I scan the crowd, trying to imagine myself with any of them. The beta actor’s cute enough, I guess, if you ignore the wedding ring tan line he’s trying to hide. The omega models would probably be fun for a night, but they’d sell the story to TMZ before the sheets were cold. And the alphas…
No. Never the alphas.
My skin crawls just thinking about it. The way they look at omegas like we’re prizes to be won. Possessions to be claimed. The way they smell—aggressive and overwhelming, designed to make omegas submit whether we want to or not. Van Schmidt smelled like cedar and smoke the night he?—
Don’t.
I take another shot.
Mason reappears through the crowd, carrying two glasses of water and looking mildly annoyed. His tie’s gone completelynow, top button undone, and there’s a faint flush to his cheeks that makes him look younger. Softer.
“Someone grabbed my ass,” he announces, setting the water down with more force than necessary.
“Welcome to Hollywood.”
“I’m serious. Twice.”
“Was it the blonde at the bar? She’s been eyeing you all night.”
He shudders. “Alpha.”
Of course. Mason’s an omega, like me, though he hides it well enough that most people don’t realize until they’ve known him for a while. Suppressants, scent blockers and professional distance work wonders. But in a place like this, with pheromones thick enough to choke on and inhibitions lower than the necklines, even the best suppressants can’t mask everything.
“You okay?”
“Fine.” He sits closer than before, our thighs touching. “Just reminded me why I hate these things.”
“And yet you come with me every time.”
“Someone has to make sure you get home safe.”
The words are casual, but there’s weight behind them. Mason’s been taking care of me for three years now, ever since my last assistant quit mid-nervous breakdown (mine, not theirs). He’s seen me at my absolute worst—passed out in bathroom stalls, sobbing over bad reviews, panic attacks in parking garages—and never once judged me for it.
Anyone I ever consider dating has to be a better partner than Mason is to me, which is impossible. The thought comes unbidden, tequila-honest and dangerous.
“Mase?”
“Mm?”
“Do you ever wonder what it would be like if things were different?”
He goes still beside me. “Different how?”
“I don’t know. Just… different. If we weren’t who we are. If this wasn’t our life.”
“Sometimes.”
I turn to look at him more closely, really look at him, and find him already watching me. His eyes are darker in the club lights, pupils blown wide, and there’s something in his expression I’ve never seen before. Or maybe I have and just refused to acknowledge it.
“Phoenix—”
Before I can do something stupid—like find out what Mason tastes like or if his hair is as soft as it looks—I throw my arms around him in a messy hug.
“I’m so happy you’re here,” I say into his shoulder, words slurring slightly. “You’re the best thing in my life, you know that? The only real thing.”
His arms come around me slowly, carefully, like I might break. Or like he might.
“You’re drunk.”
