Then the scent hits me.
And oh.
Oh.
Vanilla sugar, soft smoke, ozone after a lightning strike.
It crashes into my senses like a tidal wave, enveloping me, surrounding me, sinking into my pores until I can't tell where it ends and I begin. My head spins—actuallyspins, the room tilting and swirling like I've had too much to drink—and for a moment I forget how to breathe.
This isn't normal.
This isn't the way scents usually affect me.
Usually, I can catalogue them. Analyze them. File them away in the part of my brain that tracks threats and allies and everything in between.
But this?—
This scent blossoms into a sensation of tranquility I’ve never yearned to experience before.
I look up.
And the world stops…
He's beautiful.
That's the first coherent thought that surfaces through the haze of vanilla and smoke:he's beautiful in a way that hurts to look at.
Taller than me by half a foot, maybe more. Slim and pretty in a way that defies traditional Alpha aesthetics—all sharp cheekbones and soft mouth and a jawline that could cut glass. His build is lean, flexible, the kind of body that's been trained for movement and escape rather than brute force.
And his hair?—
Bubblegum pink.
The exact same shade as mine.
It falls in soft waves around his face, slightly longer on top, catching the fluorescent light and glowing like cotton candy spun from dreams. Like we're matching. Like the universe decided to dress us in the same impossible color just to fuck with my already-fractured sanity.
His eyes find mine, and I feel the impact like a physical blow.
Pastel green with flecks of pink-gold that shimmer when he blinks. Wide, almost innocent-looking, framed by lashes so long they're practically indecent.
But there's nothing innocent in the way he's looking at me.
Nothing soft in the calculation behind that pretty gaze.
He's assessing me.
Cataloguingme.
The same way I catalogue threats in combat, he's reading my body language, my expression, the rapid rise and fall of my chest as I struggle to breathe through the overwhelming wall of his scent.
"Sorry," I squeak.
The sound that comes out of my mouth is barely human. High-pitched, breathless, nothing like the controlled voice I've spent years perfecting. I sound like a startled mouse. I sound like prey.
Ihateit.
His head tilts.
