This is something we’ll never agree on. While it’s within an omega’s nature to have a pack, I can’t accept that we’re only useful if we’re mated. Accidents and tragedies happen every day, leaving omegas without their bonds. Some people, like my mother, scoff at the idea of scent matching, despite all the evidence that it provides the pack with more emotional stability and a higher probability of reproduction. She married for money, though, not stability.
“Honestly, this is what happens when you let yournosemake the decisions.”
Her rant is a familiar one, though not everyone is as vain as my mother and her group of friends. In fact, the statistics show that the majority of formed packs relied on their instincts and scent compatibility.
It’s simple biology, really. The more compatible and complementary the scents are, the stronger the pack bond will be. But with that strengthening bond comes its own set of issues. If a mate dies, the pain of losing that mate can be sopowerful, it turns some omegas feral. Omegas who suffer sexual abuse or assault can also turn feral. We’re meant to be cherished, and when rough hands and vile intentions rip that sense of safety away, the body does what it feels necessary to protect itself.
“Honestly, how hard is it to control yourself?”
That’s the thing. Feral omegas can’t. It’s an extreme imbalance within the body: hormones, chemicals, microbes. There are even documented changes in how the frontal lobe functions. It’s a perfect storm of complications that omega bodies can’t handle. Feral omegas are just that—wild, uncontrollable, violent toward themselves and others.
The government has taken to putting them down because they don’t see the value in finding a solution. McKinley Labs is committed to changing that, and I’m honored to be part of the journey.
“You know what they say, there’s no saving an omega once she loses her pack.”
“That’s not true?—“
Mother waves her hand. “Enough of that, let’s talk about your date! I’ve got flashcards for conversation topics, the cutest shoes, and...” She pauses and sniffs the air, her brow wrinkling. “Where’s your scent?”
I grimace. Though I knew this was coming, I find I’m still not mentally prepared. “I’m on scent control.”
She recoils. “Why would you do such a thing? Your scent is your power.”
My power. She wants me to use my scent to weasel my way into a rich pack. To continue to grow the family wealth. She doesn’t care about compatibility so much as tolerability. If a well-to-do pack can tolerate my scent, well, then, that’s all I need. Who cares about love? If she only knew I was on heat control, too, she’d probably faint. I keep my lips pressedtogether to keep from informing her that there’s a lot more to me than my scent alone.
My lack of response irritates her.
“How will they know how nice you smell, dear?”
“I guess they’ll know in time,” I murmur.
Her glare sets my teeth on edge.
“It’s not permanent.”
Rolling her eyes, she shakes her head. “I’ve never understood you. Omegas should want to be loved. They should want nice things.”
“Idowant to be loved.” I simply want a career too. Is that so much to ask? I’m not built for being a house omega. Idle hands turn me into a jittery mess. I like to be productive—a side effect of all the etiquette, music, and society lessons I was forced to endure growing up. My desire to stay busy is technically Mother’s fault, but I don’t dare say that out loud.
“Well, then, you have no reason to avoid going on this date.”
I don’t want to gois on the tip of my tongue, but after a long flight and the tension already clouding the air, I can’t bring myself to tell her no.
“I guess I should shower.”
Mom beams at me, and for a second, I pretend that’s the look she gave me when I first walked in. “You won’t regret this!”
Famous last words.
Chapter Two
OLIVIA
I look like some kind of demented doll.
Grimacing at my reflection, I carefully wipe away a layer of blush with a tissue, blot off some of the lipstick the makeup artist caked on, and finger comb the dark, springy curls that make me appear sixteen rather than twenty-seven. After living on my own and on an entirely different continent for a year, I’d forgotten how degrading it is to be dressed up by my mother. The unspoken message that I’m not good enough the way I am dulls my light brown eyes and has my full lips dipping into a frown on my heart-shaped face.
An ache blooms in my chest, and I rub at my sternum, careful not to wrinkle the pale pink satin sheath dress my mother chose for me. The sweetheart neckline dips lower than I’d like, but according to my mom, I might as well make use of the extra weight I put on in London.
