What the hell is happening?
My eucalyptus frost sharpens instinctively—a defensive spike, my body’s attempt to reassert dominance over the unexpected reaction—but beneath it, something shifts. The dark cocoa undertones of my scent warm without permission, the smoked clove softening at the edges in a way I associate with?—
No.
Absolutely not.
We are not doing this. Not here. Not now. Not with some stranger in a doorway who looks like he’s barely old enough to rent a car.
I lock it down.
Every ounce of training, every year of practice, every hard-won technique for controlling my scent profile in high-pressure situations—I deploy all of it simultaneously, slamming the cocoa warmth back behind the frost, caging the clove, burying whatever treasonous response my biology attempted beneath layers of cold eucalyptus and winter rain.
You’re a goddamn chief, Martinez. Act like one.
He smirks.
And god help me, the smirk is worse than the scent.
It’s playful in a way that doesn’t ask for permission—a lopsided tilt of the mouth that dimples one cheek and crinkles the scar above his eyebrow and radiates the kind of youthful, easy charm that I haven’t encountered since before my career taught me that charm is usually the first weapon deployed by people who intend to hurt you.
Young. Green. Probably thinks that smile gets him whatever he wants.
Probably right, too, which is the infuriating part.
“Before you snap at me—” He lifts both hands, palms out, the universal gesture ofI come in peacedelivered with the casual confidence of someone who has never actually been in a situation where peace wasn’t an option. “I’m part of the oversight crew sent to Sweetwater Falls. We just arrived about twenty minutes ago, and I figured I’d come in and ask where we should park the cruiser before it becomes a territorial dispute with whatever’s currently occupying the lot.”
His voice matches the scent—warm, citrus-bright, with an undercurrent of steadiness that doesn’t quite fit the boyish exterior. There’s no deference in his tone, no submissive adjustment to acknowledge that he’s addressing a superior officer. Just easy, unforced directness that treats our interaction like a conversation between equals.
Oversight crew.
The phrase triggers a cascade of implications I don’t have time to process in front of an audience. Oversight means the city sent people. Means someone decided Sweetwater Falls needed supervision beyond the reassigned Omega they’d already dispatched. Means there are agendas at play that Callahan either orchestrated or failed to prevent.
We’ll deal with that later. Right now, handle the room.
I look him up and down.
Deliberately. Slowly. The kind of full-body assessment that I normally reserve for suspects I’m deciding whether to cuff or release. From the tactical boots—standard issue, well-maintained, recently polished—up through the dark cargo pants that fit his lean frame without being theatrical about it, past the badge clipped to his belt beside what I note is a Glock 19 in a retention holster, up the navy jacket with its oversight insignia stitched to the shoulder, to the auburn hair and green eyes that are watching me watch him with an expression of genuine, unperturbed amusement.
He’s not nervous.
Why isn’t he nervous? Everyone in this room is nervous. I just threatened to dissolve the department. The air still smells like collective panic and singed egos. And this man is standing in the doorway looking at me like I’m the most interesting thing he’s seen all week.
I walk toward him.
The bullpen holds its breath.
I can feel every eye tracking my movement—the officers at their desks, Morales still frozen in her chair, Caldwell with his fallen Rubik’s cube, Dennings pretending not to watch while absolutely watching. The charged silence amplifies each step, my boots marking a cadence against the linoleum that sounds disturbingly like a countdown.
He doesn’t straighten from the doorframe. Doesn’t uncross his arms. Doesn’t do any of the things that Alphas typically do when an Omega approaches with the kind of energy I’m radiating—no puffing up, no territorial posturing, no instinctive assertion of physical dominance. He just…watches. Green eyes steady, scar-split eyebrow slightly raised, that maddening smirk still pulling at one corner of his mouth.
I stop when there’s less than two feet between us.
At this distance, the scent is overwhelming. Candied blood orange so close I can almost taste the sugar crystallizing on citrus rind. Cinnamon bark that radiates heat like a physical thing, warming the air between us until my skin prickles beneath my uniform. Snow-dusted cedar grounding it all, preventing the sweetness from tipping into saccharine, adding a cool, clean depth that my lungs chase with an inhale I disguise as a steadying breath.
Same height.
The realization hits differently up close. I’m used to craning my neck to meet Alpha eyes—five-ten is tall for an Omega but short for the men who typically claim that designation, and the power dynamics of physical height are something I’ve navigated since academy days. But this Alpha meets me level. Direct. Eye to eye, without the literal or metaphorical looking down that I’ve come to expect from his kind.
