But it's his face that gets me.
Amber eyes that crinkle at the corners like he's always on the verge of smiling. Dimples that flash every time his lips twitch. A nose that's been broken at least once, adding character to what would otherwise be boy-next-door handsome.
He's wearing a soft gray hoodie that looks like it's been washed a thousand times, the fabric stretched and comfortable and criminally cozy-looking. Reading glasses are pushed up on his forehead, tangled in his curls like he forgot they were there.
His scent hits me in waves. Fresh-baked cinnamon rolls. Warm oak. A hint of vanilla that makes me think of Sunday mornings and lazy breakfasts in bed.
The kind of scent that makes you want to curl up in his lap and never leave.
Which is a problem.
Because I distinctly remember Cal standing behind Rafe in sixth grade, laughing along with every cruel joke. He never started the torment, no. But he never stopped it either.
Cheerleader accomplice, thy name is Callahan Knox.
And finally, Étienne Laurent.
The shy goalie stands slightly apart from the others, clutching that worn paperback to his chest like a shield. He's the leanest of the three, all wiry muscle and graceful lines. Six foot two, maybe. The kind of build that's deceptively strong, honed by years of explosive movements and split-second reflexes in the crease.
His skin is pale, almost luminous, dusted with freckles that scatter across his cheeks and the bridge of his nose like constellations. His hair is a mess of soft black curls that fall into his eyes, and he keeps pushing them back with long, elegant fingers.
Pianist fingers. Writer fingers.
Fingers that could probably do very interesting things if given the opportunity...
STOP IT, BRAIN.
His face is softer than the others’. Less sharp. A gentle slope of cheekbones, a slightly rounded jaw, lips that look perpetually on the verge of saying something important. His eyes are the color of a winter storm, pale blue with hints of gray, and right now they're watching me with an intensity that makes my breath catch.
His scent is the one that's been clinging to me since he draped his jersey over my shoulders. Snow-dusted evergreens. Old books with yellowed pages. A hint of ink and something warm underneath, like a fireplace on a cold night.
Safety. That's what he smells like. Safety…and secrets but also a pinch of quiet understanding?Odd to think that way when it comes to aromas caught by the nostrils, but I guess nothing is really odd in this Alpha and Omega dynamic.
The weird thing is, when I try to remember sixth grade, try to place him in the crowd of tormentors, I come up blank.
Rafe was the ringleader.
Cal was the laughing sidekick.
But Étienne?
I can't recall a single cruel word from his lips.
Can't picture him joining the chants or snickering behind his hand.
Odd.
All three of them together create a scent combination that should be illegal.
Cedar smoke and cinnamon and evergreens, blending into a symphony that makes my Omega hindbrain want to build a nest right here in this hallway and never leave.
A nest.
With three Alphas who ruined my childhood.
Sure, Mabeline. Grand plan. Very sane.
I shake myself out of my observation spiral just as Miss Phillip clears her throat pointedly.
