"You have low iron or something," I say. It's not a question.
She frowns at me—an expression that does nothing to diminish how attractive she is and everything to increase how annoyed I'm becoming with myself for noticing.
"No?" she says, and it comes out like a question despite her obvious intention for it to be a statement.
I huff—a sound of mild exasperation—and remove my hand from her back. The loss of contact shouldn't feel significant. It's just skin against fabric, heat against heat. Nothing meaningful.
Except my palm is still tingling where I touched her, and that's... inconvenient.
"Correct your balance next time," I tell her, turning away before I can do something stupid like ask her name or offer to buy her breakfast or any of the other absurd impulses currently flooding my neural pathways. "You were swaying."
I can feel her gaze on my back as I walk toward my bag. Feel it like a physical weight, like fingers tracing along my spine. Her scent spikes in the air behind me—a phenomenon I recognize even if I wish I didn't. Omegas do that when they see somethingthey like. When attraction triggers a chemical response that intensifies their natural fragrance.
She likes what she's seeing.
The realization should please my ego. Instead, it makes me acutely, uncomfortably aware of the fact that I'm shirtless. That my back is on full display—the intricate tattoo work that covers my shoulder blades and trails down my spine, the geometric patterns and hidden meanings that I usually keep covered from public view.
Those tattoos are sacred to me. They're the map of my journey, the visual representation of the control I've fought to maintain, the secrets I've chosen to wear on my skin where only the most intimate observers would ever see them. The lines and angles tell a story that most people wouldn't understand—about chaos contained, about order imposed, about choosing structure when everything inside you yearns for destruction.
And this omega—this random, beautiful, fire-mouthed stranger—is looking at them right now.
The feeling that washes over me is unexpected. Foreign. Something that might be... shyness? Vulnerability? A sense of exposure that has nothing to do with the absence of my shirt and everything to do with the way her attention makes me feel seen in a way I didn't ask for.
I grab my Ralph Lauren pullover from my bag faster than strictly necessary, sliding it over my head with practiced efficiency. The fabric settles against my skin like armor, hiding the intricate artwork from view. The collarbone piece is still visible—that one was designed to be seen, drawn with every intention of teasing its existence during model shoots and magazine covers, the kind of ink that makes photographers happy and females swoon.
But the rest? The parts of me I only show to people who've earned the privilege? Those are covered now. Safe.
I turn back to face her, composure restored, and she's still standing there—watching me with those hazel eyes that seem to see more than they should. I grab the iron supplements from my bag—the expensive ones I always keep on hand because my own levels run low when I'm stressed—and toss them in her direction.
She catches them on reflex, which tells me her coordination is fine even if her balance is compromised.
"Take those twice a day," I say, "before you find yourself passed out in a gym, Sweet Ditzy." I pause, some strange protective instinct compelling me to add, "Don't need any more omegas getting taken advantage of. Bullshit running up the news, especially in this small town of nothingness."
Why did I say that? Why am I giving supplements to a stranger? Why do I care if she passes out or gets taken advantage of or ends up as a cautionary tale in the local paper?
I don't have answers to any of those questions, and that's unacceptable.
I turn and walk away before she can respond. Before she can thank me or curse me or ask questions I don't want to answer. Before her scent can burrow any deeper into my consciousness and take up permanent residence.
The Alpha weight room is through a set of double doors at the back of the gym—a space that smells like testosterone and iron and the lingering aggression of men trying to prove something to themselves. I navigate to my preferred corner, where I've already arranged my routine in my head: thirty minutes of weights, twenty minutes of cardio, fifteen minutes of stretching. Precise. Controlled. Predictable.
And yet I can't stop thinking about her.
This is ridiculous. I'm Julian North—investor, strategist, the man who built a financial empire through discipline and ruthlessness and the complete rejection of emotional decision-making. I don't get distracted by omegas. I don't get distracted byanything.
And yet here I am, in this small town that doesn't have a single luxury store worth mentioning, thinking about hazel eyes and butterfly tattoos and the way her scent wrapped around my senses like a promise I didn't ask for.
Why am I even here?
The question surfaces with bitter familiarity. I know the answer—I'm here to do business, to check on some rural investments that required a personal touch. And to visit my pack: Tank and Elias, the two Alphas who've somehow convinced themselves that this backwater town is where they belong.
If it wasn't for Elias's commitment to the fire department here—his stubborn insistence that small towns need good firefighters too—we'd be in the city like sensible people. Elias with his need to be "free," whatever that means. His tendency to ride horses just to "tame his mind," as if minds were wild animals that needed breaking. His refusal to take anything seriously, to commit to the kind of structured success that I've built my entire existence around.
I love him. But he drives me absolutely insane.
And Tank. Tank could be a bodyguard anywhere—his military background and security expertise are legendary in certain circles. I know for a fact that at least three different high-profile clients are begging him to return to the field, offering obscene amounts of money for his protection. Instead, he's here. In this small town. Wasting his life and talent on what he calls a "mental health break."
Mental health break. I call bullshit. But then again, who am I to talk? I'm here too, aren't I? In this town that doesn't even have a Tom Ford store, let alone any form of luxury retail that could address my admittedly concerning clothing addiction.
