Page 114 of Beautifully Scarred Omega

I stop in front of him. Close enough to see the pulse beating in his throat, and my stomach instantly tightens.

“Hi,” I say, and it comes out softer than I mean it to.

“Hi,” he says, and his voice is rough. His green eyes are darker than I’ve ever seen them, and his jaw tightens like he’s physically holding words back.

He wants to say something. I can see it forming behind his eyes, but I don’t know what it is. A comment about the dress, maybe. Or the lipstick. Or maybe he’s just worried—I’m walking into a dinner with a man who could potentially be dangerous, and the last time I was alone with someone at Synthera, I got a knife wound for it.

He’s being protective of an employee. That must be what this is.

It’s the only thing it can be.

The drive to the restaurant is quiet, almost too quiet. The car is soft leather and dark and intimate. I can hear every breath, every rustle of fabric. His hand is on the gear shift, inches from my knee. I can see the tendons in his forearm, the way his fingers wrap around the leather, and I’m certain he can hear my heart beating because I can feel it in my throat.

He’s right there. Close enough to touch if I moved my hand two inches to the left.

I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding and reach for my phone.

“Here’s the plan. I’ll try to make sure he drinks and steer the conversation toward personal territory as soon as I can. If he’s hiding something, the alcohol should help him loosen up.”

Max’s grip on the steering wheel tightens. “And if he touches you?”

“Then I handle it,” I say. “Like I always do.”

He doesn’t respond to that so I continue.

“I’ll monitor his device usage. If he checks his phone or sends a message during dinner, I’ll note the timing and the body language around it. Declan’s team can cross-reference any outgoing communications against the encrypted channel.”

His eyes stay on the road.

We drive in silence for a while. The city slides past outside the windows—traffic lights, storefronts, the amber glow of streetlamps casting moving stripes across the interior of the car. I try my hardest not to look at him but I can’t help watching the light play across his profile—the sharp jaw, the straight nose, the dark hair that’s almost black in this light.

He is so fucking good-looking.

No wonder the press can’t leave them alone. Three unmated alphas who look like that were never going to have private lives.

And he’s so unreadable. Even now, with his hands on the wheel and his eyes on the road, I can’t tell what he’s thinking. Whether he’s mentally drafting tomorrow’s board agenda or bracing himself for the hours he’ll spend parked outside a restaurant waiting for me, or thinking about nothing at all. His face gives me nothing, and I want to crack it open, and that want is dangerous.

I look away and grip my clutch and don’t say another word for the rest of the drive.

Max parks half a block from the restaurant, tucked beneath a row of trees where the streetlight doesn’t reach. Through the windshield, I can see Il Vecchio’s warm glow spilling onto the sidewalk, golden light that makes everything look like a painting. A couple walks out arm in arm, laughing.

I reach for the door handle.

“Sophie.” His voice stops me before I can open it. “Be careful.”

I glance back at him. His green eyes are dark in the low light, and for one second he looks like a man watching someone walk into a burning building.

“Always am, Max.”

I get out and walk toward the restaurant without looking back.

But I can feel him watching me, and my skin prickles with it—a heat that has nothing to do with the evening air and everything to do with the man sitting in the car behind me—and it stays with me all the way to the restaurant door.

I spot Victor immediately.

He’s at a corner table, facing the room, a glass of red wine already in front of him. He stands when he sees me, too quickly, the eagerness just a bit too obvious, and his smile spreads across his face like he’d practiced it in the mirror on the way over.

“Sophie! You look incredible.” His eyes travel down my dress in a sweep that takes a full second longer than it should. “That dress is really something.”