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Oh God.
What if this works?!
Celine’s grin turns knowing as she senses my budding eagerness. “Right this way, Miss Sykes. Or do you prefer Remi?”
She isn’t holding a folder or cheating off a tablet—she actually knows my name. As someone who’s been shuffled through every branch of government childcare and more free clinics than I can count, I’m already impressed.
“Remi,” I demur, nervously fiddling with my purse strap.
“Remi.” She smiles again, waving over her shoulder. “Follow me.”
We walk down a standard white hallway and find ourselves in… a suite? It definitely doesn’t feel like an exam room or a place for corporate meetings. Instead, it’s a comfortable, luxurious space, reminiscent of a hotel room.
There’s a neatly made bed off to the left, surrounded by a canopy and flanked by two small storage tables. On the right, a seating area with two armchairs and a loveseat takes up more than half of the room. Celine leads me to that side and lets me settle myself into the leather loveseat.
From the coffee table, she produces a tablet and an electronic pencil, deftly tapping at the screen while she sits back with all the confidence of an alpha in her element. After a moment, she sets everything in her lap and smiles over at me.
“All right, Remi, I’m sure you’re curious and little nervous about how things are going to go, so let’s go over it. First, I’m going to review the intake questions you answered.”
She gives an amused look. “Some of these questions may seem pretty invasive, and you’re free not to answer. But remember, we’re trying to create a complete picture for your future pack, so there’s really no need to be embarrassed. I can guarantee they’ll want to know everything about you!”
I can’t help but smile at that thought. “Okay.”
“Okay,” she repeats, nodding firmly. “Once we’re done chatting, we’ll collect your scent sample. It’s a simple swab.”
She flips the tablet back open, already poising her pencil over the pad. “First up—favored scents.”
She calmly raises her eyes to mine, waiting for me to realize she’s asking me for my favorite alpha scents. I’m lucky my darker complexion mostly hides the blood rushing to my cheeks, otherwise I’d be bright red.
“I…” Years of people-pleasing kick in, and the urge to be amenable is overwhelming. “Anything is fine.”
Celine frowns, the expression unwittingly fearsome. “Remi, that just won’t do. We are here to find your perfect matches. Possibly, if we’re lucky, scent-sensitive mates. If we want any chance of that, you have to be completely honest with me, okay?”
Little does this nice lady know, I can’t even be completely honest with myself.
I swallow past a dry throat, nodding. She smiles again. “Good. Trust me, I’ve heard it all before. Nothing you say will shock or offend me.”
Forcing myself to relax, I blow out a tense breath and sink back into the loveseat. “I like food scents the best,” I admit, hiding behind the rim of my teacup. “Sweet stuff mostly. And, um, coffee.”
Her brisk, businesslike nod reassures me I’m not a freak. “Excellent. And any alpha scents that make you uncomfortable?”
Too many.
Growing up in group homes, being shuffled from foster home to foster home… there are far too many alpha scents I could never feel safe around ever again. A whine rises to my gullet as I repress a wave of unpleasant memories.
Celine waits, professional as ever, until I finally peep, “Nothing industrial. Leather, metal, oil, smoke.”
She nods, reading the same response on the questionnaire in front of her. “And do you prefer a pack of all alphas? Or alphas and betas? And how many packmates?”
My eyes fall to my crossed knees. “Anything is f?—”
Celine clears her throat, disapproving. “Remi.”
I wince at being caught in another fib. The truth is, after years vying for scraps of affection in foster homes, I wouldn’t want to share my alphas’ attention with anyone else. If I find a pack that somehow actually wants me… I want to be the center of the pack.
“I-I think I’d prefer all alphas.” I feel another flush move unseen over my face as I think about my heat needs; namely, the number of vibrating alpha substitutes it takes to survive on my own. “I’d need at least two—if they’re… athletic.”
Celine’s pink mouth twitches. “Or perhaps three or four would be better?” she suggests, all tact.
