Page 15 of Roulette Rodeo
My blood turned to ice. My scent. Even through the suppressants, even diluted by sweat and exhaustion, it was leaking through. The wall was supposed to be scent-proof, but nothing was perfect.
There must be a crack, a seal that had failed, something letting my pheromones escape into the alpha side.
"We can't," another voice said, uncertain. "The omega section is off-limits. Stella will call the cops."
"Do you know who we are?" The authoritative voice again, closer now. They were moving along the wall, trying to find where my scent was strongest. "We own half the fucking Strip. If I want to meet the omega who smells like every forbidden fruit in the garden of Eden, I'm going to meet her."
Well, I most certainly wasn’t going to find out who wanted me to be their forbidden fucking fruit…
I ran.
Not ran—fled. My legs, already shaky, protested every step. My bag slapped against my hip as I sprinted toward the exit, knowing they'd be heading for the main entrance, knowing I had maybe thirty seconds before?—
I slammed into something solid.
Not something.
Someone.
The impact should have sent me sprawling, but arms caught me, pulled me against a chest that was definitely male, definitely alpha, and then?—
Oh God.
The scent that enveloped me was like coming home to a place I'd never been.
It was familiar yet foreign, a masculine version of my own scent signature turned up to eleven.
Wild cherries, yes, but deeper, darker, like cherries flambéed in bourbon. The spiced honey I carried was there too, but mixed with aged whiskey and tobacco smoke. My cherrywood became sandalwood and cedar. And underneath it all, something uniquely different—dark chocolate and elderberries, leather and rain-soaked earth, a hint of gunpowder like fireworks or danger.
My knees went weak—not from exhaustion but from pure, overwhelming recognition.
Every cell in my body screamed the same truth:Mine. Ours. His.
He moved us with inhuman speed, my feet barely touching the ground.
A door, a keypad beep, a lock engaging, and then silence except for our breathing in what felt like a storage closet.
I should have been terrified.
Strange alpha, enclosed space, no witnesses. It was the nightmare scenario every omega was warned about.
But all I could do was breathe him in, my nose pressed against his chest where his scent was strongest. He still held me, not restraining but supporting, like he knew my legs wouldn't hold me. Like he was experiencing the same world-tilting recognition I was.
Cherries and bourbon. Spice and smoke. Danger and safety all wrapped up in arms that felt like they'd been shaped specifically to hold me.
The scientific part of my brain, the part that had read every medical journal I could find about omega biology when I was a child desperate to not hate myself, supplied the term like a textbook definition:
Scent match.
True biological compatibility, the kind that occurred in maybe one in ten thousand meetings. The definition that meant our pheromones were so perfectly aligned that my body recognized his before my brain could catch up. The truth that, according to the research, predicted a ninety-seven percent successful bonding rate.
I'd found my scent match in a gym storage closet, while running from alphas who wanted to use me, while my body was falling apart from suppressants, while I was owned by a monster who would never let me go.
The universe, it seemed, had a sick sense of humor.
But as his arms tightened around me, as his chest rumbled with what might have been a purr or a growl, as his scent wrapped around me like armor against the world, I couldn't bring myself to care about the cosmic joke.
Because for the first time in three years—maybe the first time in my life—I felt completely safe.
