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With shaky hands, I strip the sheets from the bed, bundling them up and carrying them to the laundry room on the first floor. There is a little laundry room off the kitchen, with one very large laundry basket. Of course there is clothing in the washer that I have to turn over, but that’s fine. I toss the sheets in the washing machine, add a generous amount of detergent, and start the cycle. The rhythmic hum of the machine helps to soothe my frayed nerves.
Next, I head to the bathroom and turn on the shower, letting steam fill the room as I step under the hot spray. The water cascades over my body, washing away the remnants of slick and calming my jittery muscles. I take my time, lathering up with the vanilla-scented body wash someone stocked in the bathroom, and enjoy the momentary peace.
Once I’m clean and dry, I dress in a pair of leggings and an oversized sweater that I’d hastily stuffed into my work bag yesterday, thanking my past self for always being prepared for a spontaneous sleepover. I grab the bag and head downstairs, snagging the keys to Quinn’s car from the island. That is where I pause. If I go out, I’ll end up smelling like a delicious snack to any and all alphas I come across.
I’ve spent a lot of time finding ways to destroy my scent. Nothing works as good as onions, but I think I might find spray somewhere.
Feeling like a naughty omega, I toss everything back on the counter and return to the second floor. There are five doors—one for each of the guys and the nest they gave me, which I still have thoughts about that I have yet to speak out loud. Who am I kidding? I haven’t even allowed myself to think about it either.
“Fuck it.” I open the first door and peek inside. I immediately know this room belongs to Dash. Between the bright orange accents, leftover pizza boxes, and the laundry on the floor, I should be able to put two and two together. More than that, though, it smells like him, and I have to stop myself from swiping up some slick and tossing it everywhere like a five-finger spray bottle.
An open door leads to the bathroom, which I rush toward because I have very little impulse control and I might flush this room with pheromones.
As I enter the bathroom, I notice it’s a Jack and Jill style with doors on either side, connecting to two separate bedrooms. To my left is a sleek, modern toilet adorned with decorative tiles that resemble leaves. On the right is a large glass shower with chrome fixtures. Next to it is a tall sink with a marble countertop, complete with a standing cabinet for storage. The walls are painted a calming seafoam green, giving the room an airy and inviting feel.
Rifling through Dash’s bathroom cabinets, I search for anything to mask my scent—deodorant, cologne, even mouthwash. I’m desperate. The longer I linger, the more his citrusy aroma engulfs me, making my head spin with desire.
Focus, Aria, focus.
Finally, I spot a half empty can of scent neutralizer spray. Jackpot. I douse myself liberally, coughing as the chemicals tickle my nose. It’s not perfect, but it’ll have to do. I can’t risk drawing unwanted attention, not when my heat is so close.
Feeling nosy, I push the other door open and immediately know it’s Quinn’s room. A desk sits in the corner, with three screens and two keyboards. Directly to my right is his bed, which is barely made, but at least his clothing found the laundry basket.
I could totally fling slick in his room too.
Walk away, Aria, just walk away.
Biting my lip, I turn around and walk out, stealing the spray.
I hurry out of Dash’s room, guilt nipping at my heels for invading his space, but desperate times call for desperate measures, right? I make my way downstairs, keys in hand, ready to face the world…or the lady from the witchy shop.
As I slide into Quinn’s car, the leather seats cool against my feverish skin, I take a deep breath. The witchy shop. That’s my next stop. I need answers, a solution, anything to help me navigate this impending heat without losing myself completely or giving myself away.
I’m well aware that all of my issues could be solved if I just said something, but the problem is the trauma.
Logic and trauma don’t mix. Never have, never will. In my head, I know what I’m supposed to do—call a Clarke pack meeting, let my hormones and pheromones flood the room, and get them alpha drunk on that good smelly shit.
I did that once, though, and almost died from it. I need them to want me for me, and I don’t think it’s too much to ask that they fall in love with me and not my scent. Call me crazy.
The engine purrs to life, and I pull out of the driveway.
The streets are quiet as I drive, only a few early risers out and about. The sun has barely risen, casting a soft glow over the town. The drive to the witchy shop is a blur, my mind consumed by thoughts of my impending heat and the complications it brings. I try to focus on the road, but my omega instincts are screaming at me to turn around and seek out the safety and comfort of the nest.
Of the alphas.
I shake my head, willing the thoughts away. I can’t give in, not now. I need to find a way to maintain control over my body and desires. The witchy shop is my last hope.
I find a spot on the street to park and take a moment to compose myself. I check my reflection in the rearview mirror, ensuring the scent neutralizer spray is still doing its job. Satisfied, I step out of the car and make my way toward the shop, the bell above the door jingling as I enter.
Nightshade Remedies. That was the name.
The shop materializes around me like a fever dream—shadows dancing on dimly lit walls, shelves groaning under the weight of arcane knowledge. Herbs hang from the ceiling, their pungent aromas mixing with the acrid scent of burning incense, creating an atmosphere thick with mystery and unspoken truths. The air is thick and cloying, heavy with the heady scent of sandalwood and sage. An unseen energy hums around me, making the hair on my arms stand on end. The walls seem to pulse with an otherworldly rhythm, as if the very shop is breathing. It’s unsettling, because magic doesn’t exist. Right?
“Just because you don’t believe in magic, doesn’t mean magic doesn’t believe in you,” comes a haunting voice as the owner steps out of the back, beaded curtains jangling with her movement.
“Wait, what?” How the fuck did she know what I was thinking?
Black-rimmed glasses are perched on her nose as she stares at me with curiosity. “Did you run out of the suppressants already?”
