I nod, genuinely glad to see a smiling face after a day that has required considerably more composure than I actually possessed.
"I'm Elara," she says, already warm, already easy. "And this is Miguel, my husband. If you need anything, just give us a shout. We're down the hall."
Miguel raises a hand in a brief, unhurried greeting that tells me everything I need to know about him.
I smile back, and it is a real one, the kind that arrives without my deciding to. It would be good to have friends here,or even just the beginning of them. I have been so focused on the job, on doing it right and keeping my head down and not falling apart in front of anyone, that nothing else has factored in. Which is understandable. But it does not mean I have to spend three months talking to no one except a bay tree and my own reflection.
I am human. I am allowed some company.
"You know what, Elara," I say. "I'll take you up on that."
"Cool!" Her whole face lights up, the smile reaching all the way to those bright eyes.
"On Fridays, some of us get together, play cards, dance a little. Nothing fancy. If you're up for it I'll come find you and walk you over."
"I would love that," I say, and mean it completely.
Miguel nods once, apparently satisfied that the exchange has gone well, and the two of them continue down the path.
I stand there for a moment in the warm evening air.
Taking on this role was not the worst decision I have ever made. I will have the money I need, a kitchen that makes me genuinely happy, and now, it seems, the beginning of something that might qualify as company.
That is more than I had this morning.
I keep walking until I get to my room. I nearly fall asleep horizontal once I get inside. But then as I switch on the light, locate my bed, I put one hand over my stomach, and listen to the water. I’m exhausted.
11
SANTOS
Call me crazy, but there are a lot of omegas in the world, and none of them smell like her.
I know scents. Any alpha worth his pulse does. We read rooms with them. Stress, attraction, lies, nerves, heat, fear. Most of it is background noise once you learn how to sort it. Useful, forgettable, constant.
Hers never was.
Three months later, I could still pick Jennifer Sullivan out of memory alone. Strawberry first, then rose underneath it, warm and soft with something stubborn at the center. A scent that felt sweeter when she laughed and sharper when she was pretending she was fine.
Which means the last three months have been humiliating.
A shampoo in Milan. Perfume in an elevator in Tokyo. Some candle in a hotel lobby that nearly made me turn around like an idiot. Every time, my body reacted before my brain could remind it that memory is not the same thing as presence.
So I’ve learned discipline. Breathe in. Assess. Dismiss. Keep moving.
Usually it works.
Today it fails completely.
The island is turning gold with evening, light sliding through the trees and flashing off the water below. I came outside because Tomas said I was going to wear a trench into the study floor, and Matteo, irritatingly, agreed. It has been the same four days of the same absence.
The path from the main house cuts through the gardens, down toward the dock, with the staff quarters tucked into the hillside beyond. I’m halfway through the trees when it hits me.
Strawberry. Rose. Her.
I stop dead.
Just the first touch of it. The edge of it, carried on the sea breeze from somewhere to my left. Warm, ripe, lightly sugared, the exact note generic strawberry never gets right. Shampoo doesn’t. Candles certainly don’t. Candles lie about strawberry every time.