Rose. Sweet and warm. Unmistakably Omega.
The air in the room changes, growing thick with my scent as it goes acidic. My instincts start singing, begging me to step closer, to accept the three Alphas in front of me, and... My eyes widen at the implication of them being something more thanjustAlphas.
Scent matches. All three of them.
These aremyAlphas. The ones my biology has been waiting for, the perfect complement to my Omega nature.
And that thought sends pure panic screaming through my system.
No. No, no, no. This can't happen. Not again. I can't do this again.
My chest tightens, my breathing going shallow. Black spots start dancing at the edges of my vision, every instinct I have screaming contradictory commands. Submit. Run. Stay. Flee. Trust. Don't trust anyone ever again.
Vincent's voice echoes in my head, all the things he used to say. That I was his. That I belonged to him. That no other Alpha would ever want me, that I was lucky he put up with me at all. That I was nothing without him.
I can't survive another Alpha. I can't survive another relationship where I lose myself completely, where I become nothing but an extension of someone else's will.
"I'm sorry," I blurt out, the words tumbling over each other in my haste to get them out. "I forgot something. At home. I need to—I have to go. I'm sorry."
I start backing toward the door, my hands shaking so badly I nearly drop my phone when I fumble it out of my pocket.
"Amelia, wait—" Wyatt starts, taking a step toward me.
I bolt for the door and wrench it open, practically falling through it in my desperation to get out. The fresh morning air hits my face but it doesn't help. Nothing helps. I can't breathe. I can't think.
My feet carry me down the porch steps and down the walkway, moving on pure instinct and adrenaline. Someone calls my name behind me but I can’t stop. If I let them catch me, I’ll have to face what just happened, and then I'm going to completely fall apart.
I make it three blocks before my legs give out and I have to stop, leaning against a street sign while I try to remember how to breathe. My chest is heaving, gasping for air that won't come. My hands are shaking so violently I can barely hold my phone steady enough to unlock it.
Fate is cruel. Impossibly and devastatingly cruel.
I tell myself that I’m just needy, that the Kane Alphas aren’t necessarilymymatches but just ignited that part of my hindbrain, demanding I find someone to lean on.
How am I even supposed to know if they're really good? Vincent seemed good at first. Charming and attentive and caring. He didn't show his true colors until I was already in too deep and had built my entire life around him and had nowhere else to go.
What if these Alphas are the same? What if this scent match thing, this biological imperative my body is screaming about, is just another trap?
I can't do it. I can't take that risk. The cost is too high.
My fingers finally cooperate enough to pull up Dylan's contact and hit call. The phone rings twice, my heart nearly beating out of my chest before he answers. "Hey sis, what's—Amelia? What's wrong?"
The concern in his voice breaks something loose in my chest and a sob escapes before I can stop it. "Can you come get me?"My voice comes out small and broken, barely recognizable as my own. "Please? I need you to come get me."
"Where are you?" There's rustling on his end and the sound of jingling keys. "Send me your location. I'm already on my way."
I manage to share my location through the app he installed last week, then slide down the street sign until I'm sitting on the curb with my knees pulled up to my chest. People are starting to emerge from their houses, heading to work or walking dogs, and I know I must look like a disaster. But I can't bring myself to care.
Dylan's truck pulls up less than ten minutes later, my brother out of the driver's seat before it's even fully stopped. He crouches down in front of me, his hands reaching for me and then stopping just before he touches. "Hey, hey. You're okay. I've got you,” he murmurs, waiting for me to lean in. I sag forward, Dylan pulling me into his chest. "Can you stand? Let's get you in the truck."
He helps me up, supporting most of my weight, and gets me into the passenger seat before climbing back into the driver's seat. He doesn't start driving right away, instead, turning to face me.
"You don't have to be anything you're not ready to be," he says gently. "Whatever happened back there, whatever you're feeling, it's okay. You get to decide what you're ready for. Nobody else."
My eyes glaze over with tears and I let them spill over, streaming down my face while Dylan sits quietly and lets me cry. He doesn't push for an explanation or demand to know what happened. He just sits, a solid presence that asks for nothing.
When the tears finally slow, I wipe at my face with shaking hands. "I'm sorry. I'm such a mess."
"You're healing," Dylan corrects. "There's a difference."
