1. Aria

1

ARIA

I jolt awake with a scream lodged in my throat like a stubborn piece of popcorn. The shadows in my apartment—still as unfamiliar as a stranger’s underwear drawer after a month—stretch across the walls like creepy finger puppets.

For a hot second, I can’t remember where the hell I am. My heart does its best impression of a jackhammer against my ribs as I wrestle with the lingering echoes of my nightmare—Pack Clarke’s hands reaching for me, their scents saturating the air like the world’s worst cologne factory explosion.

“It’s not real,” I whisper. “You’re safe now, Aria. Safe.”

Get it together, Aria. You’ve survived worse than this.

Noah was different. He hurt me, sure, but Pack Clarke… Pack Clarke broke my fucking heart, and isn’t that just the cherry on top of this crap sundae?

The words feel about as convincing as a politician’s promise. Memories crash over me like a tsunami of emotional baggage—Pack Clarke’s confrontation, the sickening revelation of my omega status, the frantic drive with Cayenne’s help.

Zane’s intense gaze burned into me, his voice a low growl that probably could have stripped paint. “You lied to us, Aria. How can we ever trust you?” The memory is so vivid, I can almost feel the heat of his breath on my skin and smell the leather and sandalwood scent of his anger. It’s like a punch to the gut, but you know, the emotional kind.

Those are the worst.

I force myself to my feet, the cold floor biting into my soles like it’s auditioning for a role in a horror movie. I move through my apartment in the Omega Guardians building, feeling like a ghost in my own life. The place is sparse, practically barren, a space that still doesn’t feel like mine after four weeks. I haven’t gone back to my old apartment to gather my things. I can’t bear the thought of it, but here, at least, I’m safe—or so I keep telling myself.

Maybe if I say it enough times, I’ll actually believe it. Ha.

As I wander the empty rooms, the weight of everything presses down on me. The air is thick with the scent of antiseptic and air freshener, futile attempts to mask the cocktail of omega pheromones that permeate the building.

My own scent—orange creamsicle—has only grown stronger without suppressants. I smell like a walking ice cream truck.

I pause at the window, staring out at the city slowly coming to life in the predawn light. Puritan City, my home for over a year now, feels like a maze of potential threats. Somewhere out there, Pack Clarke is going about their lives, and Noah…

The thought of him still out there, still hunting me, makes my skin crawl like it’s trying to escape my body.

The coffee maker beeps, dragging me back to reality like a grumpy teacher calling on a daydreaming student. I fumble with my mug, spilling a little. The scalding liquid burns my tongue, but I barely register it. All I can think about is how close I came to being trapped by Pack Clarke, and how easily I could lose everything again.

Because you want them.

The thought hits me harder than a freight train, and I shove it down, burying it under layers of denial and fear. I don’t have the luxury of wanting anything, least of all them.

Nope. Not going there.

A knock on the door startles me, jolting me out of my spiraling thoughts like a bucket of ice water to the face. “Ms. Aria? Is everything alright in there?” It’s one of the Omega Guardians’ security guards, Finn. Always the concerned beta, his voice drips with professional courtesy. “Your scent’s… off. Need me to call anyone?”

I take a steadying breath, forcing a smile that feels as genuine as a three-dollar bill. “I’m fine,” I say, the lie slipping out easier than it should. “Just a little jumpy this morning. You know how it is, waking up on the wrong side of the bed and all that jazz.”

Finn gives me a look that says he doesn’t buy it but nods anyway. His beta scent, neutral and calming, washes over me like a wave of meh . “If you need anything, don’t hesitate to call. That’s what we’re here for. The guardians have your back.”

I nod in return, shutting the door a little too quickly. It’s comforting, knowing the guardians are here, but the dependency grates on me like nails on a chalkboard. I glance at my reflection in the hallway mirror—pale skin, dark circles etched under my eyes, my pink-blonde hair a tangled mess that would make a bird’s nest look organized.

I barely recognize myself.

When did I become scared of my own shadow? I used to be the girl who laughed in the face of danger, but now I’m the girl who hides under the covers at the first sign of trouble.

In the bathroom, I reach for my heat suppressants, my hand closing on empty air. Panic claws at my chest like a caffeinated cat as I realize the bottle is empty.

How could I forget to refill the prescription? Smooth move, Aria. Real smooth.

Without those, my heat could begin at any time. I’ve put it off too long, and my heat will hit hard and fast if I don’t get more. I clutch the sink, breathing hard as the walls of my apartment close in like a trash compactor in Star Wars .

“I can’t do this,” I choke out, grabbing my phone with trembling hands. I call in sick to work, mumbling something about a stomach bug. As soon as I hang up, I retreat to my nest in the corner of my bedroom—a cocoon of blankets and pillows I’ve meticulously arranged—the only place that feels like it’s mine. I curl up tightly, inhaling the comforting scent of laundry detergent mixed with my own pheromones, trying to find some pretense of calm.

My mind keeps spiraling, a mess of fear and regret. Pack Clarke. Noah. Cayenne and Ginger, who moved here to keep me safe—or maybe to keep tabs on me. I’m not sure anymore.

Trust issues? Me? Never.

Stop it, I scold myself, but the words are as empty as the apartment. You don’t need them. You don’t need anyone.

Even as I think it, I know it’s a lie bigger than my last credit card bill. I need them, I need someone, and that realization feels like the weakest part of me—the part I’ve spent years trying to bury deeper than my embarrassing high school photos.

My phone buzzes, snapping me back to reality like a rubber band.

Cayenne : Rise and shine, buttercup! We’re hitting the market, and you’re coming. Don’t even think about arguing. I have my stubborn pants on today. They are very tight and uncomfortable, so don’t make me wear them for nothing.

I stare at the screen, my thumb hovering over the keyboard like it’s about to disarm a bomb. A part of me wants to tell her how lost I feel, how every shadow in this damn apartment looks like a threat, but the other part of me, the one that’s kept me safe by keeping everyone at arm’s length, wins out. I don’t respond. I’m the queen of emotional avoidance, and my throne is made of unread messages and ignored calls.

Another buzz.

Cayenne : Seriously, Aria. Fresh air will do you good. We’ll be there in ten, and if you aren’t ready, I’m dragging you out in whatever you’re wearing, even if it’s your birthday suit.

The thought of leaving the safety of my apartment sends a cold wave of anxiety crashing over me, but she’s right—I can’t hide forever. I can’t let fear keep me boxed in like last year’s Christmas decorations.

My fingers tremble as I type back.

Me : Okay, fine, but not for long. If I see one alpha, I’m out faster than a toupee in a hurricane.

Baby steps, Aria . You can do this. It’s just a market, not a war zone. Though with my luck, who knows?

I force myself to get up and pull on loose, comfortable clothes that won’t draw any attention. I’ve been hiding for so long, it feels like second nature. I’m just tightening my ponytail when there’s another knock. This time, Cayenne’s determined smile and Ginger’s steady gaze greet me.

“Ready?” Cayenne asks, her tone brooking no argument. Her cinnamon scent wraps around me, warm and comforting like a hug.

Ginger’s earthy aroma joins in, grounding me further. “Today will be amazing,” she says softly, her green eyes scanning my face. “We can even stop and pick up those little pastries you love. You know, the ones that make you moan like you’re auditioning for a very specific kind of film.”

I do love little treats… and now I’m blushing. Thanks, Ginger.

I nod, grabbing my bag and stepping into the hallway. We walk out of the Omega Guardians building together, and I can’t help but scan every face we pass, my senses on high alert. The crowd feels too close, too loud, and a cacophony of scents threatens to overwhelm me. I grip Cayenne’s arm like it’s the last life raft on the Titanic.

She leans into me, whispering, “I bet that guy shits himself during long meetings. Look at how he’s walking. That’s definitely an I have bathroom anxiety waddle.”

I swallow the laughter that tries to bubble out of me like a foghorn. Barely. Trust Cayenne to find humor in the most inappropriate places.

The market hits me a moments later—a dizzying kaleidoscope of colors, shouts, and laughter, the air thick with a hundred different scents. My head spins, and for a moment, I forget how to breathe. Fresh produce mingles with the aroma of street food and the underlying musk of alpha pheromones. I feel my ribs shrinking, squeezing my lungs. Each breath comes in short, desperate gasps, like I’m trying to suck air through a straw.

Ginger notices and steers us to a quieter corner, away from the crush of people. “Let’s start over here,” she suggests, her eyes scanning the crowd. “Less alphas, more exits. Perfect for a quick getaway if needed—not that we’re planning a heist or anything. Unless you want to. I’m game if you are.”

I nod, focusing on the vibrant rows of fruits and vegetables and the mundane task of picking out ingredients. It helps to lose myself in something so ordinary. Look, a perfectly normal apple. Nothing scary about apples.

Unless you’re Snow White, I guess.

Cayenne bumps my shoulder playfully. “Hey, remember that time we tried to make salsa and ended up with what can only be described as spicy fruit soup? I think my tongue is still confused about what happened that day.”

A small laugh escapes me, surprising me. “God, that was awful. I think my taste buds are still recovering. We should probably be banned from cooking anything more complicated than toast.”

See? Not so bad. You’ve got this. Independence, here we come. Maybe we’ll even graduate to cooking pasta without setting off the smoke alarm.

Then a scent, sharp and unmistakable, hits me. My pulse spikes, and my vision blurs at the edges like I’m in some cheesy romance novel.

Alpha. Pack Clarke. Mine .

The scent is a potent mix of leather, sandalwood, and something uniquely them. It floods my senses, dragging me back to memories I’ve been trying to suppress harder than my middle school goth phase. For a moment, I’m there again, surrounded by them, feeling both terrified and… complete.

My omega instincts scream at me to submit, to seek out the source of that intoxicating aroma, but my rational mind, the part of me that’s been running and hiding for so long, takes over. It’s like a WWE smackdown in my brain, and let me tell you, it isn’t pretty.

“I need to go.” My voice wobbles, the tightness in my throat turning my words into strained whispers. I turn away, ignoring Cayenne and Ginger’s questions. The lump in my throat swells, and my chest feels like it’s being squeezed in a vise, or maybe by a very enthusiastic anaconda.

I push through the crowd, every step a battle against the panic clawing at my insides. The market becomes a blur of faces and scents, all threatening to suffocate me.

Is that… No. Stop it, Aria . Not every guy is Noah. But what if… What if he’s here, watching and waiting? What if he picked up a sudden interest in organic produce and farmer’s markets?

I don’t stop until I’m back in the apartment, the door slamming shut behind me like I’m reenacting a dramatic scene from a soap opera. I slide down against it, trying to catch my breath and convince myself that I’m safe.

Safety feels like a distant memory, though, and as I sit here, gasping in the dim light, all I can think is that no matter how far I run, I’ll never outrun this fear or the part of me that still, inexplicably, wants them.

Them being Pack Clarke of course.

The realization hits me like a physical blow. I want them. After everything, after a month of hiding and running, some traitorous part of me still craves their touch, their scents, their presence. It’s terrifying and exhilarating all at once, and I don’t know how to handle it. It’s like my heart and brain are in a constant state of civil war, and I’m caught in the cross fire.

As my breathing slowly steadies, I force myself to face the facts. My heat is coming, and without suppressants, I’m more vulnerable than I’ve been in years. I might as well hang a sign around my neck that says, “Free omega. Come and get it!”

Pack Clarke is still out there, their scents alone enough to send me into a tailspin—into a heat—and somewhere in this city, Noah is waiting, planning, and hunting me, because apparently, I’m living in some twisted version of The Most Dangerous Game , minus the tropical island.

I drag myself to my feet, stumbling to my nest. Curling up in the familiar comfort of blankets and pillows, I try to piece together a plan. I need suppressants, I need to figure out how to face the world without falling apart, and maybe, just maybe, I need to start considering the possibility that running isn’t the answer. Though, to be fair, it’s worked pretty well so far. Olympic-level emotional sprinting, that’s me.

I’m a hot mess, and not in the cute, rom-com way. More like the one loud noise away from a total meltdown way. If my life were a movie, it’d be a dark comedy with a side of hormonal horror.

As I lie in my nest, a strange feeling settles in my gut. Something’s coming, and I’m not sure I’m ready for it, but then again, when am I ever ready for anything?

My phone buzzes again.

Cayenne : We’re outside your door. Let us in when you’re ready. We’re not going anywhere, and we have those pastries you like. You know, bribery and all that.

I stare at the message, tears pricking my eyes. With a shaky breath, I push myself up. Maybe I can’t face Pack Clarke or Noah yet, but I can face my friends. It’s a start, a small one, but hey, even Mount Everest is climbed one step at a time, right?

As I reach for the door handle, one thought echoes in my mind—I can’t keep running forever. Sooner or later, I’ll have to face Pack Clarke, Noah, and my own traitorous heart.

God help me, I don’t know if I’m strong enough, but maybe I don’t have to be strong alone. After all, I have two of the most stubborn, loyal friends a girl could ask for and pastries. Never underestimate the power of good friends and good pastries.

Here goes nothing, or everything… I’m not really sure anymore.