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“What the fuck,” I mutter.
The kitchen is no better. The scent of rotten food wafts from the overfilled sink. Dirty pots and pans line the counter, along with a bag of potatoes with white, moving specks.
Maggots.
This is bad.
This is very, very bad.
“River,” Vincent calls.
“Yeah?” I reply, my stomach queasy as I watch the bugs swarm on the blackened potatoes.
“I’ve got something.”
I head toward the back of the house, passing a bathroom with a clogged sink and overfilled toilet.
My stomach fills with dread at Vincent’s stoic tone. When he says he’s “got something,” it can mean anything from a small bloodstain to a fucking dead body.
But when I see him in one of the bedrooms, his back towards me, I catch a whiff of something new.
Omega.
It’s faded, but it’s there.
And it’s sweet but slightly soured—an Omega in distress.
But, there’s no Alpha scent to accompany it.
In fact, no part of the house has any scent of Alpha—just the stench of filth.
John Briggs is a Beta.
As I step into the bedroom, I see the stained mattress and dusty blankets, and my hands clench into fists.
But Vincent’s attention isn’t on the bed. It’s turned to the nightstand next to it.
An almost empty baggie of O is the only thing sitting on it.
“Shit,” I mutter.
“You smell the Omega too?”
I scowl. “Of course I do.”
“Find the source, then.”
I want to argue with him that he’s not my fucking boss and he doesn’t tell me what to do, but we’re on borrowed time.
I’m at the dresser in a second and pulling open the drawers. Some are off their track and sideways, so I just yank them out and let them fall to the floor.
If Briggs only had her in his room for a few hours, it’s likely the scent would have fully dissipated by now.
Something is here that belongs to an Omega.
I dig through the clothes, tossing items aside. When I reach the final drawer, underneath a pile of socks, the scent is sweeter and overwhelming.
I pull out the piece of fabric.
