Page 44 of Knot Just for Show

I free the card from its envelope and bring it to my nose before I turn it over. The words, ‘Mavren Renard, Alpha’ written on the back in a tidy, uniform hand—every letter in flawlessly shaped uppercase.

“Is it bad to say that my mouth is watering?” I laugh, a little breathless—doing my best not to look as sweaty on camera as I actually feel. Omega biology is no joke—one little whiff of Mavren’s alpha scent and I’m all but soaked. I’m going to have to pace myself so that I don’t end up panting, leaving slug trails on this couch before I’m through all these damn scent cards.

“I’m going to say that’s a definite yes.” I drop Mavren’s card triumphantly into the ‘yes’ pouch before moving on to the next.

I pinch the next bitty little envelope from the box and remove its contents.

“Mmmm!” The sound of delight escapes me before I know I’m making it, the fresh verdant scent of herbal geranium, crackling petrichor, and earthy oakmoss transporting me to the depths of a sun-drenched forest after a spring rain.

The scent is strong, but not as demanding as the first. I inhale more deeply, trying to parse any underlying calming beta notes—but find none.

I flip the card over, unsurprised to see the name—Ronan O’Neill, but more than slightly bewildered by the designation, gamma.

One alpha and one gamma already. Both designations with knots that could breed with an omega or sigma. At least that was one worry out of the way…but I would be lying if I said that I knew anyone with designations outside of omega, alpha, and beta in their pack. There’s all kinds of stigmas around the alternative designations, but if I’ve learned anything from getting closer to Roxy since this whole thing started—I have learned not to put so much stock into the lines about alternate designations that I’ve been fed by omega centers and other media.

“I’ll be seeing you Ronan,” I confirm quietly before adding his card to the ‘yes’ pouch. “Now, who do we have here?” I cluck my tongue as I pull the next envelope from the box.

At once I’m captivated by piney juniper, sunny meyer lemon, and the sweet-woody-whisper of Palo Santo smoke. The scent is bright,clean, and alluring—bracing and sexy at the same time.

I eye the back of the card as it passes to and fro. Again, I am surprised to see the uncommon designation of ‘delta’ alongside the full name: Ash Dressaliers.

While the designation is somewhat of a shock, I’m not actually surprised to see that the scent belongs to Ash. For some reason, his cool, collected confidence is at home in this bouquet of non-traditional masculine smells.

Deltas get a rough rap, too. Not as bad as thetas or sigmas do—but I was taught that delta was themutinydesignation as a kid, before it became widely accepted that such a title was more discriminatory than it was actually based in fact. Still, the stigma lingers—and I’m ashamed of myself when I feel the twinge of apprehension at the composition of the pack; already sitting at a ratio of two common designations to two uncommon.

I don’t say any of this aloud, and I do my best to school my features into a neutral expression as I add Ash’s scent card to the ‘yes’ pouch without hesitation.

“So far, so good,” I say to the empty room for the benefit of all the watching cameras, the next envelope already in my hands.

As the heavy paper of the envelope unfolds, I can feel my nostrils flare—my whole face pinching as a pungent, unpleasant odor singes my nose hairs: Acrid coal tar against the too-sweet of butterscotch; the searing smoky sting of cheap whiskey all conspiring to make me gag so hard I actually wretch with a loud “Urp!” in full view of every camera in the room.

Panic floods me. Who smells like this? It can’t possibly be Lysander or…Teddy? Could it?

I turn the card over, sure that my mother would yell at me to fix my face if she could see the horrible sour expression I must be wearing at this moment.

Anton DeMello, Alpha.

I feel my shoulders relax and part of me wants to laugh out loud. Of course! Anton. In all of the excitement of the first few cards, I had all but forgotten that I’d reluctantly agreed to exchange scent cards with him after worrying that I might have jumped to conclusions about our compatibility due to my own Judge-Judy-bullshit. Not so—we are definitively, not a match.

“Sorry Anton,” I sigh, dropping his card into the ‘no’ pouch and swiftly zipping it shut. “It was not meant to be.”

I crinkle my nose and twitch it like a bunny in an attempt to prepare myself for the next card—doing my best to outrun olfactory fatigue without a little canister of coffee or something to reset myself with.

“Alright—last two.” I rub my palms together before fishing out the penultimate scent card.

A balm compared to the last bouquet; Blue Chamomile, Lavender, and Spearmint waft up from the card. I feel my eyelidsdroop, a sedative quality to the scent covers me like a warm blanket—and I’m instantly at ease. Our first beta? I’ve smelled some calming scents before, been lulled by silky rumbling purrs…and yet—this is more akin to the most intense indica dabs I’ve ever done—my muscles instantly relax, a sleepy warmth settling over me in a muzzy haze.

Lysander Ewing, theta. A midsummer night’s dream, indeed.

“O, then, I see Queen Mab hath been with you…” The words, albeit from Romeo and Juliet, ring true—spilling from my lips before I’ve a chance to think better of them.

I think of all the dumb legal procedural television shows mom and I used to watch on the couch late at night while I was still finishing my homework in middle and high school; about the drowsy thetas that drugged omega girls like me for Mafia bosses and drug lords. None of those men, rangey and hollow eyed, are what came to mind when I spoke with Lysander.

My hand wavers only a moment before adding Lysander’s card to the ‘yes’ pouch.

By process of elimination, I know that it will be Teddy’s card that I pull from the box. I take a deep breath and reach for his envelope.

I close my eyes and bring the rectangle of heavy paper to my nose; Sunny, juicy satsuma—the fresh verdant zing of cut grass, the herbaceous floral sweet of dew-kissed orange blossom, all rounded out with the warm spice of toasted clove.

---