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I turn, and with every practiced step she takes toward me, the scent grows stronger. Chills break out over my skin. Everything around me shatters, all sounds disappear with a powerful pulse, the stillness of a nuclear winter descends, and everything else fades away. Other people don't exist. Each step closer, the light of my life invades every pore, and I lose all sense of reality. Right and wrong, us and them, before and after. Nothing exists. Only Imogen.
My beautiful Imogen. My scent-match. My fucking mate.
"Are you crying?" She whisper-shouts.
"What?" And just like that, everything rushes back. Chatter, footsteps, beeps, phones ringing. We're in public at a fucking country club, and I just found my scent-match. What even is life?
I'm not crying, but yeah, my eyes got a little watery. God, she smells so good. Goddamn mouthwatering. Cherry Pie. Warm, sweet, sticky, tasty, cherry fucking pie.
My teeth feel heavy, and maybe it's because I've already gotten to know her, I've already been inside her, but shit, my alpha's ready to bite.
"How could you not tell me?"
She's confused for a moment, then realizes I can scent her. All of her.
Her perfume, oh god, her perfume. My pheromones, my alpha wanting to claim her, linger between us, and it turns her on. She wants it, too.
"Red," she pleads before casting a quick glance over her shoulder.
Then I remember—"You're on a fucking date!" I snap.
"Would you please keep your voice down?" She whisper-shouts again, grabbing my wrist and dragging me further down the hall.
"Imogen—what the fuck? I'm at a loss here. We're… I mean, a few days ago, I thought we might be something. And then we found out about Stevens, and you just left, knowing we were your mates? What the hell?"
Scent-matches are incredibly rare. The only ones I know are Phe and her pack. But I have learned it's not something that can be denied. It's visceral. Inevitable.
"I… I can explain. But I tried to tell you!"
"Tell us what? That you're still getting married even though we're fated mates? How's that gonna work?" I'm pissed, now, that she could dismiss us so easily. "Is it the money thing again? Really?" The weight of shame presses down, that we're not good enough, that we're mated to someone who even cares about shit like that.
"No, you arrogant jerk!" She slaps a hand over her mouth, surprised at her outburst. That's when I really take her in.
"Why do you look like a trumped-up doll, anyway? You look like you could pass for sixteen. It's freakin' me out."
She rolls her eyes, and it's kind of fun watching her perfect façade slowly crumble. It's happening more frequently. I noticed it a little before, too, at the club. She catches herself yelling, eye-rolling, snorting in annoyance, and every time, she straightens her shoulders, and her expression smooths over, slipping her mask back on.
Like now.
Pressing her lips together, she tugs the satin bow out of her hair. That's a little better. I mean, she can wear whatever she wants. But she looks uncomfortable and kind of like a little girl. Which makes me even more suspicious of Stevens Pack, considering how old they are.
I snag the material from her and bring it to my face, breathing it in. God damn, this woman. Cherries! I'm so happy.
"I tried to tell you the other day I'm not marrying them. But I am engaged. It's a long story. I was going to tell you about our scent-match soon; I just needed to… fix something. And tell them there's no wedding. But I can't do that just yet."
"Why not?" I cross my arms across my chest, still clutching her ribbon.
"It's a long story."
"I have time."
"I don't," she whispers, lowering her head submissively. "Please, Red. I'll explain everything, I promise. But not here. Not right now. I need you to go."
She's scared or something. My alpha itches beneath my skin. We'll protect our mate.
"Are they doing something to you? Do they have something over you? Is that what this is?"
"Red, oh my gosh, I'm going to murder you. Please, listen to me. I can't do this right now. If you respect me at all, you'll turn around and walk away. Please," she begs.
