Page 7 of Heat Island
Fantastic. Now, all I need to do is manifest a wedding date out of thin air.
The truth is, Jason the beta and I broke up almost a month ago. It wasn’t dramatic—no plates thrown, no screaming matches. He simply said he felt like I was “emotionally unavailable” and that my work always came first. Same old story.
I didn’t tell Josephine because I couldn’t bear to see that look on her face. That mixture of pity andwell, what do you expectthat comes with being the perpetually single sister. The one who can’t seem to keep a man because she refuses to make herself smaller.
The wine bottle sits empty on my coffee table, mocking me. I need more alcohol to process this new layer of humiliation.
I push myself off the couch, stumbling slightly as I make my way to the kitchen.
As I reach for a new bottle of cabernet from my wine rack, something on the counter catches my eye. A small booklet with a sleek black cover, emblazoned with silver lettering:Elite Comfort Services: Heat-Breaker Scent Profiles.
What the hell? I pick it up, confused about how it got there. Then it hits me—the cleaning service I hired last week must have found it wedged behind a piece of furniture and put it out for me to find.
I flip through the pages, each containing a small scent swatch—the olfactory equivalent of a dating profile. Alpha scents, categorized by notes and undertones. Sandalwood and citrus. Cedar and pine. Leather and tobacco.
Boring.
The matchmaking service. God, I thought I’d thrown this away months ago.
Elite Comfort Services. A discreet, high-end matchmaking service that pairs unmated omegas with what they euphemistically callheat-breakers. An otherwise loaded term for alphas without mates of their own who help omegas through their heat cycles without any expectation of a relationship afterward.
It’s a perfectly respectable arrangement for omegas, less so for the alphas who are basically admitting they’re second rate. Practical. Clinical, almost.
Except my last session with a heat-breaker was anything but clinical.
His scent profile had been marked asrustic pine. The description had been accurate—devastatingly so, it still might be the best thing I’ve ever smelled—but hadn’t done him justice. That scent of forest had been overlaid withcinnamon and wood smoke, he smelled like sipping apple cider around a campfire in autumn.
A scent book also couldn’t capture the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled. How his hands were calloused but gentle. How he asked about my day and actually seemed interested in my answer.
After my heat with him ended, I’d done something I’ve never done before: I called the service and asked for his contact information. I wanted to see him again, outside the parameters of our arrangement. Or even just set up a repeat performance for my next heat, at the very least.
The service representative had been polite but firm: “I’m sorry, Ms. Jones, but the alpha has indicated he does not wish to be contacted by clients outside of scheduled appointments. And he is currently not available for future heat-breaking sessions.”
Translation: He’sreallyjust not that into you.
I might have been convinced he was my scent-match if it hadn’t been so easy for him to walk away afterwards. Clearly, I wouldn’t know a scent-match if he fucked me for three days straight and never called again.
Considering that’s precisely what happened.
I should have thrown the scent booklet away that day, especially after I decided to go on the strongest heat suppressants on the market and try dating betas exclusively for a while. Instead, I’d apparently shoved it away somewhere in my apartment and forgotten about it.
The memory of my missed connection isn’t one I want to revisit.
Even though it’s hard to ignore how these suppressants make everything smell a little like bleach and make me bloat like a pufferfish. Taking them means I’ll never find a scentmatch, assuming one even exists, but also that I can delay my next heat cycle indefinitely.
It helps that the alpha Ithoughtcould be my scent match never wants to see me again.
Since Jason and I broke it off, my favorite vibrator—the one with the knot attachment and seven pulse settings—and I have been very happy together.
I pour myself another glass of wine and lean against the counter, flipping through the scent profiles again. Each one represents an alpha who’s willing to help an omega through their most vulnerable time with no strings attached.
And then, like a lightning bolt, an idea strikes me.
“Oh my God,” I whisper, wine sloshing dangerously close to the rim of my glass. “That’s it.”
I don’t need a real boyfriend for Josephine’s wedding.
I need a professional.
