Page 24 of Beautifully Scarred Omega

Griffin’s laugh is sudden and genuine, and it transforms his face for just a moment.

“That will never happen,” he says, with absolute certainty. “So don’t worry about that.”

“Noted,” I say dryly.

Griffin nods once more, then disappears through the door.

I sink back into my chair and stare at the report Ethan prepared earlier this morning.

The Equinox samples are fine. The temperature spike lasted thirteen minutes and forty-seven seconds, right at the edge of what the compound can survive. Another minute, maybe two, and we would have lost everything. Years of research and countless prototypes, the foundation of everything we’ve been working toward.

But we didn’t. The samples are intact. The research is on track.

I think about the woman Griffin is sending us. Sophie. An omega who lies, who lures people in before she takes them down.

I already don’t trust her.

Finn appears at my shoulder, peering at the report. “You think she’ll find the mole?”

“Griffin seems confident,” I say, not looking up from the report.

“Griffin seems like the kind of man who doesn’t say things he doesn’t mean,” Finn says.

I can’t argue with that.

Ethan joins us, his expression thoughtful. “An omega operative. I have to admit, I’m curious to meet her.”

“Curiosity killed the cat,” I murmur.

“And satisfaction brought it back.” Finn grins, that easy charm of his surfacing despite the tension of the past few days. “Come on, Max. Admit it. You’re a little intrigued.”

I don’t answer. But as I look back down at the report, I find myself wondering about the woman who’s going to walk through our doors tomorrow morning.

Sophie.

An omega Griffin calls lethal.

An anomaly, if it’s true. And one thing I know for sure, no one is born like that.

CHAPTER 9

Sophie

The drive to Synthera gives me time to prepare for my next mission, if you could call it that.

I run through my cover story for the hundredth time, letting the words settle into my bones until they feel like truth.

Sophie Dysart. Twenty-eight years old. Business degree from a mid-tier university. Previous experience as an executive assistant at two pharmaceutical companies, both conveniently defunct.

I glance down at myself and suppress a shudder.

The outfit is aggressively feminine. A soft pink blouse with a bow at the collar, a knee-length gray skirt that swishes when I walk, nude heels that are somehow both boring and uncomfortable. My nails are painted a cheerful coral. My makeup is natural and dewy, making me look fresh-faced and approachable instead of like someone who could snap your neck in three seconds.

Even my scent is wrong.

I’ve been on a different set of suppressants for two days, milder than my usual ones, designed to soften my scent rather than erase it. I catch a whiff of myself and wrinkle my nose. Faint and clean, like fresh linen. Present enough to register as omega, but so muted it barely warrants a second thought.

For the next few weeks, I’m Sophie Dysart. A woman who likes romcoms and sweet perfumes. Who does Pilates and drinks oat milk lattes and probably has a Pinterest board full of wedding inspiration.