Page 62 of Traded

I have a feeling I might need it, if last night’s performance was any sign. Sliding into a stool at the island, I pull my glass toward me and stare into it, trying to gather some energy before everybody else comes home. To build some armor for whatever’s coming.

My finger pushes into a few stray scarlet drops scattered across the white marble.

“It could be worse,” I explain to my wine. “She could be a psychopath.”

I’m not so sure it would be worse, though. I could hate that omega. She could be a villain, and I could be a bitch, and we’d probably tear each other apart.

At least it would feel like I was doingsomething. I look around at the empty stools. Instead, it feels like I’m becoming a bystander in my own life. Sidelined.

And I can’t even hate her.

Frowning, I pull out my phone and search.

Rejecting a scent match.

Page after page of results pop up. At the top is the NOC official site, decked out in pretty soft colors. It’s irritating as fuck. As if any of us would fall for that when the NOC is a cesspit for ruined omegas and broken dreams.

Cute color palette, though. I flick through the rose-pink front page and click on one of the help articles, taking a large gulp of wine.

Rejection of a scent-match once acknowledged is rare.

More’s the pity. I keep reading.

Side effects include muscle wasting, bone fragility, scent acridity, sickness and nausea and severe migraines. In severe cases, match rejection can act as a gateway for more serious illnesses to develop due to a heavily compromised immune system. Both alphas and omegas are affected, though omegas are disproportionately affected due to biological imbalances.

Match rejection is considered a chronic illness under NOC and federal law. Help is available.

Anyone considering a rejection should reach out to us. We have resources available to help.

I slam the phone down on the table and run my hands over my face. “Jesus.”

It only serves to confirm what I already knew. Lauren isn’t going anywhere.

I’m not an option for Jonas and Liam anymore. Not on my own. Leaning forward, I read the next few lines.

It is possible for an alpha to temporarily delay acceptance of a scent-match.

My lips part. Maybe—

This is not recommended and can cause long-term health issues if not carefully managed.

“Fucks’ sake,” I mutter, grabbing for my wine. “Give me a little hope, you assholes.”

There’s nothing, though. Nothing except dire warnings. I lose myself in a study on long-term health in rejected omegas that leaves my stomach churning and my wine bottle emptied. Anxiety claws at my chest, and I don’t have a fucking scent match.

I hope I never do, if that’s what I have to look forward to. The NOC must have a whack of a budget, because all I ever see is fairytale stories of happy endings.

I found my scent match on a deserted island after a plane crash where I was the only survivor!

I fell over—and into the arms of my scent-match!

My scent-match was my sister’s new boyfriend—and mine was hers!

I hiccup, remembering reading that last one. Absolutely wild, but they seemed happy. If slightly bewildered.

I need more wine. I look at the clock as I reach into the fridge, but my hand stops a few inches from the fresh bottle.

I definitely lost track of time.