35. Elena
Chapter thirty-five
Elena
I stare at my reflection in the Harborview's decidedly upscale bathroom mirror. The woman looking back is a stranger: pale, tense, her eyes wide with a mixture of apprehension.
"You can do this," I whisper to myself. "Just act normal. Deny everything. They can't prove anything."
My pep talk isn't very convincing. But at least, my pre-heat symptoms seem to be under control. Sorta. For now.
When I return to the secluded, private booth they’ve reserved in the corner of the gastropub, all three of them stand as if choreographed.
The gesture, meant to be courteous, I’m sure, feels suffocating, almost predatory.
Like three handsome, well-meaning wolves politely holding open the door to the sheep pen.
“Your sparkling water,” Dorian says, his voice smooth as silk as he slides a crystal glass toward me. James and Cole are nursing beers, while Dorian sips something amber and expensive-looking. I’d refused alcohol, needing every ounce of my wits about me for this… confrontation.
“So,” I begin, my voice surprisingly steady as I cut through their attempts at polite, pre-ambush small talk. "Let's just get to it, shall we? You think I'm an omega. A late-blooming one, if Cole’s intel was correct."
The three of them exchange a quick, loaded glance.
"Yes," Cole finally says, his voice calm, steady. "Based on your scent."
"Which has changed significantly in the last few days," Dorian adds, his gaze intense, unwavering.
"Intensified," James clarifies, leaning forward slightly, his usual playful smirk noticeably absent. "And it’s… well, it’s very specific."
They’re being careful, measured, trying to be gentle, I guess. But beneath their restraint, I can feel a simmering alpha energy. A potent mixture of protectiveness and possessiveness, of curiosity and… hunger, making my composure feel paper-thin.
"And you also believe," I add, keeping my tone deliberately skeptical, "that you’re all my… what was it again? Scent matches?" I inject just the right amount of incredulity into the words and raise an eyebrow for good measure.
"We all smell the same dominant notes in your scent, Elena," Dorian explains. "Ripe peaches and honeyed figs. That kind of… shared olfactory recognition… it only happens with deep biological compatibility."
As he speaks, something terrifying starts to happen.
Their individual scents begin to sharpen and bloom in the air around me.
Cedar and musk from Cole. Bergamot and saffron from James.
Sandalwood and cinnamon from Dorian. My god…
it’s mouthwatering. Worse, they’re not just lingering, they’re merging.
Twisting together into a heady, unmistakable alpha musk that makes my body hum with a low, insistent thrum of want.
It’s like every instinct I’ve ever tried to suppress is suddenly wide awake.
Oh, God.
I take a large, desperate gulp of sparkling water, the bubbles doing absolutely nothing to clear the sudden, overwhelming fog in my head. This is bad. This is very, very bad.
"If you are an omega, Elena," Dorian continues, his voice dropping, becoming softer, more persuasive, as he leans forward, "and if you are, as we suspect, just beginning to present, then you could experience your first heat very soon.
Possibly," he pauses, letting the implication sink in, "during the final tomorrow. "
"Which would be…" James begins, then searches for a suitably diplomatic word, his blue eyes flicking between me and the others with a nervousness that’s almost… cute. If I weren’t currently hyperventilating internally.
"Challenging," Cole supplies, his expression carefully neutral, but with an underlying note of deep concern.
"We're concerned for your wellbeing, Elena," Dorian says, his silver-gray eyes intense, unwavering, pinning me to my seat. "Both personally and professionally."
I cross my arms, a purely defensive gesture, trying to create a physical barrier between myself and their overwhelming presence, their intoxicating scents. "How very… considerate of you all." The sarcasm is thick, a desperate attempt to mask the rising panic.
"Elena," Dorian’s voice softens, that smooth tone of his sliding under my defenses like warm honey, "this isn't just about us, or what we believe might be happening. This is about ensuring you're able to compete at your best tomorrow. We want to help you."
"Help me?" I repeat, trying to summon my anger, so I can claw back a shred of control. "Help me how, exactly? By offering me a prestigious job at your new patisserie in Chicago, Dorian, conveniently keeping me under your watchful eye?"
James and Cole both look at Dorian in surprise, their eyebrows shooting up in unison. Dorian’s brow furrows, a flicker of… something… crossing his usually composed features. "That’s not—"
"Or perhaps by giving me unsolicited, ultimately unhelpful advice that almost cost me my win in the ‘Taste It, Now Make It’ challenge?" I turn to James, my voice now sharp.
He has the decency to look chagrined, a faint flush rising on his cheeks. "I genuinely thought that would help, Elena. Your scent… it was making me a little…" He trails off, looking flustered.
"Or maybe," I continue, relentlessly, turning my attention to Cole now, "by showing up at my station during the workshop, distracting me until I could barely pipe a straight line?"
"I was trying to warn you," he says quietly, his usual calm wavering slightly, a hint of hurt in his hazel eyes.
"You were all trying to manage me," I counter, my voice rising, fueled by a potent cocktail of fear and fury. "And you're still doing it now. The three of you, huddled together, discussing me, my body, my future, like you’re forming some kind of… pack."
Their scents shift subtly in the small, enclosed space, growing stronger, more potent.
My omega instincts, now screamingly awake, recognize it for what it is, a response to my distress.
But all I see, all I feel , is three powerful alphas closing ranks, their combined presence and scents becoming almost… overwhelming.
"What we're trying to do, Elena," Dorian says, his voice laced with a forced patience that only fans the flames of my anger, "is provide you with the information you need so you can make your own, informed decisions."
"Decisions like what?" I practically spit the words out. "Pumping myself full of meds or whatever, so long as I play nice?" They have no idea I normally have that covered all on my own…
"That's not what we want at all!" Cole begins.
"Isn't it?" I lean forward. "Because from where I'm sitting, the three of you have been pushing me in directions that suit your agenda, your desires, since this whole insane conversation began. Since this festival began, if I’m being honest."
James shifts uncomfortably in his seat, his gaze dropping. "Elena—"
"No," I cut him off. "I have dreams of my own, dreams that have nothing to do with any of you. I want my own bakery, with my own recipes, right here in this ‘small town’ that you seem to look down on, Dorian."
His jaw tightens, a muscle flexing in his cheek. "I never said—"
"You didn't have to." I feel reckless now, consumed by a desperate rage. "And you know what? You all seem to be actively working against my dreams right now. I told you, I needed to get in the right headspace for tomorrow. This competition, this win, it’s important to me . I’ve heard what you had to say, and my answer is no.
I refuse. I'm going back to my life. The one where I’m free to pursue whatever I want, without getting sabotaged by well-meaning alphas.
" I look directly at James as I say the last word, and he flinches, his gaze falling away.
The tension in the booth crystallizes, becoming sharp, almost dangerous.
Their scents intensify again, swirling around me, a confusing, intoxicating, infuriating blend of alpha pheromones that my body, my treacherous omega body, is soaking up like a sponge.
I can practically taste their frustration, their concern, their… want .
"You're not thinking clearly, Elena," Dorian says. "If you'd just consider—"
"Why do you even care so much?" I interrupt, the question bursting out of me. "What is it to any of you if I have a ‘biological challenge’ tomorrow?"
Dorian opens his mouth, then closes it, a strange, almost tormented look crossing his face.
He takes a breath. "Because, Elena… because I think…
I might be falli—" He stops abruptly, his eyes widening almost imperceptibly, as if he’s shocked by his own near-confession.
He clears his throat, his composure slipping for a fraction of a second before he regains control.
The air crackles. I freeze, his unfinished word hanging between us, heavy and loaded. Falling? Falling in what? Love? The idea is so ludicrous, so terrifying, yet so… tempting … that my mind goes completely blank.
The silence stretches, thick and suffocating. I should say something. Move. Reassert control. But I don’t. I stay still, too still, my body betraying me with the smallest tilt toward him and his almost-confession. Like some primal part of me is treacherously giving in, little by—
A low growl slices through my trance.
My head whips around. Dorian and Cole are staring at James, their eyes wide with disbelief. James himself looks utterly mortified, his face flaming red, his hand clapped over his mouth as if he could somehow shove the sound back in.
"Sorry," James mutters, his voice muffled by his hand, his eyes darting frantically between the three of us. "So sorry. I… I didn't mean to—"
"See?" I hiss. "That’s what this is all about, isn’t it? That’s what it always comes down to with your kind.
" My gaze sweeps over all three of them, accusing.
"You don't respect me. You don’t see me .
In fact," the words erupt from me, "I don't think any of you even like me as a person. I'm just… I’m just a piece of meat to you, aren’t I?
A biological imperative. An 'omega' to be claimed, to be… owned ."
James looks utterly mortified, his eyes pleading. "Elena, no, it’s just… your scent… your anger… it’s making it so much stronger, so… delicious…" he stammers, his words a jumbled apology as his hand instinctively reaches out, briefly touching my arm.
"Take your hand off me." My voice is deadly quiet as I stare at James, my gaze unwavering. "Now."
He jerks his hand back as if burned, his face flushed with shame.
I slide out of the booth, snatching up my purse.
"Elena, please," Dorian says, standing, his height suddenly overwhelming in the confined space.
"I've managed just fine without any alpha my entire life," I say, my voice cold. "I certainly don’t need three of them now. And I definitely don't need your 'help'."
I turn on my heel and stride toward the exit, half-expecting them to follow, to try and stop me. They don’t. But I can feel their eyes on my back, heavy and intense, until I’m finally out the door.
My hands are shaking as I begin to walk, needing the crisp air to clear my head. To try and scrub their intoxicating, infuriating scents from my skin, from my senses.
This. This is why I’ve hidden my true designation for years.
Because no matter how charming they are, no matter how considerate they seem, no matter how good they make me feel…
in the end, it always comes down to this.
Possession. Control. Management. Their alpha nature, my omega biology.
A way for the world to define me, to limit me, to reduce me to something less than who I choose to be.
I won’t let them, I vow, my steps quickening, carrying me further and further away from the Harborview. I won’t let anyone define me but myself.
Tomorrow, I will win that competition. I will secure my promotion. I will take one more giant leap toward getting my own successful bakery.
And I will do it all on my own.