She's spiraling.
I can see it in the set of her shoulders—too rigid, too controlled, the kind of tension that comes from holding yourself together by force of will alone. In the way her hands tremble at her sides, fingers curling into loose fists like she's trying to anchor herself to something solid. In the distant quality of her gaze, staring at nothing and everything all at once.
She's standing in the middle of the omega section of the gym like a statue carved from anxiety and determination, completely unaware that she's been frozen in place for going on fifteen minutes now. I've been watching her since I walked in at 4:52—initially because she was in my path to the weight rack I prefer, and then because something about her stillness caught my attention and refused to let go.
How do I know she's spiraling?
Because I used to be one of those. The quiet ones who looked calm and collected to the outside world while everything inside was coming undone, thread by agonizing thread.
No one would ever get it. No one would understand how you could stand in a room full of people—or in this case, an empty gym at 5 AM—and be drowning in silence. How the smile you wore could be both a mask and a cage. How control could become both armor and prison.
I learned long ago that no one catches the signs of someone spiraling in silence. Not unless they've spiraled themselves. Not unless they know what to look for in the careful stillness, the measured breathing, the way someone's eyes go flat even as they insist they're fine.
I told myself once—if I ever saw someone else dealing with the same quiet collapse, I wouldn't let them experience it alone. I wouldn't be another person who looked right through them.
That was supposed to apply to Alphas. To men like me who were raised to believe showing emotion was weakness and asking for help was failure. To people who understood the particular torture of being expected to have everything under control at all times.
This isn't Alpha to Alpha.
This is... something else entirely.
This is a random omega I know nothing about, standing in the middle of a budget fitness center in a small town that doesn't even appear on most maps, looking like she's one wrong thought away from shattering.
And her scent.
God, her scent.
It hits me like a physical force the moment I step close enough for it to register—rich and layered and so devastatinglyaddictivethat my feet stop moving of their own accord. Cinnamon sugar and roasted coffee beans form the base, warm and inviting, the kind of scent that makes you think of lazy Sunday mornings and breakfast in bed. But beneath that comfort is something darker, more complex: dark vanilla thatspeaks to hidden depths, soft amber that whispers secrets, and something uniquelyherthat I couldn't name if my life depended on it.
This is, by far, the most attractive, sensual aroma I've ever had the privilege of smelling.
And that's... odd. For me.
Nothing pulls me out of my routines. I've built my life around structure, around predictability, around the careful organization of every element so that nothing can catch me off guard. My calendar is color-coded by priority. My ties are arranged by exact shade, not just color. I eat the same breakfast every morning, take the same route to the gym, maintain the same schedule whether I'm in Manhattan or this godforsaken small town that doesn't even have a Tom Ford store.
Control is how I survive. Routine is how I function. Predictability is how I keep the chaos at bay.
And yet here I am, completely derailed by the scent of an omega who doesn't even know I'm standing behind her.
The attraction is magnetic, primal, something that bypasses my rational brain entirely and goes straight to the part of me I've spent thirty-five years trying to control. It's like being a bee that's noticed its queen—unable to move away from her aroma, drawn in by something deeper than choice or logic.
I'd submit to her if she asked me to.
The thought surfaces unbidden, dangerous and lethal and completely unacceptable. I don't submit. I don't yield. I don't bend to anyone or anything—not to business rivals, not to societal expectations, not to the well-meaning interference of my pack brothers.
And yet.
I shake my head, trying to dislodge the absurd notion. Approach her instead, telling myself it's because she's in my way. Because it's 5 AM and this section is now Alpha territory.Because I can see she needs someone to snap her out of whatever spiral she's caught in, and apparently I'm the only one here to do it.
Not because her scent has wrapped around my senses like a drug and I'm already craving another hit.
Definitely not that.
I press my hand against her back—a clinical touch, impersonal, the kind of contact designed to ground without overwhelming. She's been swaying slightly for the past few minutes, her balance compromised by whatever's happening inside her head, and I act on instinct before I can overthink it.
Her eyes snap open.
Hazel. Her eyes are hazel—a stunning swirl of green and brown and gold that catches the fluorescent light and seems to glow from within. There are gold flecks scattered through her irises like fragments of treasure, and they widen in shock as she registers my presence, my hand, my proximity.
