Page 8 of Written in Scent

Do they actually see me? Or do they just see an omega?

I’ve never had to think about what that might feel like on this scale, this many alphas in one space.

Objectively, most of them are attractive. Tall and strong, confident in an instinctual way that seems almost unconscious.

I have never once looked at an alpha and felt something settle into certainty.

The idea of pack life has always felt abstract at best and suffocating at worst. I don’t want to be gathered in. I don’t want to be evaluated and chosen before I’ve figured anything out for myself.

I want to move quietly. To study. To exist without becoming a focal point.

I keep my limbs close to my body as I weave through the rows of folding chairs, careful not to brush against anyone unnecessarily. If I draw the focused attention of an alpha today, it won’t dissolve by next week.

Attention from alphas doesn’t fade.

It escalates.

And I do not want to deal with that.

A student volunteer near the front begins directing people into rows, gesturing vaguely toward empty chairs as if any configuration will do. I follow the flow and take the first open seat I reach, smoothing my skirt as I sit.

On my right is a beta boy, skinny and jittery, with dark hair that looks like he’s pushed his hands through it several times already this morning. On my left sits another omega girl, her posture relaxed, her attention drifting easily across the room like she’s already decided she belongs here.

I glance toward the boy beside me and offer a small smile. “Hi.”

He startles slightly, like he hadn’t expected to be addressed at all. “Oh—hi,” he says, voice catching before he clears it. His hands fold together loosely in his lap, then unfold again, as if he isn’t sure where they should rest.

The omega girl on my other side lets out a laugh under her breath.

Something in me cools immediately.

I turn back to him instead. “I’m Elodie.”

“Jack,” he says, still a little flustered, though he smiles this time. It’s tentative, but genuine.

“I’m studying biology,” I add, mostly so he won’t feel like he has to fill the silence himself. “What about you?”

“English literature,” he says. “I, um—mostly Victorian stuff. Right now, anyway.”

“That sounds nice,” I say, and I mean it. I love writing, especially poetry. “What are you reading at the moment?”

He brightens slightly, shoulders loosening at the prospect of something to focus on other than his nerves. Before he can explain, the low murmur in the hall begins to quiet as someone steps up to the podium at the front of the room.

A man steps forward, and the last of the side conversations taper off almost immediately.

Dean Reynolds has a presence that makes people straighten without realizing they’ve done it. He’s older, broad shouldered, with dark hair gone silver at the temples and a posture that suggests he’s used to being listened to. Even before my instincts identify him as an alpha, it’s obvious in the way the space seems to gravitate towards him.

He begins speaking in a calm, even voice, welcoming us, outlining expectations, explaining policies with the practiced ease of someone who has delivered this speech many times before. He doesn’t rush, and he doesn’t loom, which I appreciate probably just as much as the other omegas in the room. There’s something reassuring about his tone, something measured that makes it easy to follow along.

At least, it does at first.

Because somewhere between one sentence and the next, my attention slips.

Not abruptly. Just enough that I notice the shift.

Something warm unfurls low in my chest, a gradual sensation that feels almost like relief, though I don’t know what I’m relieved about. It spreads before I can question it, dim and alive at the same time, edging into my awareness as if it has always belonged there.

Then I catch the scent.