Page 6 of Hunted Omega: Part Two

Seriously, who’s that happy working at a place like that?

“Scent Synergy, how may I assist you today?” The voice is so perky, I expect rainbows to start shooting out of my phone.

“This is Aria,” I snap, my voice tight with barely contained fury. “I just received a letter about a match. I want to know how this happened. I never consented to be part of your system. What is this, some kind of twisted science experiment?”

There’s a pause on the other end, then, “I apologize, Ms. Aria, but I’m not authorized to disclose that information over the phone. Our protocols require an in-person consultation for cases of your… unique nature.” She saysunique naturelike I’m some rare species of butterfly, not a person whose life is being turned upside down.

I pace the small kitchen, digging my fingers into the phone so hard I’m surprised it doesn’t crack. My thoughts swirl like a tornado, a chaotic mix of fear and outrage.

How did they get my information? What gives them the right? Did they raid my medical records? Hack my Facebook? Go through my trash?

The representative’s voice breaks through the noise in my head. “However, I can tell you that your match is quite unusual. In fact, it’s one of the strongest we’ve ever recorded.” She sounds way too excited about this, like she just discovered the cure for cancer, not ruined someone’s life.

“I don’t care how strong it is,” I say, my voice slicing through the air like a freshly sharpened knife. “I want to know how you got my information in the first place. Did you guys pull aMission Impossibleand break into some government facility?”

Another pause. “Ms. Aria, are you aware that you’re currently unregistered? With the new law pending, we are advising all omegas to register at your local courthouse before applying for a scent match, or with verbal permission, we can go ahead and register you now.” She says it like she’s offering me a great deal on car insurance, not trying to sign away my freedom.

I don’t even need to think about my answer. “No.” A cold chill runs down my spine like someone dumped a bucket of ice water on me. “What does that have to do with anything? Are you guys running some kind of omega census I didn’t know about?”

“Well,” the representative says, her tone shifting to something more serious, “given the strength of your match and your unregistered status, there could be legal implications if you choose not to address this.”

Legal implications? My mind races faster than Usain Bolt on Red Bull. “What are you talking about? A week ago, I didn’t even have to register my anything with anyone. What’s next, registering my left nostril?”

“I’m afraid I can’t discuss the details over the phone,” she replies, almost sounding apologetic. “If you’d like more information, I’d recommend coming to our office in person.”

I end the call, staring blankly at the wall as the words sink in. Legal implications. Unregistered status. The strongest match they’ve ever recorded. It’s too much, the weight of it pressing down until I can’t breathe.

I glance around my apartment, my supposed safe haven, but it feels like the walls are closing in and I’m in some weird, omega-themed escape room. The scent of my own distress—sour oranges and burnt sugar—fills the room. I smell like a citrus candle someone left too close to a heater.

Before I can second-guess myself, I grab my keys and jacket. I need answers now, and maybe a really stiff drink.

The drive to Scent Synergy in the rental supplied by Willow passes in a blur of honking horns and faceless strangers. I barely register the city pulsing around me. All I can think about is the confrontation waiting on the other side of this mess. The sleek, glass building looms ahead, its modern facade at odds with the turmoil churning inside me. It looks like the kind of place that would have a kale smoothie bar in the lobby.

I pause by the entrance, drawing in a shaky breath. No more running or hiding, no matter how badly my knees want to buckle beneath me. It’s time to channel my inner badass—or at least pretend I have one.

With a surge of false confidence that would make any actor proud, I push through the doors and step into the lobby. It’s cool and sterile, nothing like the chaos spinning in my mind. The air is thick with a cloying artificial scent, no doubt designed to mask the pheromones of countless alphas, betas, and omegas who pass through here. It smells like a combination of a hospital and a Bath & Body Works. The receptionist glances up, her smile faltering as she takes in my expression. Yeah, I bet I look about as friendly as a grizzly bear with a toothache.

“I need to speak to someone about my match,” I say, my voice steadier than I feel. “Now. As in, five minutes ago.”

The receptionist’s smile returns, but it’s strained. I bet she’s wondering if she should call security. “Of course. May I please have your name?”

“Aria,” I say, my jaw clenched tighter than a nun’s… Never mind. “Aria,” I repeat in case she didn’t hear me the first time.

Her fingers fly over the keyboard, and I see the moment she finds my file. Her eyes widen slightly, and she glances up at me with a mix of curiosity and apprehension.

Great, now I feel like a circus freak.

“I see. Um, please take a seat. Someone will be with you shortly.” She says it like she’s telling me to sit and stay. I half expect her to offer me a treat.

I don’t want to sit, I want answers, but I force myself to perch on the edge of a sleek leather chair, my body coiled with tension. I probably look like I’m about to spring into action at any moment. Maybe I should have brought my superhero cape.

She makes a call, her gaze flicking nervously between me and her computer. I clench my fists, adrenaline pulsing through my veins. The minutes tick by, each one feeling like an eternity. Couples and individuals come and go, some looking hopeful, others dejected. I wonder how many of them truly understand what they are getting into—probably about as many people who understand the terms and conditions they agree to online.

The elevator dings, and a man steps out, dressed in a suit that looks too crisp for comfort. His scent hits me first—beta, with notes of pine and something metallic. He smells like a Christmas tree decorated with robot ornaments. “Ms. Aria?” he says, extending his hand. “I’m Dr. Reeves. I understand you have some questions about your match.”

I ignore his outstretched hand.Sorry, buddy, I’m not here to make friends.

“I have more than questions,” I say, my voice low and biting. “I have demands and possibly a strongly worded letter to follow.”

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