Page 63 of Beautifully Scarred Omega

I notice everything. And every detail is another coal added to the fire that’s slowly consuming me from the inside out.

By Thursday afternoon, I am so tightly wound that my body feels like a live wire stripped of its casing. Every nerve ending exposed. Every sensation amplified. The scratch of my collar against my neck. The click of keyboards from the main floor. The faint, bland scent of her suppressants that somehow manages to find me through the glass wall of my office.

I can’t concentrate. The campaign proposal I’m supposed to be reviewing lies open and unread, the emails pile up in my inbox, and I do nothing but sit here, vibrating with a tension that has no outlet and no resolution.

This is pathetic. You’re pathetic. She’s a spy who accidentally kissed you while hunting a different man, and you’re sitting here like a lovesick teenager who can’t⁠—

Sophie walks back into the office from her coffee break.

She’s carrying a paper cup in one hand, the other tucking a strand of dark hair behind her ear.

My hand is reaching for the phone before I can stop myself.

I watch through the glass as she arrives at her desk, sets down her coffee, and settles into her chair. She’s reaching for her keyboard when her desk phone rings.

“Yes, Mr. Preston?” Her voice sounds uncertain.

“Ms. Dysart.” I keep my tone professional. “I’d like to have a word with you.”

She doesn’t answer right away. “Of course, sir.”

Sir. The word annoys and pleases me at the same time, which is more proof that I’m losing it.

I hang up and lean back in my chair, running a hand over my face.

What am I doing? What the actual fuck am I doing?

Through the glass, I watch her rise from her desk and say something to Celine. Celine nods, gives her an encouraging smile. Sophie squares her shoulders and turns toward my office.

There’s a soft knock at the door.

Last chance to call this off. Tell her it was a mistake. Tell her you dialed the wrong extension.

“Come in.”

The door opens, and she steps inside.

Up close, the dress is even worse than I thought.

The fabric is some kind of soft knit that drapes over her body like water, following every line and curve without clinging.

“Ms. Dysart.” I gesture to the chair across from my desk. “Please, have a seat.”

She nods and starts to move toward the chair. I rise and walk to the door, reaching past her to close it so that no one outside can hear us.

She’s close. Close enough that I catch a whiff of her scent as she passes.

She smells like almost nothing. Just a faint hint of freshly washed fabric. The suppressants doing exactly what they’re designed to do.

That’s what keeps fucking with my head.

Not what she smells like now, but the memory of what she smelled like then. The knowledge that underneath all those suppressants, underneath the costume and the cover story and the carefully constructed persona, there is an omega whose real scent I can’t stop thinking about.

I’ve smelled hundreds of omegas. Thousands, probably. At galas, at clubs, at business meetings. Sweet scents, floral scents, musky scents. All of them were pleasant and completely forgettable.

But hers... it wasn’t forgettable. Or even pleasant. It was a revelation.

And I can’t smell it now and can’t even confirm it existed outside of my increasingly unreliable memory.