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I could ignore the random attraction, but when I entered the office—his scent hit me like a surging wave—fresh, clean cotton, like a summer breeze, warm sunshine, almost succulent and oceanic.
I suck in a deep breath as if I could still find traces of his lingering scent in the air, but all I get is fruity perfume and the waxy smell of makeup that litters the counters.
I just met my scent match. I can't believe it. Overwhelmed, my attempts to slow my rapid breathing do nothing, and I feel lightheaded.
I'm wearing scent-blockers, so he has no idea what's just happened.
And I just heard him say he doesn't want an omega.
And I'm engaged.
I'm going to be sick.
"Imogen!" Roxy's tight grasp on my arms snaps me back into focus. "What the hell is going on? Are you okay? Come, sit."
She easily tugs the straps down my arms, releasing me from the wings. The weight, though slight when I'm wearing them, feels like a boulder releasing when she drops them inelegantly on the ground, guiding me to a chair in front of a mirror. She pulls the mask off my face, and I look forward; the thick, black smokey eye make-up, worn to hide the brightness of my skin behind the black mask, paired with the tension beneath my shoulders, makes me look like a haunted, noir-film heroine.
"I'm-I'm fine. I'm so sorry to worry you," I croak.
"Riiiight. You seem perfectly fine." She walks to one side of the break room, digs into a mini fridge, and returns, a bottle of water in one hand, a soda can in the other. My fingertips reach out for the water out of habit, but I take the soda instead, cracking it open and downing the contents. The fizz and cold sugar wake me up, grounding me.
"I'm fine, I promise," I tell Roxy, slightly more convincing. "I just got a little lightheaded."
She looks skeptical. "Is the dancing too much? Maybe you should practice without the mask, it might be too suffocating—"
"No! I'm sorry, I didn't mean to shout. But no, it's not a problem, I swear. This is helping," I lift the near-empty can.
"Okay… if you're sure."
"I am."
"Okay. You were coming to find me?"
I stare dumbly into her hazel-brown eyes, not recalling anything past my scent-match. My mate. Oh my god, I found my mate.
"In the office with Cass?"
"Cass," I whisper his name, testing it on my lips. That must mean… Red and Iggy are mine, too. Packs form through instinctual bonds between alphas and sometimes betas. Finding their omega is the same, though more visceral. If I scent-matched with Cass, that means…
The fog and shock dissipate, leaving excitement in their wake. I try to focus back on Roxy, but it's difficult.
"Imogen?"
"Yeah… yes. I'm sorry, it's been a weird day. I was just wondering if you decided about practice next week?" My life just got so complicated, but I'm elated. And terrified. With effort, I force myself to concentrate on Roxy.
Relieved I'm clearly coming back online, so different from my usual put-together self, Roxy leans back in the chair across from me. "I think we should pair your practice with the early shift. You're good enough to be on stage while we're open, in front of customers, but you're still not nailing the inversions. Between you and me, though," she leans forward conspiratorially, "your ballerina spins are the best I've seen." Roxy winks, and I flush with the compliment but restrain my smile, folding my hands in my lap.
There are a lot of inversions you can do with a pole—hanging upside down—and I'm having the hardest time with the ones that require so much strength. I'm building it, but it's a slow process. Each night I leave with bruised thighs and sore ankles, rubbing them in the bath after work, my fingers red and raw with calluses; still, every day here feels like a gift.
The ballerina spin evenly distributes my strength to my arms and legs, and my ballet training taught me how to harness that strength to maintain a fluid and constant spin, so it's easier for me than the inversions. I'm still learning to incorporate the pole, but I think I've found a happy medium.
"Thank you, Roxy, that means a lot," I murmur.
"And you seem to be getting stronger?" She takes my hand in hers, inspecting the small callus forming on my palms. The skin is peeling around a blister from my first few days, but beneath that, it's hardening from all the work. I feel so much pride staring at my hands.
"Yes, much stronger. I've been doing those push-ups and planks you taught me, too."
She lights up, then squeezes my bicep. "I can tell! Man, you're really getting stronger. You'll nail those inversions in no time."
