Page 3

He stops at a door and opens it.

The room is beautiful. Four-poster bed in dark wood, white linens, a thick duvet. A window seat overlooking the mountains through the rain. A writing desk. A wardrobe. A bathroom visible through a half-open door, all white tile and brass. Fresh flowers on the nightstand, white and simple. A fire already laid in the small hearth, the logs arranged with the same precision as everything else in this house. Someone thought about what a person arriving alone in the rain might need, and something in my chest goes warm and grateful in a way I wasn’t expecting.

“Your office is through there.” He indicates a connecting door. “The estate’s financial records have been organized into the filing system adjacent. Accounts, property documents, vendor contracts, tax correspondence, and trust paperwork, organized by decade.”

“By decade?”

“Is that a problem?”

“No. It’s just unusual. How many decades are we talking about?”

He pauses. Just for a moment. “Several.”

“Several as in five? Ten?”

“Several as in you should begin with the most recent and work backward as needed.”

My accountant brain flags that. When someone avoids a straightforward number, there’s usually a reason. I don’t push. Not again. First day.

“I’ll start tomorrow morning,” I say. “I usually begin with a full audit of current accounts and then—”

“Miss Lake.”

He’s close. Not inappropriately close. But close enough that his scent surrounds me, warm and dark and layered, and my whole body tightens. Not just awareness this time. Want. Low and specific and completely inappropriate for someone I met twenty minutes ago.

“Yes?”

His nostrils flare. His jaw tightens. And his eyes change color.

I’m not imagining it. His irises flood from pale amber to molten gold, bright and unmistakable, for one full second. Then they retreat. His hands, at his sides, close into fists. Open. Close.

“What is your scent?”

I stare at him. In twenty-seven years of being an omega, no one has ever asked me that question.

“I’ve been told honey. Maybe ginger? I’ve never—”

“Ginger honey.”

He says it like he’s tasting it. His eyes flash gold again, bright and liquid, and this time they stay a beat longer before pulling back.

“Mr. Lowe? Are you all right?”

“Perfectly fine.” His voice is controlled. “Breakfast is at seven. I keep early hours. If you need anything tonight, there is an intercom beside the bed.”

“Okay.”

“Good night, Miss Lake.”

He leaves. Closes the door behind him. His footsteps go down the hall, measured and even.

I stand in the middle of the room with my hand on my chest.

My omega hasn’t settled down. If anything, she’s getting louder.

I pull out my phone.

Me: I’m at the lodge