Page 19 of Gold Rush
And now there’s one in thefuckinghouse.
Anger sears through my body, clearing my thoughts as I shift.
The floor creaks under me and she jumps. Her perfume sours, the sweetness turning sickly,wrong, fear tanging through the air and slapping me across the face. My hindbrain scrambles, telling me to fix it, but I tense all my muscles, doubling down.
The bark comes out, low and harsh, and she reacts before she can even think about it. It leaves me with a sick feeling as her eyes widen and she scrambles away from me, fear in her gaze as she clings to the stairs and fumbles to leave.
Good— if she’s scared of me, she won’t get near me again.
Just like my mother makes sure to avoid my fathers.
“Go.”
She runs from me, and I feel like my body is being cleaved in half. The urge to not let her out of my sight brings me to the top of the stairs, and I stare down in a daze as she wavers, looking back up at me. One more command and she tucks her chin, running away for good.
I stand there until I hear the door to her room slam shut and the lock click.
Not hers. The guest room. The guest room door slams.
The internet said that scent-cancelling products would make the adjustment easier on a new omega, because smells were too overwhelming to them. But what about me?
I lick my lips, tasting the sweetness in the air, assaulted by the burnt, acrid smell of fear tinting it.
She can’t stay.
I can’t fucking do this.
CHAPTER TEN
JUNE
All my clothes smell.
And it’s not in the new “I’m an omega now and hypersensitive to scents” way, it’s more in the “I only have three outfits and they all reek of body odor” way which is infinitely worse.
I survey all my clothes sitting on the bed; a pair of trousers and a skirt I packed to wear with my two blouse options, a travel outfit, and then an extra pair of leggings, which I’m currently wearing, a sweatshirt, and a sweater. There’s also a pile of underwear off to the side, because even though I overpacked, per usual, I’m nearing the end of my clean options.
Stepping back, I tug at my sweatshirt and go over to the door, opening it slowly, hoping I can catch Seth and ask to use the laundry — wherever it is in this massive place. But when I look into the hall, the door across from me is open, and voices carry up the stairs.
I adjust my hair and slip out of the room, glancing down at myself again. The clothes I’m in will have to do.
As I reach the bottom step, the conversation becomes loud enough I can make out the words.
“I think it’s a good idea.”
“Of course you do, it’syouridea.”
Seth and Bennett bicker lovingly, and it tugs a smile from me as I ease forward.
“I’m sure Arin will have something to say about all of this, abouther.”
The third voice makes me freeze. It’s dry, but deep and rumbling — the same one that barked and put me to sleep last night. And now, standing here, I recognize an unfamiliar scent curling around me, filling the foyer and my lungs.
Petrichor.
The townhouse has a mixture of smells — Seth’s perfume is like fresh fudge, and Bennett’s alpha scent is crisp, ripe oranges. But this smell is the same one I thought was an open window last night — and makes the candle I have back home on my nightstand look like a poor imitation.
It’s soft, rich, and fragrant. The smell of fresh rain wafting off the damp ground. The sun is shining through the windows on the front door, casting little rainbows on the marble floor — and I know, without a shadow of a doubt, that this is the big alpha’s perfume.
