Page 3 of The Rejected Omega

I approach the table on leaden feet. The first item is a pair of boxers thin from wear. The thick crusting of the alpha’s cum on the fabric leaves little to the imagination.

Subtle, that one.I don’t need to get any closer. I can smell the stench of sour laundry from here.

The next scent is on a plain, extra-large white t-shirt.A rule follower.Respectful, but boring.The scent is citrusy and floral. Pleasant enough, but it doesn’t do anything special for me. If my mate’s scent is on this table, it will be unmistakable.

The next three scents range from dirty dishwater to an overpowering cologne that makes my nose itch with a trapped sneeze.

My eyes dart to the end of the table, and I grow roots.

I know that shirt.

It’s Connor’s favorite.

The items we submit are supposed to be anonymous, and his is, to an extent. There are no labels or graphics. But I recognize the faded olive green, the slight fraying around the collar. The smudge of ink near the hem.

Fuck.

I lift my head, half-hoping for Connor’s gaze to meet mine across the clearing.

But there’s no one there. The alphas are already ambling toward the parking lot, their voices light and joking as they rib one another. The male elder is tossing the remaining omega scent samples into a garbage bag with a gloved hand.

Is my shirt still there? There are too many plain white tees to tell.

Where is he?He hasn’t already come and gone. I’ve been watching. Waiting.

My eyes fall to his shirt again. I should turn away now, proclaim that I can smell the stink of it from where I am. I can walk away free and clear and continue life with Connor as we have been—as friends, never more.

Mybestfriend.

The omega elder clears her throat. She’s probably eager to be done. The temperature’s dropping, the hour growing late. She probably has a loving alpha waiting at home for her, wondering where she is. Maybe the male elder is hers, and they’ll discuss the match on their ride home, reminiscing about their own.

I want to throw up.

There are still a few shirts before Connor’s. Their scents are blurry, indistinct. Utterly unremarkable. My gaze keeps drifting back to his, some primal part of my brain standing at attention.

There’s something different about it. I want to keep my distance, even as a force outside my control urges me on.

A strong wind blows, and several omegas gag as the alpha scents blur together in the air. But there is something tantalizing on the wind. Something delicious, beckoning me forward.

My next step is my doom.

The rational part of my brain screams at me to back away, to leave while I still can. Connor has a beta girlfriend. Connorisn’t here, despite promising me he would be.

But my omega is uncurling from her deep sleep in my subconscious and pushing me aside with ease. She’s atavism personified. The faded t-shirt arrests every ounce of her attention.

Alpha.

I cross the distance and pick up Connor’s shirt, then rub the cotton between my fingers. It’s soft from repeated washings. The kind of soft you can’t buy in a store. It’s perfect.

I take a deep breath, and calm washes over me.

Familiar. Warm. Connor.

But richer, spicier, and stronger than I’ve ever smelled him before. I bury my face in the fabric and huff.

It had the same irresistible quality as the scent of fresh Sharpies, rubber cement, and gasoline: hazardous, heady, and impossible to ignore.

A picture of Connor shirtless and reclined in bed, working his cock so he could come on his shirt—my shirt, now—floods my mind. Slick drips into my panties.

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