The thought rises unbidden, primitive and possessive. I’ve never experienced this before—this instant, bone-deep recognition. I’ve heard of scent-matching, of course, but that’s the sort of thing no one actually believes in unless they’ve experienced it themselves. That rare and instinctive compatibility between alpha and omega that transcends normal attraction. I always assumed it was either a myth or at least grossly exaggerated.
It might not be.
My eyes find her on the bed, flushed and trembling, her dark hair a wild tangle around her face.
Blankets and pillows are mounded up around her in the most chaotic nest I’ve ever seen. Clearly not the result of someone who spent their childhood practicing the perfectly aesthetic creations that get featured on Instagram.
Her pants and underwear are in a pile on the floor, so I can only assume she isn’t wearing anything under the sheet twisted around her body. The fabric clings to her sweat-dampened skin in ways that make my mouth go dry. In her hand is a toy—omega-specific, high-end—and her eyes are wide with shock andsomething else. Something that calls to the alpha in me like a siren song.
Need. Raw, desperate need.
For a moment, we simply stare at each other, frozen in a tableau of mutual recognition. Then Holly makes a small, distressed sound and hurls the toy across the room. It hits the wall with a dull thud and falls to the carpet.
“It’s not enough,” she says, her voice breaking on the words. Tears glisten in her eyes, whether from frustration or embarrassment, I can’t tell. “I need—I need an alpha. Please. I need you.”
I need you.
The plea undoes me. Three words, and every shred of control I’ve maintained shatters like glass.
I take a step toward the bed, then another. Each movement deliberate, measured, giving her time to change her mind. To tell me to stop. To remember all the reasons this is a terrible idea.
She doesn’t. Instead, she reaches for me, her hands trembling.
“Please,” she says again, softer this time. “Grayson.”
My name on her lips is the final push I need. I close the distance between us in two strides, reaching for her as she reaches for me.
Our hands meet first, her small fingers closing around my larger ones with surprising strength. The contact sends a jolt through me, like touching a live wire. Her skin is fever-hot against mine, soft despite the calluses that mark her as someone who works with her hands.
I should say something. Ask if she’s sure. Remind her that heat decisions aren’t always rational. But words have never been my strong suit, and right now, any I might come up with seem entirely inadequate.
Instead, I reach up with my free hand and lift my bandanna, just enough to reveal the scar that mars the curve of my lower lip. I just want to smell her without the cloth in the way. This scar isn’t the worst of them, not by a long shot, but still enough of a test. If she pulls back, withdraws in horror or surprise, I won’t hold it against her. If anything, that might be enough to provide some necessary suppression on the fire I have raging inside me.
But she only seems to take the move as an invitation.
Her arms lash around me with the speed of striking vipers, pulling me down hard enough that I have to catch myself with my palms on the mattress.
Without even a beat of hesitation, she captures my mouth in a searing kiss.
SIXTEEN
HOLLY
Grayson’s lipsare firm yet surprisingly gentle against mine, the contrast sending electric currents racing through my already overheated body. I cling to him, fingers digging into his shoulders as if he might disappear if I loosen my grip even slightly.
His scent—fresh espresso and cinnamon—fills my lungs with each desperate breath.How did I live so long without being able to really smell an alpha?The scars I glimpsed when he pulled up his bandanna feel smooth beneath my fingertips as I trace the line of his jaw, but I barely register them. All I can focus on is the overwhelming need coursing through me, a hunger unlike anything I’ve ever experienced.
“Please,” I gasp against his mouth. “I need—I need?—“
I can’t even articulate what I need, but my body knows. It’s screaming for completion, for fulfillment, for the specific kind of relief only an alpha can provide. My hips move of their own accord, seeking pressure, friction, anything to ease the aching emptiness inside me.
Grayson growls low in his throat, the sound vibrating through me and intensifying the slick heat between my thighs.His hands—large, calloused, capable—slide down my sides to grip my waist, lifting me effortlessly until I’m straddling his lap, naked lower body pressed against the rough fabric of his cargo pants.
The position brings a new pressure exactly where I need it most. I moan, grinding down against him so hard that I must be leaving a wet stain on his pants. Even through his clothes, I can feel how hard he is, how ready, and it makes me dizzy with want.
“Alpha,” I whimper, the designation falling from my lips without conscious thought. “Please, I need your knot.”
The words hang in the air between us, raw and honest in a way I’ve never allowed myself to be. For twenty-two years, I’ve denied this part of myself, buried it under suppressants and ancient herbs and the constant, exhausting vigilance required to pass as a beta. Now, with my defenses stripped away by biology, the truth emerges: I am an omega, and right now I need an alpha’s knot to satisfy the heat burning through me.
