Page 9 of Written in Scent

It’s faint at first, so faint I almost think I imagined it. Citrus, but not sharp or sugary like mine. Softer. Deeper. There’s something golden threaded through it, warm and smooth—

Honey, I think instinctively.

No. Not honey.

Something richer.

Amber.

The note settles, and a gentle warmth follows it, rounded with vanilla that lingers just long enough to make the whole thing feel… comforting.

My gaze drifts across the rows without meaning to, searching for the source. Someone must have brought food. Something baked, maybe? But everyone around me looks perfectly ordinary, hands folded or fidgeting or half-hidden in pockets.

No one else reacts.

No one else even seems to notice.

A small thrill moves through me.

It smells—

I swallow.

It smells good.

I lean slightly toward Jack. “Do you smell—”

The rest of my whispered question dissolves before I can finish it.

Something shifts again.

This time not in the room.

In me.

Heat rushes through my torso in a sudden bloom, loud and unmistakable, and before I can make sense of it, my scent spills out with it, bright and sweet and entirely uninvited.

Jack freezes.

Color rises across his face in a slow flush, his shoulders going rigid as he stares determinedly at the floor in front of us.

Oh.

Oh no.

Even with his limited senses as a beta, even he can smell me right now. I clamp down instinctively, willing my body to behave, but awareness only makes it worse. I haven’t perfumed in public like this since I was barely out of puberty, back when my hormones were still learning to listen. I hadn’t even considered wearing scent blocking panties today. I’ve never needed them before.

Beside me, the other omega shifts in her chair, her posture tightening in a clear attempt to show no reaction.

Mortification crawls steadily up my spine in an unwelcome tingle.

Jack hasn’t said anything. He’s being polite. Careful. Which somehow makes it worse.

What is wrong with me?

At the front of the room, Dean Reynolds’ voice slows, the cadence resolving into what sounds like a conclusion. I’ve missed at least the last minute of whatever he was saying. Maybe more. I couldn’t repeat a single word if someone asked.

This isn’t like me.