Page 8 of Outback Mate
“What in the world?” I mutter, squinting at a shape appearing on the horizon.
As I draw closer, I recognise it as a small beat-up hatchback in the ditch on the side of the road. Black tyre marks etched into the road show where the driver lost control.
“Shit,” I breathe as I pull up next to the car. Wrenching on the handbrake, my weathered boots slap on the road as I hop out of my vehicle to assess the damage.
The scent of burned rubber invades my senses, but it’s also laced with a distinct scent.
My steps falter.
It’s a mess of distress, pain, blood, and sweat. Cutting through is the sweetest aroma of peaches. Fresh, juicy, sweet peaches on a warm summer’s day.
It tugs on my instincts, which lurk at the very depths of my soul. My Alpha rises, roaring for me to protect the Omega in distress. And yet, he’s trapped behind my ever-growing wall of apathy.
He ruthlessly beats at it while I remain calm and assess the situation.
I have training in triage and know the procedures back to front.
I round the car and spot the source of the scent.
Slumped against the side of the car is a head of messy blonde hair.
A female Omega with a soft, voluptuous body.
I don’t let myself indulge in the sight. I can’t. I have a job to do.
My training kicks in as I approach, taking note of the coagulated blood on her temple. There’s a deep gash, but the bleeding has stopped. A bruise is already blossoming, marring her pale skin. Her eyelashes rest against her on her perfect, round cheek.
She’s unconscious.
I swallow thickly when I see the unmarred pink mating gland resting at the juncture of her shoulder and neck.
An unmated Omega.
I press a palm to the centre of my chest as my Alpha claws from within, desperate to get out and comfort the Omega. He should know it’s useless to try. My aura sickness has buried my Alpha instincts deep.
I force my eyes away from the teasing glimpse of her mating gland.
I’m a doctor. She’s injured. I’m going to treat her. That’s it. She’s just like any other patient.
Just. A. Patient.
I kneel beside her and press my fingers to her throat, searching for a pulse, and ignore the urge to suck in lungfuls of her scent.
The Omega stirs, groaning as she screws her face up in pain, but she doesn’t open her eyes.
I retreat the moment I confirm her heartbeat is steady and her breathing is even. My fingers are tingling with awareness where they touched her sweat-damp skin.
Touching her is dangerous.
Before I know what I’m doing, I lick the pad of my finger.
My eyes roll backwards as her taste explodes over my tongue, and my cock twitches in my Wrangler jeans. Salty from sweat, a hint of floral moisturiser, and peaches. Sweet, ripe, Omega pheromone-soaked peaches.
June’s words from earlier drift into my mind.
Scent match.
The thought jolts me out of my depraved actions.
