“Back to work,” Everett says with a smile, shaking his head, picking up his ax again. “That Douglas fir next. It’s massive, perfect for the lighting ceremony in town square. The Mayor has been up my ass about the perfect tree for days.”
I nod and follow, leaving Finn to his “supervisory” role.
We’re old school about this; axes, not chainsaws. Partly tradition, partly because the whine of a chainsaw ruins the peace of the forest. There’s something meditative about the swing-thunk-pull rhythm, the way your breath syncs with your movements. The city has nothing like this—everything there is rush, noise, and artificial urgency.
I position myself on the opposite side of the trunk from Everett. We don’t need to talk to coordinate; we’ve been doing this since we were teenagers: swing, thunk, pull. The tree’s fate is sealed with each bite of the blade.
That’s when I smell her.
Warm vanilla and cloves, impossibly distinct even out here among the pine and snow and sweat. My ax freezes mid-swing. I keep my eyes fixed on the tree, but every other sense is suddenly, violently attuned to that scent.
Melody.
I force myself to complete the swing, but I’m acutely aware of her presence now. My nostrils flare, drawing in more of that intoxicating scent. My pulse quickens, and something primal stirs in my chest.
I shouldn’t feel this way.
I have Finn.
I love Finn.
This immediate, visceral reaction to an omega I barely know is… It’s primitive. Biological. The alpha in me is responding to pheromones.
Nothing more.
I risk a glance at Everett and see him falter too, nostrils flaring slightly. His rhythm breaks for just a moment before he recovers. His eyes meet mine, and I see my own reaction mirrored there: awareness and desire.
“Her smell is strong,” he says quietly, his voice tight with restraint.
I nod, not trusting myself to speak.
“Very potent,” he murmurs, then resumes his swing with more force than necessary.
I turn slightly, just enough to see without being obvious. They’re at the edge of the clearing: Finn, Melody, and that ridiculous llama with its scarf. Finn is gesturing animatedly, probably telling a story that makes Melody laugh. The llama stands to the side, watching with what looks like judgment in its eyes.
Finn doesn’t smell her the way we do. As a beta, he’s less attuned to the particular chemistry that makes an omega’s scent so compelling to an alpha. I’ve always been grateful for that, because it means our relationship exists beyond biological imperatives. We chose each other, no pheromones involved.
But now, with Melody’s scent clouding my senses, making my hands tighten around the ax handle until my knuckles turn white, I’m not sure what to think.
“Have you ever met an omega with a scent that strong?” Everett asks, his voice barely audible.
I shake my head. “And she has to be on suppressants for work.”
Omegas joining the workforce are obligated to take suppressants; Melody’s scent should therefore be muted, barely detectable. Instead, it’s like she’s standing right next to me, even from across the clearing. I can practically taste her on my tongue.
“We should keep an eye on her,” Everett says, his protective instincts clearly kicking in. “With all these alphas around, it could be dangerous.”
He’s right. An omega with a scent that potent could attract unwanted attention, especially from alphas who aren’t as… controlled. I scan the clearing, suddenly tense, my grip on the ax shifting from tool to potential weapon.
The other workers, at least four of them alphas, continue their tasks without pause. No flared nostrils, no distracted glances. They haven’t noticed her at all.
“They don’t smell her,” I say, confused.
Everett follows my gaze, his brow furrowed. “That’s not possible.”
But it’s true. The locals chat and work, oblivious to the scent that’s got both of us vibrating with awareness. One alpha even walks past her without so much as a glance in her direction.
And then it hits me.