Page 24 of Unmarked
Rhea
The camera smacks against my back as I lunge through the ballroom. I stumble through sequins, shoulder-check silk, and nearly decapitate a waiter with someone’s glittery clutch.
Someone gasps. Another swears. A few call out - maybe my name, maybe just “help, a feral beta’s loose!”
I don’t care.
Someone grabs my arm. I rip free without looking, all unhinged birthday energy and the survival instinct of a cornered possum in designer heels.
I don’t turn. I don’t stop.
Because behind me are four alphas. Four very scent-capable, veryhungrymen -
And the fucking OMB.
At least one official is definitely at this gala, drinking sparkling wine and pretending not to catalog everyone’s scent signatures like a walking barcode scanner, but for all I know, there could be more - lurking behind potted plants or disguised as waitstaff with tranquilizer guns.
And nowIsmell like honey-drenched sex panic.
So yeah. I run.I shoulder the nearest side door open like I’ve been launched by adrenaline and poor life choices, disappearing into a hallway that smells mercifully neutral and government-free.
It’s cooler in here. The scent-neutralizers are still buzzing, but quieter - mostly background noise. I stumble forward, heels skittering across tile, one hand braced on the wall like I’m trying not to fall off the edge of the planet while the other clenches my clutch like it’s going to save me.
It won’t.
My hands are shaking. Too fast, too wild. I claw at the flap and dig into the lining like a raccoon searching for the meaning of life in a takeout container.
Come on, come on, come on -
The emergency suppressant. Custom-made. Tongue strip. Tastes like acid and sadness, but buys me twenty-four hours of plausible deniability. Ialwayskeep one tucked in the lining.
Except -
No.
I tear the clutch open wider, ripping the seams in my panic. Lipstick flies. Compact shatters. SD cards scatter across the tile like confetti at my funeral.
Nothing.
The lining is empty.
I freeze long enough for reality to crash through the door and slap me in the face.
Then it hits again - low and brutal, a hard punch from the inside. Heat blossoms behind my ribs, floods through my spine, and coils in my gut like a living thing stretching awake for the first time.
I arch involuntarily. My back, my thighs,everythingburns.
This isn’t nerves. This isn’t hormones.
It'sheat.
My very first heat.
The one I was never supposed to have.
And now my scent - sweet and smoky and absolutely illegal - is blooming through the air like a death wish sprayed with perfume.
I can smell it.
