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This time, I get a small smile. “Could have fooled me, Miss Swanson.”
Miss Swanson.
No one has ever called me that before. It sounds so strange that I blurt a correction, although it’s barely loud enough to qualify as a whisper.
“Serena.”
The lines around his eyes soften. “Serena,” he repeats.
It’s the first time my own name has ever made me short of breath. I press a sweaty palm to my chest to make sure my lungs still work and end up clutching the necklace dangling there. Fisting it has always been my nervous habit—one Wally didn’t mind because it drew attention “where it belonged”—my mashed-down tits.
But this alpha doesn’t even glance at them. He just stares at my face… and then stares some more.
His frown is fierce, and it occurs to me that I really ought to be afraid of him. But I’m just…
Not.
There’s something else happening inside of me. It sends a shiver through my whole body while the alpha watches on. His brows tweak tightly, and he starts to move for the door.
But then he… stops himself? Again. He looks through the glass, that dark gaze more intense and his voice an octave deeper. “May I come in?”
Some desperate part of me wants to scream yes.
I don’t understand that impulse at all. I usually hate having alphas around me. I went through this whole miserable night just to get the hell away from them. So why is my body suddenly clambering for this one to come closer?
I try to shrink down, making myself smaller and hiding my quivers. “Why?”
When he sees the wariness in my expression, his goes soft again. “You look cold. I can lend you my suit jacket.”
I really am. It’s freezing in here, and I’m sitting on a metal table in a rubber thong. Which suddenly makes borrowing a jacket all the more appealing.
“I—I guess that’s fine.”
He nods and hangs up. I do the same. A sudden burst of nerves shakes me off the cold surface and onto my feet. Scuffed silver platforms scrape the laminate while I back away from the door, moving instinctively.
But I’ve gotten good at reading alphas, knowing how aggressive they’re feeling at any given moment. I’ve had to learn the hard way a few times. And this one doesn’t look like a brute.
Powerful and dominant; but not angry.
If anything, he seems more agitated on my behalf than his own.
The door snicks open. He steps inside. Harsh fluorescents bounce off all the polished parts of him. A gold Rolex. Shined leather shoes. The gleaming belt buckle that matches his tie-clip. His thick mahogany hair.
I can’t open my mouth. To talk or breathe.
It goes against every impulse urging me to lower myself in submission, but I have to know—what color are those dark eyes? So I raise my gaze to his.
The navy irises are unique. Almost fascinating. They seem alive. Swirling, shifting. Shades of silver moonlight slicing through a restless sea.
He holds himself with authority and strength, even as compassion shifts in his depths. Somewhere, down in the deep, dark hole burrowed under my stomach, I feel a stir. It’s indistinct and as wordless as the rest of me, but for the first time in years, I feel it.
My Omega has been hiding for a long time. I don’t know much about her, but I know she’s silent and scared. She’s been that way for a long time.
So it’s weird for her to poke her head out now. When I’m in a strange place, alone, with an alpha, who doesn’t seem to have any bond marks on him…
The TV shows I used to sneak mentioned this sort of thing all the time. Some cross between fairy tale and biology that supposedly makes certain alphas and omegas destined for each other.
A scent-match, they call it.
