2. Chapter Two
Orientation is scheduled alphabetically, which means Sophie and I end up assigned to different sessions. We compare times while we’re getting ready and agree to meet afterward. The thought of seeing her after orientation makes the morning feel less enormous.
We’ve eased into a familiar rhythm already. Sophie is more openly affectionate than anyone I’ve ever been friends with, quick with smiles and small touches, but then again, I’ve never actually had another omega as a friend before. I’m still adjusting to how natural it feels.
Last night we unpacked together, which I’d secretly hoped we would.
I like arranging things until they feel intentional instead of temporary, and Sophie seemed happy to talk while we worked, handing me books when I needed them and holding up clothes so I could decide where they should go.
At one point we discovered we share a favorite musician, which somehow felt like finding out we spoke the same language, so we played his songs while we finished unpacking.
She didn’t seem bothered by the rest of my specimens either, which I appreciated more than I said out loud.
I tried to return the effort when she started explaining, very earnestly, why university is supposed to be the ideal place for omegas to meet their future packs.
I really did listen at first. But somewhere between her second and third example of successful lifelong bonds, my attention drifted without permission, my thoughts wandering off to classify beetle families instead.
Pack life might be practical. It might even be natural.
It still isn’t something I want.
Noodle slept curled beneath my desk all night, drowsy and content, tucked into herself against the rug. When Sophie and I were getting ready this morning, though, she must have slipped out through the window without either of us noticing.
I hope she comes back.
By the time I step outside, the morning air has shifted into something charged. Students move in messy streams toward the main academic buildings, clutching schedules and coffee cups, scanning signs taped to lampposts and doorframes.
The flow reminds me faintly of a late summer butterfly migration, purposeful and loosely patterned, each individual following instinct while still moving as part of something larger.
The hall assigned to my session is larger than I expected, the ceilings high and causing an echo with the layered hum of conversation. It should feel spacious, but the cacophony of sound just makes it feel concentrated.
Designations mix without pattern. Alphas, betas, omegas. Everyone adjusting their posture slightly, recalibrating to the proximity of strangers.
I hover near the edge for a moment before moving deeper into the room.
Alphas brush past me as they navigate the crowd, broad shoulders angling deftly so they don’t collide outright. Even so, I feel the near misses like static against my skin. A few glances linger longer than necessary, curious in a way that sharpens my awareness.
My stomach tightens.
Do they actually see me? Or do they just see an omega?
I’ve never had to think about what that might feel like on this scale, this many alphas in one space.
Objectively, most of them are attractive. Tall and strong, confident in an instinctual way that seems almost unconscious.
I have never once looked at an alpha and felt something settle into certainty.
The idea of pack life has always felt abstract at best and suffocating at worst. I don’t want to be gathered in. I don’t want to be evaluated and chosen before I’ve figured anything out for myself.
I want to move quietly. To study. To exist without becoming a focal point.
I keep my limbs close to my body as I weave through the rows of folding chairs, careful not to brush against anyone unnecessarily. If I draw the focused attention of an alpha today, it won’t dissolve by next week.
Attention from alphas doesn’t fade.
It escalates.
And I do not want to deal with that.
A student volunteer near the front begins directing people into rows, gesturing vaguely toward empty chairs as if any configuration will do. I follow the flow and take the first open seat I reach, smoothing my skirt as I sit.
On my right is a beta boy, skinny and jittery, with dark hair that looks like he’s pushed his hands through it several times already this morning. On my left sits another omega girl, her posture relaxed, her attention drifting easily across the room like she’s already decided she belongs here.
I glance toward the boy beside me and offer a small smile. “Hi.”
He startles slightly, like he hadn’t expected to be addressed at all. “Oh—hi,” he says, voice catching before he clears it. His hands fold together loosely in his lap, then unfold again, as if he isn’t sure where they should rest.
The omega girl on my other side lets out a laugh under her breath.
Something in me cools immediately.
I turn back to him instead. “I’m Elodie.”
“Jack,” he says, still a little flustered, though he smiles this time. It’s tentative, but genuine.
“I’m studying biology,” I add, mostly so he won’t feel like he has to fill the silence himself. “What about you?”
“English literature,” he says. “I, um—mostly Victorian stuff. Right now, anyway.”
“That sounds nice,” I say, and I mean it. I love writing, especially poetry. “What are you reading at the moment?”
He brightens slightly, shoulders loosening at the prospect of something to focus on other than his nerves. Before he can explain, the low murmur in the hall begins to quiet as someone steps up to the podium at the front of the room.
A man steps forward, and the last of the side conversations taper off almost immediately.
Dean Reynolds has a presence that makes people straighten without realizing they’ve done it.
He’s older, broad shouldered, with dark hair gone silver at the temples and a posture that suggests he’s used to being listened to.
Even before my instincts identify him as an alpha, it’s obvious in the way the space seems to gravitate towards him.
He begins speaking in a calm, even voice, welcoming us, outlining expectations, explaining policies with the practiced ease of someone who has delivered this speech many times before.
He doesn’t rush, and he doesn’t loom, which I appreciate probably just as much as the other omegas in the room.
There’s something reassuring about his tone, something measured that makes it easy to follow along.
At least, it does at first.
Because somewhere between one sentence and the next, my attention slips.
Not abruptly. Just enough that I notice the shift.
Something warm unfurls low in my chest, a gradual sensation that feels almost like relief, though I don’t know what I’m relieved about. It spreads before I can question it, dim and alive at the same time, edging into my awareness as if it has always belonged there.
Then I catch the scent.
It’s faint at first, so faint I almost think I imagined it. Citrus, but not sharp or sugary like mine. Softer. Deeper. There’s something golden threaded through it, warm and smooth—
Honey, I think instinctively.
No. Not honey.
Something richer.
Amber.
The note settles, and a gentle warmth follows it, rounded with vanilla that lingers just long enough to make the whole thing feel… comforting.
My gaze drifts across the rows without meaning to, searching for the source. Someone must have brought food. Something baked, maybe? But everyone around me looks perfectly ordinary, hands folded or fidgeting or half-hidden in pockets.
No one else reacts.
No one else even seems to notice.
A small thrill moves through me.
It smells—
I swallow.
It smells good.
I lean slightly toward Jack. “Do you smell—”
The rest of my whispered question dissolves before I can finish it.
Something shifts again.
This time not in the room.
In me.
Heat rushes through my torso in a sudden bloom, loud and unmistakable, and before I can make sense of it, my scent spills out with it, bright and sweet and entirely uninvited.
Jack freezes.
Color rises across his face in a slow flush, his shoulders going rigid as he stares determinedly at the floor in front of us.
Oh.
Oh no.
Even with his limited senses as a beta, even he can smell me right now.
I clamp down instinctively, willing my body to behave, but awareness only makes it worse.
I haven’t perfumed in public like this since I was barely out of puberty, back when my hormones were still learning to listen.
I hadn’t even considered wearing scent blocking panties today. I’ve never needed them before.
Beside me, the other omega shifts in her chair, her posture tightening in a clear attempt to show no reaction.
Mortification crawls steadily up my spine in an unwelcome tingle.
Jack hasn’t said anything. He’s being polite. Careful. Which somehow makes it worse.
What is wrong with me?
At the front of the room, Dean Reynolds’ voice slows, the cadence resolving into what sounds like a conclusion. I’ve missed at least the last minute of whatever he was saying. Maybe more. I couldn’t repeat a single word if someone asked.
This isn’t like me.
The citrus and amber scent has vanished as suddenly as it arrived, lost in the shuffle of shifting bodies and scraping chairs as people begin to stand. Without it, the warmth under my skin fades just as quickly, leaving behind only embarrassment and the faintest trace of confusion.
Perfuming over a smell… honestly?
I keep my head down as the rows loosen and students start filing toward the exits, slipping into the movement before anyone can decide to notice me again.
Being small has its advantages. I angle between shoulders, pass unnoticed behind taller figures, and make it to the doors without brushing anyone on the way.
By the time I step out into the open air, my pulse has almost remembered how to behave.
Almost.