Chapter 4
Four
JULIAN
Ipace the length of our penthouse living room, scotch sloshing in the crystal tumbler, my shoes leaving damp prints on the dark hardwood.
Rain hammers the floor-to-ceiling windows, turning the city of New York into a blur of wet light and shadow.
My shirt’s still sticking to my back from the walk home, but I don’t give a fuck.
“She’s an omega,” I accuse. “She’s hiding. And you want to bulldoze her shop and leave her penniless?”
Ezra stands at the window, his back to me, shoulders rigid under his black cashmere. The glass reflects his face—pale gray eyes, the scar through his eyebrow, that cold fucking composure that makes me want to throw something.
“We’ll give her money if she comes around,” he says, his voice flat and secretly afraid of change.
Cole leans against the bookcase, arms crossed. He hasn’t spoken in twenty minutes. His slate-blue eyes track me like I’m a target he’s not sure he wants to hit.
“The scarring,” Cole says suddenly. Quiet. “On her arms. You all saw it.”
The room goes still.
Ezra turns. Slowly. His jaw tightens.
“What scarring?”
“Old marks,” Cole says. “On her forearm. She tried to hide them, but the sleeves rode up when she reached for the folder.” He pauses. “There was another mark. On her collarbone. Teeth.”
The word hangs in the air between us. Teeth. Anger fills me at the thought of someone deliberately hurting her. On purpose.
Ezra’s expression doesn’t change, but something shifts behind his eyes. A calculation. A recalibration.
“We’ll pause the acquisition,” he says. “Formally. Cole, I want you on this. Full background. Who she is, where she came from, who did this to her. Everything.”
Cole nods once. Doesn’t need to be told twice.
I drain my scotch. The burn feels good. Necessary. “There’s something different about her.”
Ezra raises an eyebrow. “Like what?”
“Like fated mates,” I explain before I can stop myself. “She could be our omega.”
The silence that follows is absolute. Then Ezra laughs.
“Not happening.” He wipes his eyes. “Not with that stubborn attitude of hers. We can’t even agree on a simple deal. Can you imagine trying to take her out on a date?”
Something snaps in my chest. Hot. Bright.
“Shut the fuck up.” My voice drops. Low. Dangerous. “You’re just acting like this because you know she affects you too.”
I set the empty glass on the coffee table hard enough to crack the crystal. Turn. Walk out.
The elevator takes forever.
My reflection in the brass doors is wild-eyed, jaw clenched, my lemon scent spiking so sharp I can taste it. When the doors open to the lobby, I push through the revolving door into the rain.
It’s pouring. Cold spring rain that soaks through my shirt in seconds, plastering my hair to my forehead. I don’t care. I cross the street, boots splashing through puddles, and keep walking until I’m standing in front of Marsh Florals.
The shop is dark. The sage-green door with its brass bell. Ivy climbing the brick. Whiskey barrels full of wet plants catching raindrops outside.
I press my face to the window, cupping my hands around my eyes. The interior is shadowy, cool. I can make out the mahogany counter, the glass-fronted cooler, the lightbulb hanging dark over the workbench. And there, behind the curtain, is a narrow staircase leading up.
I know this is wrong. I know it with every cell in my body. But my hand is already on the doorknob, turning.
It’s unlocked.
The bell rings. A single note that cuts through the rain and echoes in the empty shop. I freeze, heart hammering, waiting for footsteps, for a light, for her voice.
Nothing.
I step inside. Close the door softly behind me.
The air is cool and green. Wet stems, damp soil, eucalyptus. Underneath it, faint but unmistakable, the scent of roses. Her scent. It hits me like a physical thing, warm, sweet, and fucking intoxicating, making cock stir in my pants before I can stop it.
I move through the front room slowly.
My shoes are quiet on the wide-plank floors. The mahogany counter gleams dully in the streetlight filtering through the windows.
The brass cash register sits on the counter like a museum piece. The cubbies behind the counter are neat. There are ribbons sorted by color, twine, kraft paper, wax seals. A wall of apothecary jars holding dried flowers. Everything in its place.
I push through the curtain into the back room. The zinc-topped worktable dominates the space, scarred and beautiful under the skylight. Stems everywhere. Snips. Twine. A record player on a shelf. A tattered velvet armchair in the corner that looks like it’s held a thousand tears.
The stairs are narrow. Wooden. They creak under my weight, each step an announcement. I climb slowly, one hand on the rail, and push open the door at the top.
Her apartment is tiny. Minimal. A plum velvet sofa with a knitted throw. A small kitchen with chipped blue mugs in the sink.
String lights overhead. And flowers—fucking everywhere. Bud vases on every surface. Dried flowers in a mason jar on the windowsill. A single pink flower in a thin glass vase on the coffee table, barely open, pale pink against the gray.
This is where she lives. Four hundred square feet above the shop she built with her hands. The shop we tried to take.
I find her bedroom door ajar. I slowly push it open.
And there she is.
Liana Marsh, splayed on her belly across a rumpled bed, one arm tucked under the pillow, her face turned toward the window. Dark auburn hair fanned across the sheets. Legs spread slightly, pajama pants riding low on her hips. She looks so cute and unaware.
Her scent is thick here. Rose and sweetness and something deeper, muskier, the unmistakable signature of an omega in her own space. Unfiltered. Unhidden.
I take a long, deep breath through my nose and my knees buckle.
I hit the floor beside the bed. Hard.
My palms flat on the carpet, head bowed, breathing her in like a man drowning. Rose. Honey. Warm skin. The scent fills my lungs, my blood, my brain, and my cock is fully hard now, pressing against my zipper with urgency.
That’s when I see it.
A dark patch on her pajama pants, right between her thighs. Wet. Soaked through. The fabric clinging to the curve of her ass, transparent enough that I can see the shadow of her pussy beneath.
My mouth goes dry.
I shouldn’t. I know I shouldn’t. But I need to make sure she’s really an omega.
I lean down slowly, bringing my face close to the junction of her thighs. Not touching. Just close enough to smell.
Her pussy. Holy fuck.
The scent is rich, musky, sweet-salty arousal mixed with the distinct, intoxicating note of omega slick. It’s fucking primal. Animal. My alpha brain short-circuits, blood roaring in my ears, cock throbbing so hard I have to bite my lip to keep from groaning out loud.
She’s an omega. No question. And she’s alone. Why the fuck is she alone?
I press my nose one more time between her legs, inhaling deeply, memorizing the scent. Then I force myself back. And I slowly stand up on shaking legs.
My gaze roams briefly around her room, stopping on a pair of underwear.
It’s hanging off the side of the wicker hamper by the door. It’s crumpled, the crotch dark with dried slick. Used.
Licking my lips, I make my way to the hamper and quickly snatch them up. Feeling like a total creep, I stuff them into the pocket of my jeans and calmly walk out of her room like I didn’t just smell her pussy and steal her underwear.
Once I’m back in my room, I quickly lock the door, leaning against it, breathing hard.
My cock is already rock-fucking-hard, thick and veined, straining against my zipper with every heartbeat. The stolen underwear burns in my pocket like a live wire.
I pull them out. Hold them up in the low light of my bedside lamp.
Cotton. Simple. Pale pink. The crotch is stained dark with dried slick, the fabric stiff in places, soft in others. Her scent hits me before I even bring them to my face. I want to keep her scent forever with me.
Ever so slowly, I press the damp crotch to my nose and inhale.
Deep. Long.
Letting her scent flood my lungs like a drug, like oxygen, like something I’ve been starving for my entire life. My eyes roll back. A low growl rumbles from my chest, involuntary, primal. My cock throbs, pre-cum beading at the tip, soaking through my boxers.
Oh my fucking god. All I want is her right now. I want to knot her so badly.
An image of her fully naked pops into my mind.
Her wide green eyes, with gold flecks catching the light.
Auburn hair spilled across my sheets, long and wavy.
Those medium breasts, narrow waist, soft hips.
That big, beautiful ass I saw splayed across her bed, pajama pants clinging to the curves.
The silvery, jagged bite mark on her left collarbone—failed claiming, that never healed- and the scattered scarring on her inner forearms.
My alpha brain snarls at the thought.
Possession burns through me, white-hot and vicious. I want to pin her down. Spread her thighs. I want to bite her properly—my teeth in her neck, my knot swelling inside her, locking us together while she comes on my cock. Claim what’s mine.
I unbuckle my belt and quickly shove my jeans and boxers down to my thighs. My cock springs free, thick and angry, veined and leaking. Nine inches of hard alpha dick that wants nothing more than to be buried in her tight little omega pussy.
I wrap her underwear around my shaft.
The soft cotton glides over my skin, catching on the precum, the friction slick and perfect. I stroke. Slow at first, then rougher. Base to tip, my fist gripping the fabric-covered length of my cock, her scent surrounding me, drowning me.
“Fuck,” I groan, low and rough. My hips buck into my hand. The underwear is soaked now from my pre-cum mixing with the residue of her slick.
I need more.
I pull the underwear from my cock and shove the entire fucking thing into my mouth. Stuff them deep, the cotton filling my cheeks, pressing against my tongue. I bite down hard. Suck. Greedy, desperate, and fucking feral. She brings that out in me.
The taste of her slick explodes on my tongue as if I’m eating her out in real life. Her beautiful rose scent mixed with sweat makes my cock harden even more. If she saw me now with her used underwear in my mouth…
My hand finds my cock again, and I pump, hard and fast, fist flying along my shaft in brutal strokes that make my thighs shake.
I imagine her tight body under mine, her pussy dripping slick, taking my cock because she’s been so naughty. Those defiant pale green eyes rolling back, her mouth open, crying out as I pound into her.
My hand on her throat. My teeth on her neck. My knot swelling, locking us together while she comes around me, milking every drop from my balls.
The fantasy is so vivid I can feel her—the heat of her, the wet grip of her cunt, the way her ass would jiggle with each thrust. My hips buck wildly, fucking into my fist like it’s her body, veins bulging in my neck, sweat beading on my chest.
The taste of her makes me insane. I moan around her panties, the sound muffled and animalistic, my free hand gripping the headboard so hard the wood creaks.
My balls tighten, drawing up, the orgasm building at the base of my spine like a storm.
My orgasm rips through my body, consuming, unstoppable.
A roar tears from my throat, stifled by her underwear stuffed in my mouth. Thick ropes of cum spurt across my abs, my chest, hot and white and endless, painting my skin while my cock pulses in my fist.
I keep grinding the soaked panties between my teeth, sucking hard, riding the waves until my muscles give out and I collapse back onto the mattress, boneless and shaking.
Her scent is everywhere. In my mouth. On my skin. In the air of my bedroom, and the knowledge that she’s alone in that tiny apartment above her shop, sleeping with her legs spread and her pussy wet makes me want her more than I’ve wanted anything in my life.
I pull the underwear from my mouth.
They’re soaked through with saliva, her slick, my cum. I hold them against my chest, breathing hard, staring at the ceiling. I’ve never had such a visceral, primal reaction to anyone like this before.
And I need to find out everything about her.