Page 27
I pick up the wipe, cleaning over my wrists and throat.
Suddenly, I can smell my own sweet scent again, and my hands shake with my eagerness to smell the Alphas’ scents.
I drop the crumpled wipe into the wastebasket, before staring down at the first page of the portfolio, which is pinned with four pieces of cloth.
I don’t realize what they are for a moment, then my brows raise, when it hits me that these are fragments of the Alphas’ clothes.
I respect that they’ve sacrificed them for me.
I raise the first patch to my nose and then recoil — motor oil.
Am I meant to feel something? I can’t imagine that scent in my nest.
I hurriedly flip to the second page.
Spicy tomato leaf.
My heart sinks.
I sniff the third, fourth, and fifth pack, grimacing at each of them.
I am sure that there is an Omega who would like their scents. They aren’t my match, however, and my skin crawls at the thought of allowing these Alphas to touch me.
“Take your time,” Dr. Lawson says softly. “You only have two packs left.”
Damn, what happens if I hate these as well?
Is it my instincts that are the problem? Am I broken?
I slowly turn the page to the tenth pack.
I stare at the three patches of cloth.
I shakily raise the fragment of plaid shirt to my nose, taking a deep breath.
Then I fall back against the chair, letting out a deep whine.
The scent of gunpowder and ozone fills my senses. I take another desperate sniff, heady on the sharp, exhilarating sting of ozone before a lightning strike, which is weighted by the heat of dry gunpowder.
The smoky scent winds around me, powerful and protective.
I am panting.
Flushed.
He’s my scent match!
I caress over the cloth, before I desperately raise the second olive patch to my nose.
Please, don’t let me hate it.
The spicy scent of white carnations and dark soil surprises me. It is crisp and elegant, but sharp enough to hint at danger underneath.
I like it because it reminds me of myself.
One to go…
“Please,” I mutter, steadying my breathing. “God damn it, don’t smell like sour milk.”
