas
The sea on an early June afternoon is a living thing.
The wind is full of salt and grit, and the shouts from the volleyball court carry all the way to my lifeguarding tower, where the world divides into binary: those who know what they’re doing in the water and those who don’t.
Most of the time, that’s all that matters.
Today, from the moment I open the rescue box and lay out fresh towels, there’s something more.
A scent, faint as it drifts, but it’s there, skimming over the usual mix of tanning lotion and salt.
Sweet and wild and—honey, maybe. Not the bottled supermarket kind, but wildflower stuff. Sticky in the throat.
It’s all I can think about. Every cell strains toward it.
I look for the source. It’s nobody from the usual surf crowd. None of the swim team.
A half hour later, she walks onto the sand from the east end, at the head of the ramp, dark hair caught up in one of those buns that looks accidental, but you know it’s not.
She stands at the edge of the water, toes flexing in the foam, arms folded across her chest like she’s bracing herself for impact.
Behind her walks a man, taller than her by a head and built like an athlete. He keeps two steps behind, casual but too careful. At first, I think bodyguard, but the way he watches her says something else: he’s not being paid, he’s invested.
There’s no reason for my pulse to spike, but it does. The honey scent surges stronger as she kneels, fingers sinking into the damp sand. When the wind shifts, it’s all I can do to keep my head.
I see a dozen near-misses a week—floaties lost to the undertow, little kids tumbling in the shallows.
Even the occasional old guy with something to prove.
You learn not to overreact. But when the woman finally steps into the water, she doesn’t wade.
She walks until it lifts her, then dives headlong into the break, straight into the foam and suck of a riptide that’s been churning since yesterday’s storm.
You only do that if you either know exactly what you’re doing, or you have zero idea what’s about to hit.
I watch her slice through the first set, neat as a torpedo, but the current catches her.
Then—there, just beyond the sandbar. She hesitates, half-turns, and in that second, a rip opens up, drawing her parallel to the shore.
She fights the pull, tries to angle back, but she’s got no leverage.
The guy on the sand sees it too late. By the time he starts yelling, she’s fifty meters offshore and getting dragged further every second.
I slam my whistle and hit the sand running.
The rescue board is right where it should be.
My bare feet barely register the heat of the planks as I sprint down the ramp and into the warm shallows.
Once through them, I fling the board ahead and launch after it, belly down, arms churning.
Years of training take over. Momentary panic turns into single-minded action.
The honey-sweet compulsion is now something far more practical when mixed with adrenaline.
I must reach her. I must save her.
She’s visible in the troughs, arms a little frantic now and her hair black as ink against the froth. I cut toward her with my legs driving the board, adrenaline spiking hard enough to hurt.
“Hold on!” I shout over the wind.
She doesn’t answer, just kicks in place. Her lips are blue. The current fights me for every meter, but I’m used to it. I’ve done this drill in surf a lot meaner than this. Two more strokes and I’m close enough to throw her the line.
“Grab!” I bark.
She lunges, misses, and goes under. I follow, diving off the board.
Cold water shocks every nerve. For a split second, there’s nothing but the roar of bubbles and the honey-wild scent so thick, it’s almost taste.
Then her hand finds mine. She’s smaller up close.
Small enough that I want to hold her to my body and never let go so long as danger lingers nearby.
I’m aware that sounds insane. That we’ve only just met.
There the urge stays.
She coughs, sputtering. I haul her up to the board, rolling her belly-down and letting her cling to the rails.
“Don’t let go. I’ve got you.”
She laughs, but it’s not deep-bellied. It’s a laugh of terror. Her hair is plastered to her face, and her shoulders shake as she tries to breathe.
I kick us back toward the beach, using the rip to angle home. I glance back and see the man—her man, her handler, whoever—already knee-deep, yelling something I can’t hear. He looks ready to wade out and kill me if I drop her.
But I don’t drop her.
It takes longer than I’d like to get out of the pull and into the calmer water. When we finally hit the sandbar, she pushes herself upright and kneels on the board, shivering.
It’s only then that I notice I’m shivering, too. Because as my adrenaline starts to clear now that this woman is safe, I realize two very stark things.
This woman is an omega.
And we are scent-matches. Her sweet honey scent coils within my own, creating a sweet and salty mix like candy. Her omega pheromones slip into my bloodstream and draw calm forward until my heartbeat finally steadies alongside hers.
My omega.
She coughs up some water.
I place a hand lightly to the back of her arm, unsure of where else is appropriate to touch her, given my inner alpha wanting to direct this show. “Are you okay?”
She nods, coughing again. Up close, her eyes are wild blue, rimmed with red from the salt.
“Do you always swim in rip currents for fun, or did you just want the full Cornish experience?”
She chuckles dryly. “Had to check. The pamphlets promised adventure.”
I let the joke wash over me and continue to soak in her scent. My heartbeat skips all over the place. She tries to stand, wobbles, and I catch her elbow. Her skin is ice cold, but that scent—honey, honey, honey—is enough to make me lightheaded.
We walk up the wet slope together and then wade through the shallows to the shore. Her man is waiting with fists clenched. His eyes lock on me with an intensity that means business.
Is he her alpha? A stab of jealousy, of intense needing to know, slices through me.
“Is she okay?” he demands.
“She swallowed some water.” I keep my voice even and business-only rather than accusing him of already being bonded to the first scent-matched omega I’ve ever met.
But it’s not like she has an alpha’s mark on her—not one I can see, anyway.
“You need to get her warm and let her rest. If she gets dizzy or has dry drowning symptoms, take her to the clinic. And don’t let her swim rips next time. ”
The guy’s nostrils flare. His alpha scent washes over me, too: flint. Not quite a match, but there’s something drawing us together regardless. Her. “Noted.”
The woman shrugs me off gently and hugs her own arms. “I’m fine,” she says. “It was a miscalculation, that’s all. Sorry for the trouble. I’m Helena, by the way.”
Helena. It’s probably the most gorgeous name I’ve ever heard.
She looks me in the eyes when she says it. There’s a flash of something there, a question. Or a dare. I don’t know if she recognizes the scent-match, but she doesn’t recoil from it, either. If anything, she leans in just enough that it’s definitely intentional.
“Lucas,” I say, trying not to sound like I’m introducing myself to a date instead of a rescuee. “Harkin.”
Helena smiles up at me. “Thank you for the save.”
“Happy to help.”
The alpha at her side bristles. “I’ll get her out of the sun. Thank you.”
I want to protest. To say she should go to the hospital. And there’s definitely a school of thought or protocol saying she should. But this man ushers her off the beach before I can say another word. He moves with the confidence of someone trained.
It gives me assurance that if Helena needs help, he’ll get her whatever she needs.
I stand on the sand, dripping and cold, as they walk up the ramp.
Helena glances over her shoulder once before the sun’s glare swallows her.
Her honey scent lingers long after she’s gone.
It clings to me all afternoon, through the rest of my shift, through the stares from my fellow guards and the sour lecture from my supervisor about protocol and liability.
I spend the next hour on the lookout tower, scanning the horizon for another flash of dark hair. But she doesn’t come back.
At closing time, I shake the towels and sweep the walkway and think, Maybe that’s it. Maybe you get one scent-match in a lifetime, and mine just walked out of the surf and back into the arms of someone who is not me.
But I can still taste honey on the wind, and it won’t let me forget.
Most days, when my shift ends, I try to rinse the ocean off in the public showers behind the gym and keep my head clear on the walk home. But today, the beach clings to me with sand in my shoes and salt crusted in my hair. Then there’s the deep honey scent that lingers even still.
The gulls scream overhead and the wind’s picking up, whipping the canvas awnings along Main, but I barely notice. My feet steer me through the back alleys without thinking. I need something warm to fill the space Helena left behind.
The pasty shop is still open, even though it’s after seven.
The windows glow against the twilight and the neon “Cornwall’s Best” sign buzzes comfort into the street.
Inside, the air is heavy with yeasted dough, browned butter, and cinnamon sugar.
Surely, a scent that could anchor a ship in a hurricane.
Helena is the hurricane. Within a few minutes, it’s like everything’s changed from her presence.
My best friend, Cole, is at the counter rolling out dough for the morning batch. Flour dusts his cheeks. His short, sand-colored hair is held back by a red bandana that matches his red shirt touting a “Make Pasties, Not War” message.
He doesn’t look up until I’m inside. “You’re late. I was about to close up and start drinking without you.”
“You’d never.” I lean against the counter, letting the bakery warmth leach into my arms. There’s a strip of leftover pie crust. I smile and pop it in my mouth.
Cole’s brown eyes flick up. He knows me better than most, and it takes him maybe two seconds to sense the tightness in my shoulders.
“Bad shift?” He shakes his hands free of flour. “Or did you get yelled at again for not wearing your hat?”
“Yes, and worse.” I take a breath. “I pulled a swimmer out today. Rip current at the east end.”
Cole’s face stays open and soft, but he pauses. “Kid or adult?”
“Adult.” I hesitate, then add, “An omega woman, actually. Never seen her before. She was…”
I trail off because what am I supposed to say? That I nearly blacked out from the force of her scent? That my head is still buzzing, like I’m stuck in the undertow and can’t touch bottom?
“‘Hot’?” Cole prompts, teasing. “Also doing fine now, I imagine?”
“Incredible,” I admit, and it hurts a little to put the word to what I’m feeling.
Cole hums. “And you gave her mouth-to-mouth and she fell madly in love, right? She’s waiting outside with a boombox?”
I laugh, mostly at myself. “Didn’t need mouth-to-mouth. She was fine. Walked off with her boyfriend. Or alpha. Not sure.”
“‘Alpha’?” Cole echoes.
I shrug. “I don’t know for sure. Tall and scary, though. Fits the alpha bill. I didn’t get a good read, but I think he’d break my legs if I got too close.”
Cole shakes his head, rolling the dough again. “Let me guess: she thanked you, said she was fine, and left, right?”
I nod, trying not to look too pathetic. “Pretty much. I guess what matters most is she walked away at all.”
Cole tears off a strip of cinnamon roll for himself and leans over, chin on fist. “You get her name?”
“Helena,” I say.
Cole whistles. “That’s a noble name, isn’t it? Sounds like old money.”
“Probably,” I admit. “She had that vibe. Like she’s never had to butter her own toast.”
Cole grins. “And you’re hooked.” It’s not a question.
I glance away, too embarrassed to deny it. “I keep thinking I’ll run into her again, but she’s probably just visiting. Only tourists misread the water here and go out far enough to get caught in a riptide.”
“Maybe she’ll want a tour guide. Or another near-death experience,” Cole offers, smiling like a golden retriever with a new toy. “Just make sure you don’t get between her and her alpha again. Unless you want to get pummeled.”
Something in my chest coils tight. “That’s just the thing, Cole. I’m her alpha.”
His brows furrow deep. “You just said—”
I raise a hand. “I know. But she’s a scent-match. So if that’s her alpha, and I’m also scent-matched with her…”
I trail off. There’s too much hope and a whole lot of complication in the sentences I’m forming.
Cole’s lips press tight. “You only just met her.”
“And scent-matches are rare,” I argue. “There’s no way she didn’t also scent it.”
Cole crosses his arms and regards me for a long moment. “If those things are fated, then fate will bring you two back together. That, I believe. Until then, try not to go stalking her through town, okay? I can’t afford your bail money.”
I laugh and clap him on the shoulder. “Good man, great advice.” I steal some leftover cookies from today off the nearby counter. “Even better baked goods.”
“Stop with those.” Cole clicks his tongue and heads over to the pasty case to package up two for me. “Take this and get out of here. Some of us have actual work to do.”
I thank my best friend profusely and head out the door. But it’s a long night where I dream of drowning omegas—
And me drowning in Helena’s honey scent.