I kick us back toward the beach, using the rip to angle home. I glance back and see the man—her man, her handler, whoever—already knee-deep, yelling something I can’t hear. He looks ready to wade out and kill me if I drop her.
But I don’t drop her.
It takes longer than I’d like to get out of the pull and into the calmer water. When we finally hit the sandbar, she pushes herself upright and kneels on the board, shivering.
It’s only then that I notice I’m shivering, too. Because as my adrenaline starts to clear now that this woman is safe, I realize two very stark things.
This woman is an omega.
And we are scent-matches. Her sweet honey scent coils within my own, creating a sweet and salty mix like candy. Her omega pheromones slip into my bloodstream and draw calm forward until my heartbeat finally steadies alongside hers.
My omega.
She coughs up some water.
I place a hand lightly to the back of her arm, unsure of where else is appropriate to touch her, given my inner alpha wanting to direct this show. “Are you okay?”
She nods, coughing again. Up close, her eyes are wild blue, rimmed with red from the salt.
“Do you always swim in rip currents for fun, or did you just want the full Cornish experience?”
She chuckles dryly. “Had to check. The pamphlets promised adventure.”
I let the joke wash over me and continue to soak in her scent. My heartbeat skips all over the place. She tries to stand, wobbles, and I catch her elbow. Her skin is ice cold, but that scent—honey, honey, honey—is enough to make me lightheaded.
We walk up the wet slope together and then wade through the shallows to the shore. Her man is waiting with fists clenched. His eyes lock on me with an intensity that means business.
Is he her alpha? A stab of jealousy, of intense needing to know, slices through me.
“Is she okay?” he demands.
“She swallowed some water.” I keep my voice even and business-only rather than accusing him of already being bonded to the first scent-matched omega I’ve ever met. But it’s not like she has an alpha’s mark on her—not one I can see, anyway. “Youneed to get her warm and let her rest. If she gets dizzy or has dry drowning symptoms, take her to the clinic. And don’t let her swim rips next time.”
The guy’s nostrils flare. His alpha scent washes over me, too: flint. Not quite a match, but there’s something drawing us together regardless.Her.“Noted.”
The woman shrugs me off gently and hugs her own arms. “I’m fine,” she says. “It was a miscalculation, that’s all. Sorry for the trouble. I’m Helena, by the way.”
Helena.It’s probably the most gorgeous name I’ve ever heard.
She looks me in the eyes when she says it. There’s a flash of something there, a question. Or a dare. I don’t know if she recognizes the scent-match, but she doesn’t recoil from it, either. If anything, she leans in just enough that it’s definitely intentional.
“Lucas,” I say, trying not to sound like I’m introducing myself to a date instead of a rescuee. “Harkin.”
Helena smiles up at me. “Thank you for the save.”
“Happy to help.”
The alpha at her side bristles. “I’ll get her out of the sun. Thank you.”
I want to protest. To say she should go to the hospital. And there’s definitely a school of thought or protocol saying sheshould. But this man ushers her off the beach before I can say another word. He moves with the confidence of someone trained.
It gives me assurance that if Helena needs help, he’ll get her whatever she needs.
I stand on the sand, dripping and cold, as they walk up the ramp. Helena glances over her shoulder once before the sun’s glare swallows her. Her honey scent lingers long after she’s gone. It clings to me all afternoon, through the rest of my shift,through the stares from my fellow guards and the sour lecture from my supervisor about protocol and liability.
I spend the next hour on the lookout tower, scanning the horizon for another flash of dark hair. But she doesn’t come back.
At closing time, I shake the towels and sweep the walkway and think,Maybe that’s it. Maybe you get one scent-match in a lifetime, and mine just walked out of the surf and back into the arms of someone who is not me.
