Chapter Two
TWO WEEKS AGO:
I line up with the other omegas in the clearing in the woods and twist my hands together.
Community elders are still flitting about, setting up for the mating ceremony. An omega elder wearing latex gloves lines up pieces of clothing scented by the alphas on a table in front of us.
Across the clearing, a row of alphas await items drenched with omega scent. An article of clothing from each ceremony participant is lined up perfunctorily. Destiny, just one inhale away.
The plain t-shirt I wore to bed last night is among them. This morning I rubbed it on my scent glands and between my legs to infuse it with my pheromones.
The anxious pacing on both sides of the clearing reminds me of the starting gate at a horse race. Testosterone-filled thoroughbreds raring to go, waiting for the horn to signal the gates breaking open.
My gut twists with tension as the omega elder nears the end of our table.
I don’t want to be mated. The only alpha I’ve ever been interested in exclusively dates betas.
My mind flits back to my conversation with Connor yesterday. We were doing our usual routine of eating lunch in his car in the school parking lot—a guilty pleasure he allowed me on non-red sauce days.
I loved to crank the plush leather of his passenger seat back, prop my feet on the dash, and soak in the warmth of the sun through the windshield. Connor hated it, but not enough to ask me to stop.
It was my preferred way to avoid the cafeteria, where the smell of milky mop water and old laminate always put me off my food.
“You excited for the ceremony? Dad won’t get off my back about it,” Connor had said.
“I don’t know. What if something goes wrong?”
“Like getting matched with you-should-smile-more Derek from health?”
“Yes.”
“That’s not going to happen. You won’t match with someone you’re incompatible with. And I’ll be right there with you if you need to make a great escape.”
“You promise?”
“Of course, Lana. Where else would I be?”
“What about Cassandra? You didn’t cut her off after a month like all the others.”
He’d shrugged. “Just a fling. She knows I only do casual with betas.”
A slice of headlights as a car pulls up to the clearing draws my attention, but my heart falls when I see it isn’t Connor’s SUV. Where the hell is he? The ceremony is due to start any minute.
I pull out my phone and send him a quick text.
Where are you? It’s starting.
You promised.
Do the elders confiscate everyone’s electronics before the ceremony? I hope so. All I need to finish out my senior year of high school is a clip of me huffing some alpha’s jizz boxers circulating the school or going viral.
I try and remind myself that the ceremony is precautionary, more than anything. The odds that my mate’s scent is on that table are low, but it’s a necessary ritual. It helps prevent issues like bond sickness and encourages a healthy mated population.
Once a year, all unbonded of age from Crestwood are expected to attend the mating ceremony.
It is all but verboten not to. Because if your bondmate was someone you’d met, grown up with, spent time around—things accelerated quickly.
The bond’s foundations were already there.
It was better to introduce those kinds of bonds in a controlled environment.
Having only turned eighteen a few months ago, this was my first ceremony.
The woman who’d been laying out the alphas’ scent samples approaches the omegas. She has a kind face and a long grey braid. She’s an omega herself, though long bonded, based on her muted scent.
Shit. Was that everyone already?
“It’s time. Do you have any remaining questions before we begin?”
She’s met with silence.
I chew on my lip, then blurt out, “Is everyone here?”
“What do you mean, dear?”
“Are we expecting anyone else?” My eyes dart across the clearing, hoping to see Connor’s tall shadow among the pack of alphas. He’s still somewhat lanky, hasn’t quite filled out to his full alpha size yet, but I’d recognize him anywhere.
The woman gives me a sad smile. “Are you expecting someone? As you know, attendance, though strongly encouraged, is no longer mandatory… We cannot wait forever.”
I jerk my head in a nod. “Right. Of course. Sorry.”
“You’re perfectly alright. Now, who’d like to go first?”
I pace as one after another, unmated omegas approach the table and work their way down the line of fabric. Some are eager, while others sniff gingerly. One girl speeds through the articles of clothing, then sprints to the side of the recovery tent to puke.
I keep a hand over the pocket of my jeans, waiting for the vibration of a text that never comes.
Once you sign up for the ceremony, there is no pulling out. If your scents are a match, it triggers a rapid-onset heat and rut in you and your partner. The years omegas and alphas reach sexual maturity are a vulnerable, volatile time, and the mating ceremony is designed to protect us.
The line in front of me dwindles. One omega, a girl with short-cropped blond hair and frayed jean shorts, moans and falls to her knees.
She clutches a piece of black cotton to her chest. A growl that makes my gut clench comes from the alpha table.
Then the pair is ushered away, the alpha held back from rushing across the clearing by two brawny men.
I can smell the fruity, cloying rush of slick the girl produced as soon as she recognized her mate.
The omega elder helps the blonde up from her knees and leads her toward a tent. The pair will be given a cabin on the ceremony grounds, already stocked with water, food, and blankets for nesting, and stay there until they ride out the mating frenzy.
I don’t want to lose myself like that in front of everyone. Connor is the only one I allow myself to be vulnerable around, and that’s only thanks to years of persistence on his part.
My ears ring with the hum of stridulating crickets. Someone’s calling my name.
“Alanna, dear. It’s time.”
I glance around. I’m the last omega in line. The only one who hasn’t gone. There’s only been one match, but that isn’t unusual for a small population like ours. A few of the omegas look nauseous from the scenting, and one boy’s rubbing his temples like he has a headache.
“Right.”
I approach the table on leaden feet. The first item is a pair of boxers thin from wear. The thick crusting of the alpha’s cum on the fabric leaves little to the imagination.
Subtle, that one. I don’t need to get any closer. I can smell the stench of sour laundry from here.
The next scent is on a plain, extra-large white t-shirt. A rule follower . Respectful, but boring. The scent is citrusy and floral. Pleasant enough, but it doesn’t do anything special for me. If my mate’s scent is on this table, it will be unmistakable.
The next three scents range from dirty dishwater to an overpowering cologne that makes my nose itch with a trapped sneeze.
My eyes dart to the end of the table, and I grow roots.
I know that shirt.
It’s Connor’s favorite.
The items we submit are supposed to be anonymous, and his is, to an extent. There are no labels or graphics. But I recognize the faded olive green, the slight fraying around the collar. The smudge of ink near the hem.
Fuck.
I lift my head, half-hoping for Connor’s gaze to meet mine across the clearing.
But there’s no one there. The alphas are already ambling toward the parking lot, their voices light and joking as they rib one another. The male elder is tossing the remaining omega scent samples into a garbage bag with a gloved hand.
Is my shirt still there? There are too many plain white tees to tell.
Where is he? He hasn’t already come and gone. I’ve been watching. Waiting.
My eyes fall to his shirt again. I should turn away now, proclaim that I can smell the stink of it from where I am. I can walk away free and clear and continue life with Connor as we have been—as friends, never more.
My best friend.
The omega elder clears her throat. She’s probably eager to be done.
The temperature’s dropping, the hour growing late.
She probably has a loving alpha waiting at home for her, wondering where she is.
Maybe the male elder is hers, and they’ll discuss the match on their ride home, reminiscing about their own.
I want to throw up.
There are still a few shirts before Connor’s. Their scents are blurry, indistinct. Utterly unremarkable. My gaze keeps drifting back to his, some primal part of my brain standing at attention.
There’s something different about it. I want to keep my distance, even as a force outside my control urges me on.
A strong wind blows, and several omegas gag as the alpha scents blur together in the air. But there is something tantalizing on the wind. Something delicious, beckoning me forward.
My next step is my doom.
The rational part of my brain screams at me to back away, to leave while I still can. Connor has a beta girlfriend. Connor isn’t here , despite promising me he would be.
But my omega is uncurling from her deep sleep in my subconscious and pushing me aside with ease. She’s atavism personified. The faded t-shirt arrests every ounce of her attention.
Alpha .
I cross the distance and pick up Connor’s shirt, then rub the cotton between my fingers. It’s soft from repeated washings. The kind of soft you can’t buy in a store. It’s perfect.
I take a deep breath, and calm washes over me.
Familiar. Warm. Connor.
But richer, spicier, and stronger than I’ve ever smelled him before. I bury my face in the fabric and huff.
It had the same irresistible quality as the scent of fresh Sharpies, rubber cement, and gasoline: hazardous, heady, and impossible to ignore.
A picture of Connor shirtless and reclined in bed, working his cock so he could come on his shirt— my shirt, now —floods my mind. Slick drips into my panties.
I rub the cloth against the swelling mating gland on my neck and groan. The gland is sensitive, almost painfully so.