The deputy releases him, and he stumbles slightly, catching himself with a grace that seems accidental. Then he lifts his head.
Oh.
His eyes are blue. The color of summer skies and mountain lakes and those perfect cloudless days you remember your whole life. Even glazed and unfocused, even rimmed with exhaustion and whatever else is running through his system, they’re the kind of eyes that stop you in your tracks and make you forget what you were about to say.
They find mine, and something in my chest does a lazy flip. He’s stunning, with a face made for trouble. High cheekbones, a strong nose with a slight crook, full lips that curve into a slow smile as he registers my presence. There’s something almost boyish about his expression despite the sheer masculine size of him.
He grins at me entirely too confidently for someone who’s being collected from a jail cell, and I feel that grin all the way down to my toes.
“Hello there.” His voice is low and rough, and a buzz runs down my spine. “Didn’t know they let angels into places like this.”
I arch an eyebrow while the deputy chuckles. “Save it, cowboy. I’m nobody’s angel, and you’re nobody’s prize catch right now.”
“That so?” He tilts his head, considering me, and his smile widens. “Because from where I’m standing, you look pretty heavenly to me.”
“From where you’re standing, you can barely stand.”
He laughs at that, and somehow that’s worse than flirting. A laugh like that shouldn’t be allowed at two in the morning. It’s too genuine, too inviting, too likely to make a girl forget her purpose.
“Fair point,” he concedes, swaying again. Then he straightens up—or tries to—and attempts a bow that nearly sends him toppling. “Seth Benton, at your service. And you are?”
“June. I’m your ride.”
“June.” He says my name like he’s savoring it, rolling it around on his tongue. “Pretty name. Pretty girl.”
“Flattery won’t get you home faster. Let’s go.” I reach out and grab his elbow, my fingers barely making a dent in the solid muscle there. Even through his shirt, I feel the heat of him, the coiled strength. “I’ve got a bed waiting for me, and it’s not going to wait forever.”
“A bed?” His eyebrows shoot up, and that grin turns downright wicked. “Darlin’, I like where this is going.”
“My bed. Alone. While you sober up at the motel. Move it.”
I start steering him toward the exit door, nodding my thanks to the deputy as we pass. He comes along willingly enough.
“You’re bossy,” he observes cheerfully. “I like bossy.”
“You won’t like it when I leave you on the side of the road in the middle of nowhere.”
“You wouldn’t do that.” He’s still grinning.
“Try me.”
He laughs that warm, rumbling sound and stumbles into my side. I brace myself, but it’s like trying to stabilize a redwood—he’s solid, heavy, and entirely too close.
And that’s when I catch his scent. There’s alcohol there, sure—whiskey, probably—sharp and unmistakable, but it’s faint. A top note rather than the main event. Underneath it, there’s leather, coffee, and the sweetest chocolate.
Instantly, heat pools low in my belly while my pulse kicks up, just enough to notice. There’s a sudden and inexplicable urge to lean closer, to press my nose to his neck and breathe.
What the hell?
I’ve been on suppressants for seven years, ever since I designated as an Omega at eighteen and my parents marched me through every test they could book, desperate to confirm I was fine. They insisted that I didn’t scent right. The results came back clinical and cold: dormant Omega. No distinct pheromones. No cyclical biology. No neat explanation for why my body didn’t behave the way everyone expected it to. I hated those words so much that I cried for a week, then learned how to swallow the grief and smile like it didn’t matter.
“Being a Beta is easier,” my father had said on the drive home, his hands tight on the steering wheel. “People don’t look at Betas the way they look at Omegas. No expectations. No assumptions. No Alphas sniffing around like you’re a prize to be won.”
“You can choose,” my mother had added, turning to look at me in the back seat. “You can live as whatever you want. No one has to know.”
They bought me my first suppressants that day. Helped me file the paperwork. Never mentioned it again.
And I’ve been living the lie ever since.
