This omega—this stunning, infuriating, utterly captivating woman—caught my attention the moment she walked into the mixer. And I wasn't the only one. The entire room noticed her arrival. Conversations faltered mid-sentence. Glasses paused halfway to lips. Every head in the venue turned toward the entrance like flowers orienting toward the sun.
I've seen beautiful omegas before. In my line of work, I've protected models, actresses, socialites—women whose entire careers are built on being looked at. But there was something different about the way this one commanded attention. It wasn't just beauty. It waspresence. The kind of energy that fills a room and makes everyone else fade into the background.
The world quieted down for her grand entrance, and she walked through that silence like she'd orchestrated it herself.
You could tell, just by looking at her, that she knew exactly who the fuck she was. Her posture was perfect—spine straight, shoulders back, chin lifted at an angle that saidI dare you to underestimate me. She moved with the kind of confidence that forces the world to acknowledge your existence without trying too hard. Natural. Effortless. Like breathing.
The dress was black lace, short in front but trailing in the back, and it showed off her legs in a way that made my mouth go dry. The back was completely open—a daring choice that revealed the intricate butterfly tattoo spanning her shoulder blades, the definition of muscles that told me she didn't just look strong, shewasstrong. The heels were red on the bottom—even I know what that means, and I don't give a damn about fashion.
Her hair was curled to perfection, falling just past her shoulders in waves that caught the light. Pearls at her throat. A face that could launch a thousand ships and sink every single one of them without blinking.
Everything about her was simply perfect.
I don't know much about brands and designer shit—that's Julian's territory. But if he got a look at this woman, he'd be trying to get her to model something within five minutes. She fits all the right boxes: the bone structure, the bearing, the way she carries herself like she's perpetually walking a runway. And that's coming from me, the guy who normally couldn't give less of a damn about aesthetics.
But nothing—nothing—was more enchanting than her scent.
It had hit me across the room, cutting through the mingled fragrances of a hundred other attendees like a blade through butter. Cinnamon sugar and roasted coffee beans at the base—warm, inviting, the kind of scent that makes you think of Sunday mornings and lazy afternoons. Layered over that, dark vanilla and soft amber, complex and intoxicating.
She was wearing perfume too—I could pick out the floral vanilla notes, something expensive and sophisticated that blended seamlessly with her natural omega fragrance. The combination was familiar in a way I couldn't immediately place, until it clicked: Julian. She was wearing the kind of stuff Julian likes. Tom Ford, maybe. Something with cherry undertones that complemented her warmth without overwhelming it.
Is that why Julian asked me to look out for her? Because her scent profile matched his preferences so perfectly it couldn't be coincidence?
The phone call this morning replays in my head—Julian's carefully neutral voice asking what the chances were that I'd bodyguard an omega for him. No explanation. No context. Justthe request and a set of vague instructions: keep her safe, don't let anyone take her, report back if anything suspicious happens.
I can see now why she'd be a target. Either she's from some rich royal family visiting this small town to do business, or she genuinely doesn't grasp how elite she looks. How utterly out of place in a community mixer filled with locals who probably shop at Target and consider Olive Garden fine dining.
Why she's being targeted, though—that's the question that's been eating at me all night.
When Julian first called, I thought this would be a waste of time. Some favor for a stranger, probably Julian trying to network his way into a new business opportunity through elaborate social maneuvering. The free entry to the mixer was nice—pretending to be a hired bodyguard isn't exactly difficult when you've been an actual bodyguard—but I figured I'd spend the evening bored out of my mind, watching some privileged omega get wined and dined by eager Alphas.
I was wrong.
Because she's not a complete stranger. I've seen her before.
A few months back, Nash asked me to help with a self-defense class for omegas at the community center. Nash—the cowboy with the drawl and the easy smile—had been running these classes for years, but his pack had just found their omega, and he needed someone to cover while they adjusted to the bond. Couldn't blame him. Watching Nash and his packmates with their new omega was like watching a puzzle finally click into place.
They were expecting now, last I heard. Everything happened so fucking fast with them—meeting her, courting her, bonding, starting a family. To outsiders it probably looked rushed, impulsive, maybe even reckless. But that's how it is when you find your missing piece. Everything flows at a pace that makes sense to you, even if no one else understands.
She was in that class. The omega currently melting in my arms. She'd come with two other women—locals, I think—and she'd been quiet. Focused. Taking notes like she was studying for an exam rather than learning how to break someone's wrist. I remember correcting her stance during one of the techniques, my hands careful on her hips as I adjusted her position, and thinking that she had potential.
More than potential, actually. She'd picked up the techniques faster than most, her body remembering movements like she'd done something similar before. There was a moment—near the end of the session—when I'd demonstrated a wrist lock and she'd executed it perfectly on the first try. The other women in the class had laughed nervously, impressed and slightly intimidated. She'd just nodded, filed the information away, and asked what came next.
I'd wondered about her then. About who she was and where she came from and why an omega with obvious prior training was taking a beginner's self-defense class in a small town like Oakridge Hollows.
Didn't think much of it at the time. Didn't let myself.
But I remember her. I remember the way she moved, the quiet intensity in her eyes, the way she smelled even then—cinnamon and vanilla cutting through the sweat and exertion of the training room.
I wonder sometimes if my pack will ever find what Nash has. That easy completion. That sense of finally being whole after years of searching and waiting and hoping.
Nash's pack gave me a twinkle of hope back then. Proof that it could happen, even for Alphas who'd started to doubt. But that was months ago, and Valentine's Day is approaching, and once again I'm reminded that we're entering our thirties without an omega to show for it.
Julian is thirty-five. I'm thirty-two. Elias—our youngest, the firefighter with the easy laugh and the inability to take anything seriously—is twenty-nine. We're the "late" Alphas, as they call it in certain circles. The ones who missed the window, who failed to secure an omega during the prime bonding years, who are now considered... defective.
We've each dealt with it differently. Julian drowns himself in work, building an empire so successful that no one can question his worth even without a bond. Elias pretends it doesn't bother him, throws himself into saving lives and riding horses and being the charming one who makes everyone laugh. And me? I go quiet. Put up walls. Focus on protecting other people because it's easier than thinking about what I'm missing.
Defective. Like we're broken appliances rather than human beings with complicated lives and complicated histories and complicated reasons for why things haven't worked out yet.
