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I could try to appeal to his conscience. That’s how I got him to agree to this whole thing in the first place. After years and years of refusing to date, I only wore down his stubborn commitment to being a loner with guilt. Specifically, the fact that if he won’t accept an omega, we can’t have one either.
When he couldn’t argue with that point, he agreed to make this one single contribution to the search process.
A plastic cup of jizz.
Hell, I’d settle for a tablespoon at this point.
My thumb mashes my phone again, silencing yet another alert. “Cassian. This is important.”
I can’t explain why. Only that some indistinct sense of need has been prowling under my skin for months, now. And if I don’t find some sort of outlet for it? I’ll go insane.
Besides, this is a foolproof plan. Forever Matched is the most selective scent-matching service in the country. When their algorithm finds us an omega with a high match percentage, I’ll know for a fact that I’ve made the right call for our pack.
Even if Cassian hates me for it.
Our gazes clash—his forest green to my dark brown. I shove a wave of dominance at him, flexing my pack alpha influence.
Don’t make me make you.
With a mutinous glare, Cass sets his book aside. Looking like the entire world is pinned right between his wide shoulders, he lumbers over to the refrigerator and rummages for a moment before producing his cup.
Filled up. Marked with today’s date.
The bastard had it this whole time.
He sets it on the counter without a word, snatching his book to make a silent, fuming exit. Two minutes later, Damon flies back in, sliding on his socks, proudly adding his contribution to the line-up.
“What do we do now?” he asks, watching me stare at the row of cups.
We won’t do shit. I will put on rubber gloves, pack up the samples, and take them where they need to go. Because someone has to.
And I’m the one who does the things no one else will do.
“Turn it in,” I say, striding from the room to answer my next phone call. “When they match us, we’ll have our mate. Numbers don’t lie.”
chapter
four
I used to like the scent of coffee.
Now, as I step back into Proper Coffee after a quick (eight-minute) lunch break, the smell just makes me nauseous.
Carefully covered with de-scenter, my usual baggy clothes, and an Orlando Ospreys cap, I edge around the cluster of suit-clad businessmen muttering to each other. Several glares cut my way. My Omega quivers, a flare of urgency sending a bunch of odd sensations through my body.
The presence of so many alpha pheromones—even when I can’t smell them—makes me edgy and needy in the most humiliating way. I don’t want to perfume for any of these strangers, but my body is dripping slick, and my pulse throbs between my legs.
When I whine quietly, their boss scoffs and snarls, “There’s a line, in case you didn’t notice.”
What I notice is my manager once again staring at his phone while customers pile up at the register. Ducking my head, I hustle over, doing my best to ignore the shooting pains that streak up the backs of my legs.
I’ve been on my feet for another eight-hour shift today. At least I remembered to have a granola bar this time.
I’m beginning to realize that, while I may be an excellent caretaker for friends, former roommates, and hapless fellow employees, I’m really not very good at taking care of myself.
If I could afford therapy, that might be worth unpacking.
I take a few orders before one particularly creepy alpha tries to reach over the counter and grab my arm. My manager finally steps in after that, thank the Lord.
