My memory was nothing compared to the real thing. In here, with the air thick with pheromones, his scent cuts through everything. The same dark warmth, but more. Layered. There's something sharp under it—not cologne, not fake, just him. My body reacts like it's been starving for three months and just found food.
My heat spikes so fast it nearly takes my knees out. The slick isn't building slowly anymore. It floods, sudden and hot and so much that I feel it sliding down my inner thighs and I actually look down to check if it's visible through the denim. My cock is stiffening and my hole is clenching around nothing in these rhythmic, needy pulses that I can't stop and can't ignore. There is a very real part of my brain that wants to walk across this floor, shove those other alphas out of the way, get on my knees in frontof this man and present for him right here against the gallery railing like the omega by the wall, bare and dripping and past the point of caring who sees. I can feel exactly how it would go — his hands on me, his cock in me, the stretch and the fullness and the relief of finally,finally—
I don't do that. I came here with a plan and I'm going to stick to it even if my body is staging a mutiny.
But my hands are shaking. I have to close my eyes and breathe through it. If this is what Everett Callahan does to me from thirty feet away, through a crowd, I'm in way more trouble than I planned for.
Okay. Fine. He smells incredible and my body wants him bad enough to humiliate me in public. Doesn't change the plan. Real arousal is harder to fake, and now I don't have to. If anything, it's an advantage.
I take another breath, force my hands to let go of the railing, and let my scent out. Not all the way—I'm not broadcasting blind need like some rookie—but enough. Aimed right at him. I let it carry everything—heat, want, slick, the signal that I'm wet and ready and choosing him. That's the bait. I need him to bite.
Everett's head turns.
He doesn't jerk around. Just lifts his chin a little, nostrils flaring behind the mask as he catches what I'm giving him. Then he goes still. I know that look from the courtroom—the same focus he had before he gutted our witness. The alphas next to him are still talking. He doesn't hear a word. He's found my scent in the noise, just like I found his. For a long moment, neither of us moves. Just two people staring at each other through masks, with someone getting knotted ten feet away. My heat climbs with every second he looks at me. I can feel my slick soaking through the denim now. I don't care.
I hold my ground. I don't reach for him, don't move, don't act desperate like every other omega here. I make him come to me.That's the game. That's the point. Even now, with my thighs wet and my hands shaking and my heat chewing through my self-control, I'm still the one running this.
Everett says something to the alphas beside him — brief, dismissive, already done with them — and starts walking toward me.
I stay where I am, one hand on the railing, and let him come.
Everett
Idon't even like Knot Club. I show up maybe once a month, if that, and it's not because I want to. It's just maintenance. Like brushing my teeth or pretending I care about hydration. Being an alpha in a courtroom means I have to keep my shit locked down so tight I can barely breathe, and if I don't let myself off the leash every now and then, I start to lose it. That's all this is. I show up, get it out of my system, go home, pretend I'm normal for another month. Four weeks, six if I'm lucky.
Tonight was supposed to be routine. I've been here an hour, talked to a couple of alphas I recognize, scanned the floor without much interest. A few omegas have caught my eye. One in a red mask keeps looking over, sending out signals so strong I can taste them from here. Still, nothing's made me want to move. I'm not desperate. I'll find someone or I won't, and either way I'll be in bed by two.
Then something cuts through the room and I stop hearing the guy next to me mid-sentence.
It's a scent. One specific scent threading through the heavy pheromone fog of the floor, cutting through the noise.Not louder than everything else, just clearer. Omega heat, unmistakable, but there's something about it that doesn't hit the way other omegas' heat scent does. Other omegas smell like need. This one smells like need with something sharper underneath, almost combative. I don't know what to do with that except turn my head and find the source.
He's standing at the gallery railing about thirty feet away, one hand on the rail, and he's looking right at me.
Matte black mask, full coverage, no features to read. Dark hair, lean build, the kind of body that's more precise than bulky. He moves like he does something deliberate with it, not just throwing weight around. Good clothes. The flush on his throat and collarbones tells me he's in heat, early to mid-stage, and the scent backs it up, but his posture doesn't match what his body is putting out. He's not leaning into it, not broadcasting the way an omega in heat usually does. He's standing there like he's waiting for something specific, and it's aimed at me.
That's unusual. Most omegas on the floor put out a general signal:I'm here, I'm ready, come compete for me.The alphas sort it out among themselves. This one is different. He's not signaling the room. He's signaling me, directly, and my body is already responding before I've even decided to move.
I say something to the guys next to me. I don't even know what—some excuse, doesn't matter. I start walking.
He doesn't move. He watches me come to him and doesn't take a single step in my direction. It's either the most confident or the most calculated thing I've seen here. Omegas in heat move toward alphas. It's instinct, biology, the whole reason the club exists. This one is making me cross the floor to him, and I'm doing it, and I know I'm doing it, and I don't care.
When I get close enough to catch his scent without the room in the way, I almost stop walking.
He smells—fuck, he smells good. Not just the usual omega heat. It's like his scent was made to fit inside my head. Sweet, but not too much. Warm, with a bite to it. The slick is strong. He's soaked through, I know it. My cock's already hard and all I can think about is getting my face between his thighs and breathing him in. I have to force myself not to just grab him. My body wants to close the gap in two steps. I make myself walk slow. Barely.
I stop in front of him with about a foot of space between us. Close enough to drown in his scent. Close enough to see the rapid pulse in his throat and the way his chest is rising a little too fast under that dark shirt.
"You smell like you've been waiting for me," I say. Low enough that only he hears it.
His chin tilts up. Even through the mask, I can tell he's not intimidated. "Don't flatter yourself. You're just the first alpha who looked like he might be worth the walk."
His voice surprises me. Sharp, controlled, a little mean, and no heat-haze in it at all. An omega this deep into his cycle should sound at least a little wrecked, a little desperate, but he sounds like he's ordering a drink. It doesn't match the scent pouring off him in waves of genuine, body-deep want. One of those things is a performance, and I don't know which one yet.
"Is that right." I step closer, into his space, and watch his body react even while his voice stays cool. His fingers tighten on the railing. His breath catches, just barely. The scent spikes. "You always this picky, or is tonight special?"
"I'm always this picky." He doesn't step back. "Most alphas are boring."
"And I'm not boring?"