I finally get it now. That slightly dazed, blissed-out look omegas get when they’re the center of an alpha’s attention. I’d always privately thought it was a bit pathetic. A biological weakness.
Turns out it’s not a weakness. It’s an alpha’s goddamn superpower. And for one night, they aimed it all at me.
The elevator chimes as it reaches the lobby, and I straighten up, tugging my dress into some semblance of order. The doors slide open to reveal an opulent lobby staffed by a single security guard behind a desk.
He looks up as I step out, and his eyes widen fractionally before he schools his expression into professional blankness. But I see the moment he catches the scent, the mixture of four powerful alphas clinging to my skin, and his nostrils flare.
“Good morning, ma’am,” he says, voice carefully neutral. “Would you like me to call you a car?”
I shake my head, not trusting my voice. All I want to do is get outside, away from prying eyes and sensitive noses.
“As you wish.” He nods respectfully, eyes averted now. “Have a pleasant day.”
I hobble across the lobby, wishing I’d worn sensible shoes to the damn gala, all the while feeling his gaze on my back. No doubt he’s already texting the Sterling brothers to let them know their... whatever I am... has left the building.
The revolving door deposits me onto the sidewalk, and the cool morning air hits me like a slap. Reality. The real world, where people don’t wake up claimed by four alphas after a single night of drunken madness.
Except I did. And the evidence is right there on my neck, for anyone with eyes to see.
I dig through my purse, looking for my phone. I need to call a rideshare, get home, shower for approximately seven hours, and then figure out how to deal with this nightmare.
My fingers brush against the familiar shape of my wallet, my keys, my lipstick, but no phone. I dump the contents onto a nearby bench, pawing through them. My phone isn’t there.
Great. Just perfect. This day just keeps getting better.
My planner isn’t there either, I realize. My daily planner, where I keep all my appointments, contacts, and basically my entire life. It must still be upstairs, probably tucked neatly on the nightstand by one of those impossibly considerate alphas.
My purse feels strangely light without it, like I’ve lost an anchor. But there’s no way I’m going back up there. Not now. Not like this.
I stuff everything back into my purse and look around. TheSterling building is in the heart of uptown, surrounded by high-end boutiques and coffee shops that won’t open for hours. A few early-morning joggers pass by, giving me curious glances. A woman walking her dog crosses to the other side of the street when she catches my scent.
I’ve never been so acutely aware of how I smell. How others can smell me. How I’m sending signals I never asked to broadcast.
Standing on the sidewalk, I realize I’m completely exposed. The marks on my neck, my dress barely hanging on, and the unmistakable scent of the Sterling Pack all over me. Everyone who passes can tell what I am now. A beta claimed by alphas. A walking taboo in Sweetwater City.
I straighten up, forcing a defiant tilt to my chin. I’ll walk. It will be an uncomfortable journey in these heels, but I’ll do it. Iwillhandle this. Iamin control.
I start down the street. One foot in front of the other. My goal is to get to a main avenue where I can hail a cab like some kind of 1940s movie heroine.
Up ahead, a young omega is waiting at a bus stop, impeccably dressed in a pastel coat, looking like she’s on her way to a breakfast I would definitely not be invited to. She’s completely engrossed in her phone, and as I get closer, she lets out a little gasp of pure shock.
My curiosity gets the better of me. As I walk past, my eyes flick to her screen, and I freeze mid-stride.
The website has a gaudy, gold-script logo that could only belong to a high-society gossip blog: PackTrackr. And splashed across the screen is a photo from last night. It’s a candid shot, slightly blurry, of the four Sterling brothers surrounding me at the gala, looking like a pack of devastatingly handsome wolves closing in on a particularly well-dressed sheep. Me. I’m the sheep.
My stomach plummets to my designer-knockoff shoes as Iread the headline, my lips moving silently along with the horrifically cheesy words:
PACKTRACKR ALERT: STERLING ALPHAS GET ‘SCENT-DEEP’ WITH MYSTERY BETA! Sources say the pack was inseparable from the brunette, leaving a trail of possessive growls and topped-off champagne glasses in their wake. Has the city’s most untouchable pack finally found their missing piece?
Scent-deep? Seriously? I sound less like a person and more like a new flavor of laundry detergent.
The horror that washes over me isn’t just fear; it’s a full-body cringe. My boss won’t see this. My friends won’t see this. But this woman, this perfectly put-together omega waiting for public transportation while scrolling through gossip about the city’s elite? She sees it. The entire alpha-omega subculture who read this trash like it’s the Wall Street Journal, they’ll all see it.
My colossal, one-night mistake hasn’t just gone public. It’s gone viral in the one corner of the internet I would have paid good money to never, ever be a part of. I’m not a person anymore. I’m a “mystery beta.” A blind item. A goddamn PackTrackr Alert.
And somewhere, fifty-something floors above me, the four sources of my newfound, cringe-worthy fame are sleeping peacefully.
My life just imploded. And the men who lit the match are probably still dreaming.
