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Ugh.Rude.
I shift my weight. Suddenly the fabric clinging to my back feels too tight, too obvious. I drag in a breath, slow and measured -
Mistake.
His scent slips under the neutralizers like it owns the place.
Burnt whiskey. Warm leather. Steel left to cool in the dark.
It hits the inside of my mouth like heat after frost and settles low in my stomach, coiled and golden and completely unwelcome.
Alpha.And not just any alpha -
Ash.
I don’t know that name - not in the way that makes sense - but it comes to me anyway. It’s not memory, nor logic; it's just the kind of truth that lives in the blood.
I’ve been around alphas.Plenty.
I’ve taken portraits of board members so dominant they barely let their assistants speak. I’ve shot three state-sponsored weddings where the grooms tried to out-growl each other at the altar. I once spent forty-five minutes stuck in an elevator with a man who smelled like bourbon, ego, and upper management, and I lived to tell the tale.
So no, this isn’t my first rodeo.
Butthis?
This is something else.
This is why betas sigh into their wine and whine aboutalpha energylike it’s both a curse and a kink. Why they talk about alphas like they’re walking lottery tickets - just wrapped in broad shoulders, perfect jawlines, and enough scent to knock you out in a grocery store.
“Ugh, imagine being an Omega and getting one of those,”they say, dreamy-eyed and vaguely unhinged - like it’s a spa day with light bondage and good dental insurance.
The irony practically writes itself.
I’ve spent years pretending I’m one of them - just another scentless beta with a camera and a caffeine addiction - while they sit around wishing they could glow like a biological Bat Signal and get chased down by six-foot-four pheromone dispensers with control issues.
Sure. Sign me up. Soundsawesome.
What could possibly go wrong with being chemically magnetized to someone who thinkscommunicationmeans pinning you to a mattress and grunting?
Still. Despite all that cynical wisdom, there’s something in me that wants to step closer.
Tohim.
And it’s not just instinct. It’sannoying.
The Mask holds, of course. I’ve worn it too well, too long.But under the surface, something rustles. Something quiet.
Somethingancient.
A ripple through still water. A shift beneath skin.
A silent thread, pulling gently.
I ignore it, and focus on steadying my hands.
I lift the camera, focus the lens right on his stupid, handsome, objectively photogenic face, and -
Click.
