He shoves both hands into his pockets and nods. “All right.”
Three
COLE
Marcus.
The entire first year of this bond, I’d dreamt about his name, his face, the way his scent felt and the way he tasted. And then, when the sickness started, I forced it all out, forced myself to give up the fantasy of finding him and focused on what the doctors gave me as options to mitigate the damage of the disease.
Now, I can’t help but keep looking over at him as he casually walks toward the main entrance of the event space. He looks the same as he had in the hotel restaurant three years ago where I was tactfully avoiding Sienna. His hair is styled nearly identically, with the dark strands falling across his forehead while the sides are trimmed shorter. His suit is expensive but not bespoke, the lines of it highlighting his shoulders and the strength of his thighs.
God, the thought of his thighs has a bolt of heat shooting through me. I swallow to soothe my dry throat and try to take in the space around me, the carpet and the lighting and thesubtle security that mans the doors, double checking everyone’s supposed to be here. Even the other small groups of people that are milling around out here instead of inside the room, probably trying to get away from the noise of it all. Even out here, I can feel the thumping bass of the DJ’s current song.
But fuck if I can’t focus for more than a moment or two on anything other than the man a half-step in front of me, his hand loosely wrapped around my wrist in a hold so casually proprietary it should piss me all the way off. Instead, a foreign warmth blooms in my stomach, something I’ve never felt before.
Marcus guides us through the small clusters with ease, his shock and awe tucked away somewhere I can’t see—or feel. They’ve become too subtle for the suppressor to let through. Once we’re in the small line to get into the room, he drops my hand in favor of standing so close to me, his side brushes mine.
“So are you still in LA?” I ask, trying to break the fucking ice that’s reformed between us.
It’s where we met. Three years ago, I’d been forced into attending the same fundraiser Violet had last month. Unlike her, though, Sienna hadn’t drugged me. She’d just said enough rude things under her breath when Dad wasn’t listening to have me hiding out in the hotel lobby for most of the night. Marcus had come from the same fundraiser some time later.
He shakes his head. “No, we live in SoHo.”
We. Right. Because he’s part of a pack now, has a group of people that are hoping to be matched by the Council with an Omega that’s perfect for them. At least, that’s the hope for everyone going through the nightmares that are these galas. And God knows an Omega that’s accidentally bonded and is hiding their bond sickness isn’t on their list of perfects.
Guilt twists my stomach enough that I feel bile burn the back of my throat.
He grunts and palms the middle of my back, leaning in just enough that his nose brushes that sensitive spot behind my ear again. In the span of a heartbeat the guilt is gone, replaced by desire. I shudder in a breath and try to get my reactions under control.
“SoHo?” My fucking voice shakes, all breathy and desperate.
Good god, I’ve never felt this kind of need run through my body, like if he doesn’t find a quiet corner and put his hands and scent all over me in the next few minutes, I won’t survive the night.
How in the hell does Violet justexistlike this?
Maybe it’s time I go on a traditional suppressor, too, not just the treatment cocktail that keeps the bond muted and the sickness at bay. As it is, I’m thanking all the fucking stars I actually remembered my damn scent blockers.
“Cole,” Marcus whispers. “I need you to breathe, Omega.”
Right. Breathe. As if every breath doesn’t have his fucking nutmeg scent blended with a cologne that smells like a goddamn forest. I try anyway, though, knowing I can’t go into that ballroom full of hundreds of Alphas like this. And meeting his pack? Absolutely not. There is no way I’ll make a half-decent first impression with my body humming like this. I’ll already be the fucking homewrecker ruining their perfect little matching dreams. No way can I add desperately horny to that.
“Hey, are you Cole Fallon?” A man’s voice cuts across the din of the hall.
Just like outside, I can’t help but stiffen even as I turn toward the question. Nine times out of ten, if someone is double checking my name, it’s not going to end well. Mostly it’s paparazzi that follow the rich rather than the socially famous, like the photographer outside, but sometimes it’s a deranged parasocial person who’s convinced we’re madly in love or something.
This man is tall, taller than Marcus by a few inches. His suit is a little too small, like dressing for this type of venue and event isn’t something he does even occasionally. A red lapel pin sits centered on his chest pocket. His eyes are dark and stormy, his mouth a thin line, and violence radiates off of him in waves, a silent warning pulsing through the space between us. Marcus stiffens next to me, too, noticing the man’s mood.
“You know him?” he murmurs, low enough it doesn’t carry beyond the person in front of us in line.
“No,” I admit.
“Yeah, you,” the man says, pointing at me. Even his voice is violent and dangerous. “You Cole Fallon?”
When I nod once, he crosses the hall, his strides eating the distance fast enough I don’t even realize his intentions until his fist hits my nose.
“That’s for what your mom did to my Anna,” he says.
The world blurs around me, tears filling my eyes as pain lances through my face and echoes through my jaw and down my neck. It’s followed almost immediately by a sudden numbness in my cheek and lips.
