I want my closet. I want my nest. I want the specific smell of my own worn blankets and the way the darkness in that corner felt like something that belonged only to me.
Mom parks and gets out, smoothing down her dress, already moving toward the entrance with the confidence of someone who's decided this is hers. It occurs to me that she spent time preparing for this moment and didn't extend me the same consideration. I'm still in my dirty apron, smelling like a kitchen,exactly the wrong version of myself for whatever performance is about to be required.
I dry swallow two more blockers before she can see, grimacing at the bitterness coating my tongue. Then I force myself out of the car.
Except the moment we reach the steps, I understand that it won't matter.
The air here is different. Underneath the polish and the manicured grounds and the cool night smell of expensive landscaping, there is something else entirely, and my freshly doubled dose doesn't stand a chance against it.
Alphas.
Not just one. At least two, maybe three, each one distinct and layered over the others, making my head swim before I've even crossed the threshold. Something deep in my chest starts to purr and I clamp down on it viciously, nails biting into my palms.
No. Absolutely not.
Mom doesn't bother knocking. She swings the door open and I follow a few steps behind, hands clenched at my sides, every ounce of my concentration dedicated to staying controlled.
The inside of the house is even more intimidating than the outside. The entryway alone is enormous, a chandelier overhead that probably costs more than I'll make in my lifetime. Everything is white and grey and chrome, spotless and sterile and utterly without warmth.
It feels like a very expensive hotel, the kind of place designed to impress rather than comfort, and nothing about it settles the alarm bells going off steadily in the back of my mind.
But that's not the worst of it.
The Alpha scents are even stronger in here. They layer over every surface, saturating the air until I can barely take a breath without tasting them. Leather and smoke, pine and cedar, and underneath both of those something darker, something thatmakes my skin prickle with unease even as my body strains toward it.
My Omega instincts go fully haywire. Every piece of training I have is suddenly fighting a losing battle against the sheer volume of compatible Alpha presence in this building, the air thick with it, my body responding before I've had time to build a single wall.
The urge to bare my throat, to drop to my knees, to find the source of that leather-and-smoke and press myself against it and beg to be touched and held and kept is so overwhelming that my vision actually swims.
I shove it down so hard my teeth ache with the effort.
This is what the blockers are for. This is what the training is for. I am not going to fall apart in the foyer of a stranger's house because his home smells like everything my instincts have ever wanted. My heats are managed and scheduled and handled without any of this messy instinctive nonsense, and this is no different. This is just chemistry. Just biology. It means nothing.
But the leather and smoke starts to curl around me like a hand at my throat, and the pine and cedar settles over my shoulders like something I was supposed to find years ago, and despite everything I have ever taught myself, a small, wretched whimper tears from the back of my throat.
Mom's hand cracks against the back of my head, sharp enough to make my eyes water. "Behave," she hisses. "What did I just tell you? Do you want to ruin this before it even starts?"
I bite down on the inside of my cheek hard enough to taste copper, forcing myself still. My eyes sting but I blink back the tears, fix my gaze on the floor, and breathe through my nose in slow careful increments. The urge to whimper again starts to build regardless of my efforts.
I know better. I have always known better.
Omegas who submit get used. Omegas who show their need get exploited. I've watched Mom prove it over and over again, on every mark she's ever run, on every Alpha who thought he'd found something real and ended up with nothing. My need is a tool in her hands and a liability in mine, and the moment I forget that distinction is the moment everything falls apart.
I dig my nails deeper into my palms and anchor myself to the pain instead of the scents wrapping around me. I'm not going to fall apart or give in.
But as another wave of those two scents moves through the air and my body responds to it, something tells me I've never been in a situation quite like this one before.
And I'm not entirely sure my training is going to be enough.
Dominic
Standinginthehomeoffice with my hands clasped behind my back, I feel more like a personal guard than the son and heir of Richard Hale, CEO of Hale Industries. Amos stands beside me in the same position, both of us waiting while our father paces behind his massive mahogany desk. The office reeks of expensive cigars and aged whiskey, scents that have become synonymous with lectures and disappointment over the years.
"The quarterly report was a disaster," Father growls, his voice clipped with barely restrained fury. "How you managed to let an error like that slip through is beyond me. Do you have any idea how that makes us look to the board?"
I bite back the response sitting on my tongue. The error was caught immediately, corrected within hours, and the employee responsible was dismissed before the end of the business day. We handled it exactly as we should have, quickly and efficiently, but Father doesn't care about that. He cares about the fact that it happened at all, that something under our watch went wrong, even briefly.
Anything that threatens Hale Industries' image is a problem in his book.
