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Chapter One

The doctor's voice faded as the ringing in my ears grew to an immensely uncomfortable volume. The glow of the fluorescent lights became blinding; the examination room swam in my vision. My grip tightened on the exam table, but at the same time it felt as if I was slipping underwater. I couldn’t breathe. I was screaming for my lungs to expand, to take in air, but each time I tried, my body did the opposite. Rapid bursts of air were squeezed from my chest, the struggle to cling to some shred of dignity proving to be difficult.

“Mr. Richardson? Did… understand the… testing?” He repeated himself again, moving in closer, his hand outstretched and poised to offer a comforting touch. However, before he could, I managed to get a grip—at least one tight enough to snap out,

“Don’t touch me. I’m fine.”

The doctor recoiled in shock, but caught himself, and schooled his expression. He straightened up to explain, yet again, that I was, “Infertile. All the tests are conclusive. Given your late presentation and sporadic heat cycles, I would say that, despite presenting as an omega, hormonally, you’re a beta.”

“I go into heat,” I weakly argued.

The doctor sat on the round stool at the foot of the exam table, his sigh almost apologetic. “You go into heat once a year. Omegas with low hormone levels have at least four heat cycles, annually.”

The last bit of hope I had was wrung out with each stammered excuse. “My sc—scent. Betas do—don’t—”

“Like I said, Delaney, you might have presented as an omega, but hormonally, you’re a beta. Your scent, while present, barely registered on the pheromone profile.”

The back of my eyes burned. My lower lip trembled, my voice barely audible as I sought to make sense of what I was hearing. “So, I can’t—”

The doctor shook his head slowly, his eyes growing glassy with the weight of his empathy. “No. I’m s—”

I winced. “Don’t. Don’t tell me you're sorry like you had some part in this and tried to fix it but failed.”

“You can still live a productive life. Nothing has to change other than the fact that you can’t have children.”

“Oh!” I loudly exclaimed. “Oh! That’s the only thing that has to change? The only thing? Well then, my life can continue just as smoothly as it was before. Never mind that I’ll have to tell every alpha I meet that I can’t give them a child! But nothing has to change.” I glared at the doctor as I hopped off the table, snatching up my bag. I took one last look at him, an exasperated sound rumbling in my throat. I yanked open the door, rushing out of the medical offices, and headed towards the parking structure, my hands shaking as I pulled a cigarette case from my bag. I pulled one loose, fumbling as I rushed to place it between my lips. After several frustrating seconds of patting down my pockets, it dawned on me that I left my lighter in the car and that was what broke me.

Crumpling down to one of the concrete benches below, I couldn’t stop the sobs that welled up in my chest. I placed my head in my hands, my tears overflowing and dripping between my fingers. It wasn’t fair. The one thing I wanted most in life, I could never have. What alpha was going to want a defective omega? I was useless. No one would ever want me, let alone claim me.

A voice that was entirely too chipper cut through my moment of despair, turning my sorrow into skin prickling annoyance as he joked, “It’s not the end of the world. I have a lighter.”

Quickly, I wiped my eyes, pulling dark sunglasses from my bag and shoving them onto my face before meeting the stare of an unfamiliar alpha. Sparkling amber eyes framed with thick, black lashes matched his cheerful tone, his bright countenance having the effect of lowering the heat on my mood. I was no longer irrationally upset but simmering in irritation. Scoffing, I asked, “Did you stop to ask yourself if that would be an appropriate segue to a conversation? Because I can assure you it’s definitely n—”

He interrupted, “Because a more suitable transition to a conversation with a crying stranger is exchanging cliché platitudes while doing your best to not intrude on whatever is making them cry? Yet, still asking ‘Are you okay?’ despite knowing that it’s not your place to ask to begin with?”

I blinked up at him, slightly impressed by his towering height, and extended my hand, curling my fingers forward. “Lighter,” I muttered. Balancing the cigarette between my lips, I accepted the lighter, inhaling deeply. The smoke filled my lungs, providing brief relief to my shot nerves. I tossed the lighter back to the alpha, trying my hardest to control the tiny, shuddering hiccups.

“It’s not my place to ask—” he started, but I interrupted him, exhaling warily.

“Then don’t.”

“But you’re clearly distraught.”

I held my cigarette between my index and middle finger, moving my hand away to ensure the smoke wasn’t blowing into his face. I turned, pushing my glasses into my hair so I could get a good look and instantly regretted the decision to reveal my red-rimmed, puffy eyes and splotchy face. It took me all of five seconds to realize that he was absolutely gorgeous. He nervously scratched at his manicured beard, dimples flashing in his cheek as he lightly bit his bottom lip. A line was etched between naturally arched eyebrows, and a flush settled on his high cheekbones, the color bringing out beautiful red undertones in his warm, brown skin. It took me a while to find a response, but I was finally able to reply, in a monotone voice. “I’m at the hospital.”

“And that’s supposed to mean…” he trailed off, raising an eyebrow.

“That it’s none of your business why I’m distraught. Not like you genuinely care. Pretty sure your omega is at home worried about you.”

He laughed, a bright, melodious sound that reverberated in my chest. “I’ll tell you about my shitty news in exchange for yours.”

Sighing heavily, I took a long drag, lifting my chin and turning my head to blow the smoke away from us. “I’d rather not.”

However, it was as if I hadn’t spoken at all. “Just found out I have to have surgery. On my hand. I’ve never had to have surgery before and—”

“Oh no,” I deadpanned. “You have to have surgery. What will you do when you can’t use one of your hands?” Stubbing out the cigarette, I dug in my bag for hand sanitizer and scented lotion. The alpha held his hand out and, purely out of reflex, I almost gave him a dollop of each but pulled up short. “You didn’t smoke.”

“Nope, but that lotion matches your scent and honestly, even though I'm just having surgery on one hand,” he mockingly stressed the words, “your scent stopped an impending panic attack. That’s how I wound up here.”