It’s a connection.
And I’m here for every glorious, messy second of it.
5
ANITA
Morning sunlight streams through the bedroom window, and I actually pause to appreciate it.
No snow. No mist. Just clear, bright sunshine that makes the harbor sparkle like someone scattered diamonds across the water.
It must be a good omen.
Or maybe it’s the universe’s way of giving me one perfect moment before everything goes spectacularly wrong.
I stand in front of the full-length mirror propped against the wall and take a deep breath.
“All right, Anita. Time to become someone else.”
The suppressants are laid out on the bed behind me. I took the first dose last night, and now I down the second pill with a gulp of water, feeling it slide past my throat. Then I peel open the patch, the kind designed for Omegas who need to mask their scent for medical reasons or personal safety, and press it against my inner wrist. The adhesive is strong, and within seconds, I can feel it working, a slight coolness spreading across my skin.
Next comes the spray. Beta-Blend, the bottle says in discreet lettering.Masculine pheromone enhancement for scent modification.It smells like cedar and something vaguely citrus, clean and neutral. I spray it on my neck, my wrists, behind my ears. The scent mingles with the suppressants and the patch, and suddenly I don’t smell like myself anymore.
I smell like a stranger.
Good.
Now for the hard part.
The wig sits on the dresser, and I pick it up carefully. It’s human hair, expensive, styled in a short cut that’s longer all around, coming to my neck—that adorable, messy look guys wear. The color is a medium brown, just a few shades lighter than my natural chestnut. I tuck my own hair up carefully, pinning it flat against my skull, then settle the wig into place. It takes a few adjustments to get it right, smoothing the edges near my temples, making sure the hairline looks natural.
I stare at myself in the mirror.
Already, I look different. More angular. The shorter hair changes the shape of my face, makes my jaw appear stronger.
Next, the facial hair. I’ve practiced this a dozen times, but my hands still shake slightly as I peel the first piece from its backing. It’s a small patch of stubble, carefully crafted to look like a few days’ growth. I press it along my jawline, smoothing it down, then add more along my chin and upper lip. Not a full beard. Just enough to suggest masculinity without looking like I’m trying too hard.
The eyebrows are next. Mine are naturally arched, feminine. I apply the fake brow pieces carefully, making them thicker, straighter, more severe.
Then the contacts. I blink them into place, and my hazel eyes with their gold flecks disappear, replaced by a muddy green that looks nothing like me.
I step back and assess.
Holy shit.
I look like a guy.
Not just any guy. An attractive guy. Ash Monroe, Beta male, cute in that soft-featured, artistic way. The kind of guy who probably writes poetry and knows how to make a good latte.
“Damn, Ash,” I mutter. “You’re kind of hot.”
I pull on the chest binder next, wrapping it tightly around my ribs. It’s uncomfortable, restrictive, but it does the job. With the binder and the right clothes, I can pass as semi-small-chested. Looks like I might work out a bit.
The clothes are a fitted shirt, layered under a navy blue flannel shirt left unbuttoned. Dark jeans that sit lower on my hips than I’m used to, changing my silhouette. Thick socks. And boots, masculine work boots with good tread.
I tuck the top in slightly, letting the flannel hang loose, and study the effect.
Yeah. This works.
