Page 21

I clutch my hand more tightly around the pendant.

It is a traditional bonding gift. My most treasured possession.

When I glance around, I realize that a vending machine is pushed against the wall behind me.

My eyes light up.

My stomach rumbles. I only ate the pastry that Sophie gave me earlier this morning.

I barely feel like I have eaten for a year.

I surprise myself by how ravenous I am. When was the last time that I had an appetite?

Happily, I drop the drape and turn to the vending machine. “Chocolate, come to the hangry Omega.” Then I scan the options in mounting horror. “You have got to be shitting me. Protein snacks? Gatorade? Pistachios? Where’s the chips and chocolate?”

“I know, it’s damn criminal. Isn’t this Omega abuse? Want me to go and make a complaint for you?” A sunny voice asks behind me.

I yelp, startling.

I twist around, dropping into a fighting stance that Beau once taught me.

I bang into a man’s lithe chest.

I catch the heavy, frosted glass that he’s carrying. The bright green contents spill over his soft, sky-blue T-shirt.

“Shit.” My eyes widen. “I’m sorry.”

The drink stains down his front, and the way that he is patting at it is only making it worse.

I wrinkle my nose at the cool scent of mint and lemongrass that wafts up in a cloud.

I find myself wishing that I could smell this man’s true scent.

What dynamic is he?

“My fault, beautiful.” The man laughs, wiping his sticky hands down his chinos and staining them as well. “I shouldn’t have made you jump. I’ll just have to look a mess in my consultation, which will at least be more honest than the immaculate state that my Alpha insisted I turn up in.” He crouches down, placing the glass on the floor. “At least now I don’t have to drink any more of this swamp sludge. Healthy, my ass.”

When he glances up at me through his long, butterfly lashes, my breath hitches.

I am caught in the warmth of his amber doe eyes.

He is younger than me by a couple of years but has a casual confidence that I’ve never held.

His skin is bronze, and his curls tumble over his eyes.

He tilts his head. “Are you a boxer?”

I blink.

Weird question.

But then, I’ve grown more used to talking to ghosts, butterflies, and squirrels than real people.

Maybe dating by swiping on apps has reduced people to shooting random questions at each other.

I shake my head. “Are you a baker?”

Is this how it’s done?