I did. Etienne was the romantic of our pack. The one who believed in fated matches and grand gestures and love at first scent. We'd learned the hard lesson thatnone of that should be trusted the hard way five years ago when he'd fallen for an omega who'd turned out to be more interested in our bank account than his knot.
"As long as it's not as hard as last time," I muttered, handing the phone back. "That man is an out and out romantic."
Fritz pocketed his phone but didn't move. His gaze stayed fixed on me.
"He smells a scent on her."
My pulse kicked. "What kind of scent?"
"The kind that makes an alpha pay attention."
I turned away, reaching for the crystal decanter on the bar behind me. The whiskey sloshed as I poured two fingers into a glass.
“Want one?”
“No.”
"It's not unusual to smell a scent." I took a sip, the burn steadied me. "Omegas have scents. So do alphas. It's biology."
"Henry."
"No. One scent isn’t enough. It's having all matching scents that makes a match unique." I met his eyes over the rim of my glass. "And that is doubtful."
Fritz said nothing. He was perceptive enough to know I'd smelled something on Presley. I wasn't ready to admit it.
Fritz watched me with a knowing look, it made my back teeth grind.
I set the glass down harder than necessary. "Show me again."
He pulled out his phone, but I was already moving to my computer. I opened the security system, found the timestamp, pulled up the footage on the larger screen.
The drawing room filled my monitor in full color now.
I watched as she danced and laughed. I watched every moment of Etienne's shirt as it rode up her legs.
But this time I noticed other things.
The vase on the mantelpiece that hadn't been there yesterday, now held wildflowers, the cheap kind you bought from a petrol station, but she'd arranged them carefully. The cushions on the sofa had been moved, rearranged into a pattern that was more lived-in. The throw blanket that normally lived folded on the ottoman was now draped over the arm of the chair, like she'd been curled up there reading.
She'd already made the space hers. The thought hit me sideways.
I bought the townhouse six years ago. Filled it with expensive furniture and original art and everything a man of my station was supposed to own. But it had never felt warm. It had never felt like anything other than a place to sleep between business trips.
Now there were flowers. There was warmth. There was an omegain our home.
On screen, Presley spun again. The shirt rode up, exposing the smooth expanse of her thighs, the curve of her backside. She wore nothing underneath.
My cock jolted.
I shifted in my chair, jaw clenching as I forced my gaze away from the screen.
"She looks different," I said, my voice tight. "Here."
"Different how?"
"Lighter." The word felt inadequate. "Happier."
She did.
