"Let me make something abundantly clear," I interrupt, my voice cutting through her monologue like a blade. "I have no intention of marrying them. Not Damien. Not Milo. Not Caden. Not if they were the last pack on earth and the continuation of the human species depended on it." I grab my phone from the tripod, ending the recording that's been capturing this entire disaster. "Why don't you find some other omega who's going to bow down to that bullshit?"
"Rosemarie—"
"It's the new year," I continue, talking over her. "So why don't we give this up? Hell, adopt an omega and you can makethemthe heir so I can be the useless bum you clearly already think I am. Problem solved. Everyone's happy."
"You can't just?—"
I hang up.
The silence that follows is deafening—the absence of her voice leaving a vacuum that immediately fills with every emotion I've been holding back. My eyes close, lungs struggling to find their rhythm, fingers trembling where they grip my phone.
Don't. Don't fall apart. Not here. Not now.
The overwhelming sensation is back—that sinking, drowning feeling that clings to me like a second skin, desperate to drag me under. It's like having a panic attack without the gasping for breath, the desperation silent and all the more suffocating for it. My chest is tight, my throat closed, my whole body vibrating with the need to either scream or cry or both.
I hate this. I hate feeling this way. I hate that they can still reach through hundreds of miles and make me feel small. I hate that running away didn't fix anything—just postponed the inevitable.
Something presses against my back.
My eyes shoot open, survival instincts kicking in as I force my head up?—
And freeze.
The eyes staring down at me are green. Not just green—they're the cool, precise shade of old money and older secrets, like jade polished smooth by generations of carefully contained emotion. They bore into me with an intensity that makes my breath catch and a strange, inexplicableboredomthat suggests I'm not nearly as interesting as I should be.
What the?—
I blink. Once. Twice. Three times, like maybe that'll make the vision in front of me make more sense.
It doesn't.
The man standing behind me is... immaculate. That's the only word that fits. He's tall—probably 6'2" based on how muchI have to crane my neck—with a lean, tailored strength that speaks to discipline rather than brute force. His dark blond hair is perfectly styled, not a single strand out of place despite the early hour, swept back from a face that could have been carved by Renaissance sculptors with a grudge against lesser mortals.
Sharp jawline. High cheekbones. Lips pressed into a thin line that suggests smiling might physically pain him. Everything about him screamscontrol—from the precise angle of his shoulders to the way he holds himself like he's constantly calculating the most efficient way to exist in any given space.
He's shirtless.
Why is he shirtless? Why am I noticing he's shirtless? Why is his chest that defined? Why does he have a dusting of dark blond hair trailing down his abs in a perfect line like a road map to bad decisions?
My brain, apparently, has decided to short-circuit instead of producing useful thoughts.
His scent hits me a second later—rich and layered, the kind of sophisticated fragrance that doesn't come in a bottle you can buy at a department store. Patchouli and vanilla form the base, dark and intoxicating, layered with something spicy that might be cardamom or clove. There's a hint of dark florals—iris, maybe?—and beneath it all, the warm undertone of polished woods, like stepping into an old library filled with leather-bound books and secrets.
He smells like Tom Ford made an Alpha in a laboratory specifically designed to ruin my life.
The silence stretches between us—him staring at me with that unreadable expression, me blinking up at him like a confused owl in workout clothes. Finally, I manage to find my voice.
"What?" I ask, which is possibly the least eloquent thing I've ever said, but in my defense, my brain is still buffering.
He stares at me. Emotionless. Unblinking. Like I'm a particularly uninteresting puzzle he's already solved.
"You're in my way."
His voice matches the rest of him—cool, precise, every syllable delivered with the efficiency of someone who considers extra words a waste of valuable time. No inflection. No warmth. Just fact.
I stare at him.
Huh?
