The first scent that registers is maple syrup—rich and sweet and warm like breakfast on a lazy Sunday morning when you have nowhere to be and all the time in the world. Maple with undertones of honey and something earthy that might be wood smoke or aged paper or that particular smell old books get when they've been loved for decades. Books. It smells like books and comfort and safety and everything good in the world.
The bookstore. I can see it so clearly in my mind even though I'm not actually there. Dancing between sleep and waking, floating in this dreamlike state, my brain replays the memory like a favorite movie scene that I've watched a hundred times but never get tired of.
The Alpha with kind hazel eyes and gentle hands who caught me when I ran into him and dropped that stack of books. Who didn't make me feel stupid or clumsy like most people do. Who didn't laugh at me or get irritated. Who just... helped. Like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Who bought me extra books because he thought I deserved something nice. Not because he wanted something in return. Not because he was trying to manipulate me or put me in his debt. Just because he saw me looking at them with longing and decided to make me happy.
Who smiled at me like I was worth smiling at. Like I was someone interesting and valuable instead of just an inconvenience or a means to an end.
The books made me so happy.
Such a simple gesture—probably didn't even put a dent in his bank account—but it meant everything to me. To think someone was kind enough to buy me anything. To spend money on me without expecting something in return. Without holdingit over my head later. Without using it as leverage to make me feel guilty or obligated.
When my own previous pack couldn't even do the bare minimum. When Kael couldn't be bothered to remember my birthday or buy me suppressants when I ran out even though I was using them to make his life easier. When none of them acknowledged that I existed beyond my usefulness in getting business licenses and government approvals.
The next scent that taunts me is different. Darker. Cedar smoke and dark chocolate and something sharp like gunpowder or steel. It's the scent of someone who's seen things, done things, survived things that most people can't imagine.
The bar. The Mistletoe Tavern with its Christmas lights and drunk customers and that supply closet that will forever be burned into my memory in the best possible way.
This scent soothes bouts of anxiety I didn't even know I was carrying. Mixes with the chaos of the memory—the way he pulled me onto his lap in front of everyone, claiming me publicly when I'd just been humiliated by my ex-pack. The way he looked at me like I was precious and worth protecting. The way his hands felt on my skin.
Theodore. Theo. The ex-military Alpha with silver-streaked hair and olive eyes that see too much. Who fucked me in a supply closet and made me feel powerful instead of used. Who cared about my pleasure when nobody else ever had. Who made me feel safe even when we were being reckless.
His aroma soothes me even further as I float in this half-dream state. Makes me feel protected in a way I've never felt before. Like nothing can hurt me as long as that scent is nearby. Like I could finally stop being afraid.
Then comes the third scent. The one that dances between confidence and raw attraction. Motor oil and leather and something darker that might be whiskey or aged wood. It'sthe smell of someone who takes what he wants and makes no apologies for it.
This blend has to belong to the missing link in my memory. Nash. The lawyer Alpha from the elevator who looked at me like he could see straight through my defenses. Who made my stomach flip with just a smile. Who showed up at my door holding my sushi delivery looking like every fantasy I've ever had.
It's crazy that I know the details of these men's aromas but barely know them as people. Know what they smell like but not their favorite colors or their childhood dreams or what makes them laugh. Know how they make me feel but not why they seem to care about me when we've only just met.
But I enjoy the comfort their combined scents create. Some odd sense of stability that makes me want to stay floating in this peaceful space forever. Like I've finally found something I've been searching for my entire life without knowing I was looking for it.
I finally feel like I can pull myself out of this blanket of sleep. Like consciousness is something I can reach for instead of something being forced on me.
My eyes flutter open slowly. Everything is blurry at first—shapes and shadows and dim lighting that suggests evening or early night. I blink a few times, trying to focus.
There's a soft snore coming from above me. Close. Right next to my head.
I turn my head carefully—very carefully because something tells me sudden movements are a bad idea—and find Grayson sitting beside me on what I realize is my couch.
His head is tilted to one side at an angle that's going to give him a terrible neck ache when he wakes up. Clearly deep asleep based on the soft, rhythmic snoring and the complete relaxation of his features.
I blink a few more times, taking in his expression properly now that my vision is clearing.
Even though he's asleep, he looks tired. More than tired—drained. Exhausted in a way that goes deeper than just needing a nap. There are dark circles under his eyes that weren't there before. Worry lines between his eyebrows that make him look older than he probably is. His jaw is tense even in sleep, like he's carrying stress he can't quite let go of.
I want to fix his head position. Want to adjust him so he's more comfortable and won't wake up with his neck screaming at him. But I'm also worried about waking him up when he clearly needs the rest. When he's clearly been taking care of me and probably hasn't slept properly because of it.
I lift my hand slowly, carefully, and feel the wet cloth on my forehead. Cold. Damp. Soothing against what is definitely a killer migraine pounding behind my eyes.
Oh yeah. I totally have a migraine. Like, the worst one I've had in months. The kind where moving too fast makes you want to throw up and light feels like knives stabbing directly into your brain. Fun times.
I try to recap what happened. Piece together the fragments of memory that feel hazy and disconnected.
The bath. I was taking a bath because I needed self-care after the chaos at the bar last night. Mariah Carey blasting. Face mask on. Feeling happy and relaxed for the first time in forever.
Then the phone call. Charlotte from Evergreen Media telling me I somehow have a pack now? Which makes no sense but also I was too confused to process properly. And the doorbell ringing. Nash at my door holding my sushi delivery looking like sin incarnate. And then?—
