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It’s—
Him.
The perfectly tailored navy suit. The terrifying scowl. The monogrammed cuffs.
The same ones that flashed under my face as he splattered steamed milk all over me a few days ago. Three letters, embroidered in no-nonsense-navy: SCP.
Now I know the “S” stands for Smith. The “P” stands for Pierson.
The “C” must stand for that one rude word I don’t even like to think to myself.
It all makes sense. Their file said that the alpha owns a property development company. Smith must develop the properties and then invest in businesses. He’s one of the alphas who’s been stomping around, throwing orders at me.
In fact, this alpha is the worst one. He fired Nan. And he’s the only alpha who feels entitled to bark at me.
“Faster.”
“If you can’t do your job, I’ll find someone who can.”
“We don’t have all day to deal with your incompetence!”
“I don’t give a fuck what your excuse for being pathetic is.”
The longer I stare, the worse it gets.
I recognize his watch, too. Its flat, gold face caught the light as he tossed his scalding drink in my face. His cufflinks, too—each one a simple gold bar with smaller bookends on either side.
I know all of these tiny details by heart, because he’s shoved so much dominance and intimidation at me, I’ve spent the last two months unable to look up at his face when he speaks.
Fear seizes inside of me while my mind races, trying to rationalize. Attempting to make sense of how he could treat me so callously while smelling so utterly perfect.
His scent. Why didn’t I smell it in the coffee shop? As soon as I got close enough—I assumed the coffee grinder was the source of the earthy, overpowering aroma of fresh coffee.
But maybe it wasn’t.
Maybe it was him.
Now that he’s here in person, I sense that bitter richness underscoring Damon and Cassian’s sweeter scents.
It’s him.
His smell.
The same one I, ironically, fantasized about for years.
Because he’s part of this pack. The pack I’m supposed to be scent-sensitive to.
Weeks of him yelling at me, calling me names, barking orders… that must be what sent my Omega over the edge. He’s the reason I’ve felt so erratic and uncomfortable lately. Even when I didn’t recognize him, she did. And his actions were a heck of a lot worse than any average rejection.
It could also be the reason I’ve felt so frazzled and hormonal at work. My body reacted instinctively to his proximity, even when scent-neutralizers inhibited my mind’s ability to comprehend why.
Frustration creases his features while he stares back at me, scowling. If I weren’t so devastated, I might be annoyed that the expression does nothing to diminish how handsome he is. Between his square jaw, straight nose, and thick blond hair, it’s undeniable.
He’s shocked. That makes sense, too, assuming he never really looked at me too closely. I wear tons of de-scenter to work, and the other smells in there are so strong, he’d never scent me inside the shop. Between that and my oversized clothes, I’m sure I didn’t seem too interesting.
No. To Smith, I was just another servant. Someone weaker and smaller.
Meaningless.
