Page 7 of One Last Chance

“There’s no need to apologize,” Rowland speaks again, this time sounding a little more upbeat. “Hell, it’s refreshing. Not having to tiptoe around the fact that we obviously have a bunch of baggage. We already established how pitiful our situation is.” He glances at me with a playful smirk. “Our mothers are probably more hopeful about us finding love than we are. There doesn’t seem to be anything wrong with you. You’re still in your prime, handsome.”

Butterflies tickle the inside of my stomach when he says it, just as he’s cutting his steak. I wish he had looked at me when he did, but I feel like it might have been too much.

“When it comes to me, it’s already pretty hopeless. Do you know what Androl Syndrome is?”

I purse my lips and frown. “It sounds vaguely familiar. Some condition an alpha can have, right?”Is he sick? Is that it?I stare at the plate in front of me and worry I won’t be able to eat any of it between the knot in my stomach, the butterflies, and the gnawing anxiety.

“It’s nothing life-threatening,” he adds swiftly. “In plain terms, it’s an overactive Venus gland.” There’s an echo of shame in his voice.

“I think I’ve heard about it before.”

“Yes.Somealphas like to use it as a biological, scientifically backed excuse for their less-than-admirable actions.” For the second time tonight, his proud aura weakens. His shoulders slump a bit, and his voice grows somber.

I remember now. I’ve read articles online of alphas claiming this condition that they couldn’t help made them more aggressive, more sexually frustrated, resulting in rape charges, domestic violence, and other crimes. I’m all too familiar with the excuses some horrible people use to do horrible things. Mom taught me since I was young that we’re no different from betas when it comes to morality and knowing right from wrong.Bad people do bad things. Pheromones, rut, heat—they aren’t excuses. We’re not animals.

But many like to see life in simple terms. In black and white instead of in many shades of gray.

As I meet eyes with Rowland, I understand why he’s suddenly so sheepish. In the exact same way that I understand some people look at me and see a submissive, weak sexual object. A stereotypical, bigoted image of an omega, and nothing else.

“It sounds rough,” I say softly.

Placing my knife down, I rest my free hand on the table and lean closer to him, using only the fork to poke around the meal I don’t care about eating. He looks up from his plate, and his brows twitch like he’s desperately trying to figure out what I’m doing. Why I’m not giving him the reaction he expected.

“It can be hard enough to handle the stuff we have to deal with normally. I can’t imagine my heat being worse than it is sometimes. I presume that’s what that is, right? Your rut being more intense—horrendous mood swings, brain fog, all that. I always figured it was pretty similar for both genders at the core. At least my ma described it that way.”

Speechless, Rowland darts his eyes over me. The waitress approaches with our drinks and he doesn’t even flash her a polite smile like he did each time before.

“Yes,” he finally murmurs, and I feel like my cheeks will visibly flush if he doesn’t look away, so I escape instead, quickly reaching for the glass to sip the rum that burns my throat. “There’s a lot of misconceptions about it, but yes, that is mostly what it is.” Rowland’s voice rolls against me. It feels like velvet. He sounds touched almost, and I’m not sure I can face that emotion right on, so I still keep my eyes down.

“It also causes an excess of pheromones, so please tell me if I emit too much or if it bothers you. I can take pills for it, if—”

“No. I can’t smell anything uncomfortable,” I blurt with a sharp head shake.

I can, but I don’t dislike it. The opposite, in fact.

What I fear more is that he’ll be able to catch my scent, and the entire bubble of this pleasantly unusual encounter will burst. Unlike Rowland’s, my condition isn’t open to misinterpretation or misunderstanding. There’s only the simple truth: that unlike all the regular alphas and omegas, my pheromones, which are supposed to entice and satisfy a partner, and most often smell of anything lovely, beautiful, or sweet, are the opposite of that.

My most fundamental way of pulling in and retaining the special person I should be evolved to match perfectly is…defective.

That’s why I’m alone and probably always will be.

I think Rowland notices my inner shift, but he says nothing. We spend the rest of our dinner chatting away in a more subdued manner—about work, the horrendous traffic as of late and how the fifth always gets bogged down the second it turns four, the investment schemes, and the abhorrent health insurance rates for the venus sexes.

Two hours later, before we leave, he insists on calling me a taxi. We wait outside the restaurant, and the crisp night air eats into my cheeks.

“I’ve really enjoyed tonight,” Rowland says, almost whispering. I glance up at him from studying my shoes. He looks so regal and dapper, standing there in his fancy suit, that I almost want to believe there is truth behind his words. Unfortunately, reality quickly slaps me in the face.

I also enjoyed it, a lot…but unless the date ends up with me in the alpha’s bed, I never even get a text back. It’s a simple statistic. Numbers, logic, years of experience. All of them clearly state that this isn’t going anywhere.

“Thank you for paying for the meal, again.” I muster up all the will I have to act like everything is alright for a while longer, so that he can remember me as a functional adult and not a quiet little pile of sadness. “You really saved me back there. I think my bank would have blocked my card if I suddenly charged so much on it.”

Rowland smiles in that sexy way I’ve been etching into my mind all night and nods. The gusts of cool wind do nothing to his perfectly sculpted hairdo—I almost want to reach in and mess it up a little, just to see how he would look.

“It was my pleasure, Dayton. You…seemed a little down, so I hope it was nothing I said or did,” Rowland says as he steps closer. The butterflies return once again as I draw in the faint scent of figs.

Oh, I hate myself for even making you think that.

“No, I— I had a really stressful week at work, that’s all. I’m sure you understand. I’m sorry if I wasn’t great company tonight. I’m sure a businessman like yourself can’t waste his time with just anyone, so thank you for…”

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