Page 1 of The Alpha Under My Bed

One

ELEANOR

I should have known better.

That was the worst part. Ididknow better.

But hope was a stubborn thing, curling in my chest like the last flicker of a candle, even when I told myself it had already burned out.

I ran my thumb over the rim of my mug, watching the ripples in my untouched latte. The café had started to empty out, chairs flipping onto tables one by one, the scent of espresso fading beneath the sharp bite of disinfectant.

I told myself I’d wait five more minutes—then I’d leave.

I wouldn’t check my phone again.

Wouldn’t glance at the door every time the bell chimed.

Wouldn’t crane my neck to scan the street through the café window, looking for a face I had only ever seen in photos.

No more waiting.

But I was already reaching for my phone before I finished the thought.

The message thread was still open.

Me: Hey! I saw we matched. 97%? That’s insane. I’d love to meet up!

Him: Right? Can’t argue with science. You free this weekend?

It had felt easy.

Like fate without the waiting game.

A 97% scent compatibility wasn’t just high—it was practically a guarantee.

I had submitted my scent sample weeks ago, like thousands of other unbonded omegas, letting The Compatibility Index do its work. The lab analyzed scent compounds, tested compatibility rates, and ran genetic markers against pheromone data to scientifically optimize the perfect match.

TCI had changed everything.

It took away the risk, the endless hoping, the agonizing doubt. You didn’t have to wander the world waiting for your fated mate, hoping your instincts led you to the right person.

The right person—or people—were already out there.

And now we had the science to prove it.

Which meant this match—this alpha—should have been mine.

I exhaled slowly, pressing the heel of my palm into my sternum to ease the tightness spreading through my ribs. My perfume curled around me, floral and warm, carefully blended to enhance my natural scent. I had dabbed oil at my pulse points, brushed the scent through my hair, even pressed a little into the hollow of my throat.

Now it felt too strong.

Cloying.

Like a joke I had played on myself.

I lifted my mug, only to find the latte had gone cold, its once-fluffy foam long since melted away. The scent of vanilla and cinnamon had faded, leaving behind something dull, something stale—like the last traces of warmth slipping through my fingers, much like my optimism.

The café had emptied out, the once-lively chatter now replaced by a heavy stillness. Only the distant hum of the dishwasher in the back and the occasional shuffle of shoes against the tiled floor remained. The rich aroma of coffee had been overtaken by the sharp tang of citrus disinfectant, a sterile contrast to what once felt inviting. Every time the door swung open, a gust of cold air slithered inside, gnawing away at what little warmth remained.

---