And… and I think I just found mine.
I don’t know who’s more confused, me or the alpha.
Judging by the way the alpha quickly turns away from me and hurries in the other direction, I’d say it’s him.
Watching him flee the scene like he just committed a crime makes me feel… strange. I don’t even know his name, and I want to call out to him, to stop him. I want to run to him and throw my arms around him, bury my face in his chest and breathe him in deeply. I want to do all that and more, but I can’t.
I can’t do anything other than watch him go and wrestle with myself all the while.
And then, once he’s gone, once he’s so far across the ballroom that I can’t see him through the crowds of alphas and omegas, it hits me. Like a full-out brick wall. The air is knocked out of my lungs in a rush, and I suddenly feel so weak, so… sad.
Why’d he run? Am I really that unappealing? The mere thought of my scent match not wanting me, outright refusing me, is enough to make me want to never show my face anywhere ever again.
I’m used to hiding, to blending in, but when it comes to that alpha in particular, I don’t want to disappear out of sight. I want him to see me, to really see me, to accept me.
To want me.
Is that so wrong?
My chest tightens, and my heart does something funny. It constricts in an almost painful way, and I have to abandon my bowl of candy as I stand and turn away from the ballroom. My goal is to go somewhere else, be somewhere else—anywhere else, really—even the hallway would be preferable to sitting in here like nothing’s wrong.
Everything is wrong, and it hurts so bad.
The room spins as I start toward the nearest exit. I don’t know where it leads, but it has to go somewhere. Anywhere. Anywhere that’s not here. My lungs can’t get a full breath in; no matter how hard I try to breathe normally, my body refuses to cooperate and I’m stuck hyperventilating with the knowledge that my scent match didn’t even want to approach me.
He saw me and then he ran. How depressing is that? It’s one thing to want to be invisible, but it’s another thing entirely to come face-to-face with your scent match and have him resist you without either of you saying a single word.
The ballroom seemingly stretches on for infinity, but somehow I manage to make it to the nearest door—almost, I should say. Right before I reach for it, before I can even lift a hand to yank it open and slip out, someone’s firm hand grabs me by the shoulder and spins me around. I tense up, freezing, not knowing who it is.
When I turn around, I find it’s Delilah. Her nose is downturned as she studies me. I don’t speak, and she doesn’t say a word either. We both stand there and stare at each other. The pain must be written on my face, because Delilah says, “Follow me.” She takes her hand off my shoulder and walks around me,leading me to a different set of exit doors a bit further down the same wall. This one is labeled with a golden sign that reads: OMEGAS AND SPONSORS ONLY.
She pushes into it and holds it open for me, wordlessly telling me to go, so I duck my head and slip past her, not knowing where she’s taking me.
A short hall that eventually opens up into a room with many alcoves. Tons of mirrors and stools. Even changing rooms. This must be where the omegas who come here to find a pack—the rich ones—get ready.
Delilah sits me down on one of the stools and goes to drag a second stool closer. She sits directly in front of me, her eyes discerning when they have no right to be. I suppose, if she’s worked with omegas as long as she claims she has, she can read omegas and our emotions by now. She doesn’t need to be psychic to know something’s wrong.
“The mixer is just starting,” she says with a tight frown. “What happened? Did an alpha try something with you? I thought we vetted them well enough, but maybe—”
“No,” I whisper, my eyes falling to the floor between us as I fiddle with my hands on my lap. “It’s not that.” Each word is like a knife; it cuts as it comes out of me, making my throat hurt and my insides ache. I don’t want to say anything else.
“Then what is it?” Her voice is gentler then, quieter, kinder. She leans forward and reaches for me, setting one of her hands atop mine and thereby stopping any further fidgeting. “Whatever is it, you can tell me. I’m not like your old headmaster. Whatever it is, I won’t judge you and I’m fairly certain I can help. All you have to do is tell me, and we’ll go from there.”
I close my eyes. How would it sound if I told her I met my scent match in there and he turned around and practically ran away from me? Not everyone is fortunate enough to find theirscent match, and the ones that do… well, I doubt they’re then denied.
Scent matches don’t deny each other. To do so is supposed to be painful for both parties.
Does that alpha feel anything inside? Is he in that ballroom, racked with guilt, or am I the only one facing repercussions from that outright denial? It’s not right, and it definitely isn’t fair.
My eyelids lift, and I meet Delilah’s stare, swallowing hard before I say, “I… I think my scent match is in there.” I immediately notice the way she sits a little straighter, how her expression becomes even more serious.
If scent matches are that rare, she probably didn’t think any of us would meet ours tonight.
“Your scent match is in there,” she repeats, trying to put it together even though she’s still missing one piece of the puzzle, “and you’re nervous about what that means?”
“No. I mean, yes, but… that’s not it.” I bite my bottom lip and look away as I mutter this next part: “He saw me. We locked eyes. We both realized it at the same time, and then he… he just turned around and walked away, like he didn’t want to talk to me or get to know me at all. It was like he didn’t care.”
Saying that makes me hurt all over and my insides twist, and that feeling like I want to vomit returns.
