by Lola Rock
It would be gorgeous if not for the touches of frat boy.
The bag of salt and vinegar chips that Craig left to marinate adds to the rubble of open packages on the table and counters. Crumbs dust every surface, and dead moths pile under the fancy under-cabinet lighting.
I shudder.
Mess in your home is like nails on the chalkboard of an omega’s brain. It’s not even my home, and I have to take a few deep breaths to stop myself from hyperventilating.
Maybe it’s different for male omegas? There were never many at the OCC and they mostly kept the guys apart from the female side of campus.
We tend to react…explosively to each other. Full-on clawing, biting, hair-pulling embarrassment.
I should ignore Craig’s order and scamper back downstairs, but since he told me to put stuff away…
No one will mind if I clean a little. I’ll have nightmares of ants biting my ass if I don’t deal with this slobbery.
I toss the petrified remains of chips and snack cakes into the trash and quickly stash Craig’s “groceries,” which is code for chips, cookies, and instant noodles. When I put away the one almost fruit—a jug of orange juice—I gag when I open the fridge.
It’s a graveyard of sauces and takeout containers that time forgot.
I jam in the juice and fall back against the door.
Nightmare city.
I’m starting to get curious about Orion. I guess an omega who can tolerate Craig is an omega who knows how to tolerate all kinds of shit.
For now, I put everything in the cupboards, remembering which ones have the food, just in case I need to sneak a meal of cheese puffs.
It’s fine for me—I’m trying to screw with my hormones. Any other omega would shrivel up if all their meals came out of plastic bags.
I’m using wadded paper towels to herd moth corpses without touching them when I catch the sound of soft footfalls.
“Craig?” asks a male voice as silky and sweet as unicorn fur. “What did I tell you about—”
The footsteps die in the doorway.
I tense like a tarantula rears between my shoulder blades, fangs poised to strike.
I hold my breath.
I don’t turn around.
Maybe he’ll keep walking.
Maybe he’ll pretend this never happened.
“You’re not supposed to be here,” he growls with rage so spiky, I jump.
A whiff of apple cider sneaks into my nose and bubbles into my bloodstream.
My mouth waters.
My knees wobble.
My body doesn’t know what to do.
Do I lick him?
Do I grovel?
I tremble, aware on a cellular level that I’m the one in his territory. I’m the intruder. The enemy.
“I’m sorry.” I turn slowly, opening my palms, dipping my head, and keeping my gaze dropped to the floor.
But speaking means breathing and I catch a face full of the sweetest omega scent I’ve ever tasted.
I’ve smelled hundreds of omegas. Hundreds of scents, no two even close to similar, and I’ve loathed every. Single. One.
If they smelled floral, they were too fake. If they smelled like baked goods, they were too thick and cloying and ugh.
This scent is…
Crisp apple cider with hints of autumn.
It’s like snuggling under a blanket in an apple orchard, gazing up at the stars feeling comfy and cozy and so impossibly safe.
It’s exactly where I want to be.
It’s exactly what I want.
“Why are you upstairs?” his voice shakes. “Why are you here?”
I can’t look at him. My throat muscles clench and unclench. “Craig told me to— I didn’t mean—”
“Get out,” he says roughly.
I lift my head just high enough to see his toes. He wears thick socks where he stands, totally blocking the doorway.
I shuffle to the side, hugging the wall of cabinets. I know I can’t look at him. It’ll break me to see the hate in his eyes. To see the man who smells like that staring at me like I’m scum.
Shuffle-stepping, I make my way around the kitchen, looking only at the tiles.
He steps back when I come too close. “I don’t want to see you again.”
“Okay,” I yelp, slithering away, needing to be anywhere but here.
“Wait.”
My joints lock like he just barked an alpha command, every inch of me alert for his next words.
“You’re bleeding,” he says softly.
If he told me to fuck off, I would.
If he told me to disappear, I’d be gone.
But if he tells me you’re bleeding in that voice, that silky, sexy voice, how am I supposed to keep looking away?
My gaze snaps to him.
Our eyes clang, and a chip falls from my heart with a crisp, metallic sound that makes my ears ring.
Angel blond curls with sapphire blue eyes and a collar of glittering silver mate bites.
All he needs is armor and a horse and he’d be a prince.
But Orion isn’t here for a rescue. He’s here for my execution.
“Get out.” His plush pink lips curl. “Out!”
I run, the back of my throat tasting like blood.
Fourteen
ORION
I grip the doorframe, shaking. My nostrils flare, trying to pull in Lilah’s scent, but she’s long gone and there’s nothing.
Nothing!
My crazy fucking hormones riot.
She’s so tiny and beautiful, and I know without even one doubt that the guys are going to leave me for her.
I came downstairs to tell off Craig, who knows he’s not supposed to creep around the house. But who do I find putting away the food?
A strange omega.
Lilah Darling.
I bit back the urge to jump her, strangle her, and throw her the fuck out of my territory.
Then she submitted.
She trembled, apologizing, offering me her neck, and the more she flinched, the more impossible it was to stay mad. Which pissed me off even more. Because that’s exactly how she’ll worm her way into my packmates’ hearts.
That’s how she’ll replace me.
With big grey eyes that stare into your soul and bloody marks on the floor that trick you into thinking it would be a great idea to sweep her into your arms and comfort her.
More than half of me wants to chase her. Maybe push her down the stairs. Smother the girl with a lead pillow before she steals every last person I love.
This is the third time I’ve met a female omega. The first was when I met my little cousin, Phaedra. A sweet, shy girl who gripped her mother’s shirt and everyone instantly loved.
Even Atlas.
The second time was when Atlas took me to the OCC to officially register my omega status. I don’t know her name, but the woman smelled sweet as buttercream frosting and wore a coy smile that drove alphas insane. Every male in the building would’ve rutted her in the lobby, right next to the fake fucking ferns.
While holding my hand, Atlas tracked her like a wolf stalking a fawn, nostrils flaring, pupils dilating.
Now there’s a female just like that inside my home.
And fuck is she perfect.
I want to kill her at the same time I want to bring her a blanket and fresh bandages for her feet because why the hell is she bleeding on my floor?
I lean over one of the splotches where she soaked through her gauze, giving a tentative sniff. It’s iron. Metallic. Not a hint of pheromone.
That lack is the only thing standing between me and losing my pack. As soon as she perfumes, I’m fucked.
I trudge upstairs to Jett’s office. He’s not home. None of them ever are, off dealing with the Redfang fallout they’ve barely told me about. Even when they’re not on mission, they’re busy at HQ, teaching classes and guiding the recruits.
I’m banned from the building.
Scorpio says it’s not per
sonal. An omega who can’t control his perfume will only stir up the students and spark dominance battles.
So I’m stuck. Alone.
It leaves me too much time with my thoughts, and today, too much time with the security cams. I pull up the feed from a few minutes ago, skipping back until Lilah crouches in her room, timidly listening against the door.
I watch her creep, babying her feet, but moving so smoothly this can’t be her first time playing wraith. When she meets Craig, and the shithead goes after her, I should be cheering. Instead, I scowl at the screen.
“I just wanted to ask for the Wi-Fi password,” she says softly.
Craig thinks the girl is a hacker?
Even I’m not that insane.
Besides, why would Lilah need to hack our files?
She’s a female omega. All she has to do is ask. The guys will give, tell, or steal her any little thing she wants.
Maybe not yet, but she’s been here one night, and she already has Finn mesmerized. Maybe Hunter, too.
How long until Atlas caves? And Jett? He looks at her like he’s seeing a ghost.
Fucking Craig.
He orders the girl to do chores like he’s a bitten-in member of the pack, which he’s not and will never be unless I’m dead and the guys are insane. Lilah does his job better than him, quickly putting away the food and cleaning the filth.
I’d do it myself, except I hate being downstairs with Craig stalking around, shooting me moon eyes and panting after my alphas. It was even worse when we hired a housekeeper. I could smell the woman for weeks. It made me extra twitchy, expecting the lady to pop around a corner every second.
The video keeps playing, and I watch myself meet Lilah.
I look wrecked.
She looks terrified, absolutely cowering from me.
Which makes me guilty.
Which makes me mad.
And now I’m sweating, itchy under my collar, and craving a hug from alphas who won’t have thought of me in hours.
Ripping into her, I look like a genuine crazy person.
She runs to the basement, then outside, escaping through the gardens. Frowning, I switch to the live cam feeds until I find her again. Jett must’ve programed the drones to follow any motion outside because one’s already locked on to her, following her sprint toward the lake.
When Lilah reaches the shore, she strips down and dives into the frigid water. She acts like she’s training for the Olympics.
With her out of the house and totally off the property, the worst of my territorial insanity fades. I can breathe without inhaling angry sparks and finally see reality instead of crazed omega bullshit.
Lilah swims like sharks are chasing. Alone in the water, she looks even tinier. Vulnerable.
She’s not acting like an omega who wants to steal my pack. She acts like she doesn’t want to be here.
I feel like an ass for yelling at her, letting my instincts ride me. I want to apologize. Maybe even come to a truce. Have a real conversation where I warn her away without ripping off her face.
Before I can second-guess, I’m already walking to the lake.
The lake’s far enough away that it’s off our property, but when I reach the shore, Lilah’s still grinding laps. I pull up a log next to her pile of clothes, sniffing for pheromones.
There’s no scent.
She doesn’t notice me, swimming, swimming, swimming until I start to get tired. When she finally crawls out of the water, I realize how deeply I’ve miscalculated.
Water soaks her white bra and cotton panties, revealing the blush pink skin underneath. My heart stutters. She’s delicate and vulnerable. Alpha candy.
Everything I’ll never be.
She’s an enemy. An omega.
All the reasons I shouldn’t react to her.
My dick doesn’t get that memo.
I’m rock fucking hard like one of my alphas has me splayed out, pinned on a knot so big I can feel it in my lungs.
She’s female for shit’s sake.
I fell for Atlas long before I thought about being attracted to women, but one flash of her pouty plump lips, hard nipples, and tight wet body, and holy fucking fuck do I want to do some exploring.
Lilah’s nostrils flare, catching my raging perfume. Her grey eyes widen like a mouse who just noticed the raptor circling. She ducks, half covering herself, half submitting.
Still an asshole, I remind myself.
“Here.” I whip off my hoodie and toss it to her.
She catches it awkwardly, holding it away from her body like a dirty diaper. Her nose wrinkles. “I can’t.”
“You’re shivering,” I insist. “And I want to talk. It’ll be easier if you’re carrying my scent.” Total bullshit—I shouldn’t want anyone wearing my scent but my mates—but I’m curious what I smell like spread all over Lilah Darling’s skin.
With a strained expression, she pulls the hoodie over her head, breathing high and shallow. I’m not quite close enough to see, but I swear her pupils dilate.
I stare, trying to understand this strange girl.
Trying to understand my reaction to her.
Mostly trying to understand why the fuck an enemy omega looks so unholy good draped in my shirt.
“If you don’t want me to swim…” She shifts from foot to foot.
“You can swim.” I scrub a hand through my hair, frustrated at myself for so many reasons. “I want to apologize for earlier. I can’t think when you’re in the house.”
She lets out a huff. “I get it. I’m surprised you haven’t stabbed me.”
“Not yet.” But if she starts perfuming, hide the knives.
“I didn’t know.” She peeks hesitantly from under lashes so thick I lose track of the conversation.
“What?”
“I didn’t know Wyvern Pack had an omega. I didn’t want to be here anyway, but I never would’ve agreed if I knew. I promise I’ll stay away from your alphas.” Lilah submits, showing her neck, and the twisted, always tightening knots inside me finally loosen.
“Is it crazy that I’m waiting for you to perfume and steal them?”
“That’ll never happen.” She rubs her arms, shuddering. “I’m out of here the second I figure out how to pay off my debt.”
There’s something in the way Lilah never tests my gaze that makes me believe her. “Does Scorpio know that’s your plan?”
“He didn’t give me a choice. I’m a Darling.”
I’ve never thought much about the OCC’s wards. It must suck ass with no one looking out for you. I could start to imagine, except the crazy part of me isn’t big on compassion for the competition. “I’d say make yourself at home, but…”
She laughs bitterly. “I get it.”
She really does.
In a rare fusion between my crazy and sane halves, I step to her, pulling out the marker I brought just for this.
I take her slender wrist. She’s chilly from the water, and her pulse quickens under her near-translucent skin. I can’t help sniffing as I scrawl the Wi-Fi password on Lilah’s palm.
She smells like lake water. And piney, masculine shampoo.
The first, fine.
The second, motherfuckingshit.
I drop the marker, a warning rumble vibrating my chest.
She freezes.
“Hunter’s shampoo,” I growl, ready to rip into her, tear her away from my mates.
“Go.” She ducks lower, showing submission that clears my head just enough to listen to what she’s saying. “You’ll feel better when you can’t scent me.”
I sprint to the house.
As soon as my nose clears, so does my head.
I climb the porch steps and lean against the back door, chest heaving.
All I can see are Lilah’s grey eyes, and a single thought ricochets through my strung-out brain.
Why does my enemy understand me better than my own goddamned pack?
Fifteen
LILAH
Orion’
s fly-by leaves me with whiplash. As soon as he’s out of sight, I tear off his hoodie and dive into the lake. I was so exhausted I could barely crawl out of the water, but Orion’s sweet scent jolts my system like a mouthful of coffee syrup.
That poison apple scent won’t wash out.
I swear my nipples are perked because of the cold, not because of him. The curl of warmth in my belly is harder to explain away.
Shitballs.
Even the Wyvern pack’s omega is torturing my hormones. The more I scent them, the more I’m around them, the closer my awakening creeps.
I crush laps until I can barely keep my head above the water. Then I finally claw back to shore. When I tossed Orion’s hoodie, it landed on my pile of clothes. Everything’s soaked in apple cider, and shrugging into my sweats feels like doing a shot of sweetness.
Laundry just became the goal of my life.
I run to the house while trying to hold my breath, but crisp apple creeps into my throat.
I’m more careful when I’m on the property, stopping behind a tree to make sure no one’s around. I tiptoe into the basement and press my ear against the gym door before picking the lock again.
Even bracing for it, I choke on a whiff of Hunter’s rich smoke. His leftover sweat and pheromones are thrown down like a sex gauntlet.
All five of the guys have clothes piled around the washer and dryer, all filthy with their scents in the way that shouldn’t be so fucking good. Atlas’s leather, Hunter’s mezcal, Finn’s spicy orange, and Jett’s deep, mysterious cedar, all cut through with Orion’s apple-like-an-orgasm.
I strip down, not giving a shit about anything while I’m fighting those scents and the butterflies in my stomach.
Fuckers need their wings hacked off.
Tossing my stuff into the washed-but-not-dried clothes already in the machine, I pour a ridiculous amount of de-scenting solution in with the soap and start the load.
Once it’s rumbling, I dart back to my room for a shower—this time without Hunter’s damned body wash that’s destined for the trash.
In clean sweats, I finally key in the Wi-Fi password that Orion scrawled on my hand. It feels like he branded me, and I’ll need ten more showers before I can escape his touch.