Page 57 of Knot So Lucky
"Are you okay?"
I manage to nod slowly, not trusting my voice because I'm not sure what would come out.
My real voice? The carefully practiced male register? Some incomprehensible sound that reflects the absolute chaos happening in my brain?
His eyes search mine, and I see the exact moment something clicks for him.
"You're..." He swallows hard, pupils dilating. "Your scent... fuck…a scent match, but..."
He trails off, confusion written across his features in ways that are somehow endearing rather than concerning.
Scent match.
The words penetrate through the fog of shock and adrenaline and whatever the fuck is happening to my biology right now.
Scent match means compatible Alpha and Omega pairings. Means biological recognition at the most fundamental level. Means finding someone whose pheromone profile complements yours so perfectly that your body recognizes them as ideal mate material before your conscious brain catches up.
Scent match means this Alpha—this stranger with soft eyes and round glasses and a kitten in his arms—is registering me as anOmega.
Despite the suppressants.
Despite the binding.
Despite every chemical and physical measure I take to hide my designation.
Alpha... wait... oh fuck.
My eyes must reflect the panic that realization brings, because his frown deepens immediately. Worry floods his expression, replacing the shock and confusion with genuine concern.
"Hey, it's okay?—"
I feel something wet drip onto my upper lip.
Reach up with shaking fingers to touch it, pull my hand away to see red staining my skin.
Blood.
My nose is bleeding, which happens sometimes when the suppressants interact poorly with adrenaline and stress. It's not dangerous, just inconvenient and unfortunately very visible evidence that something's wrong.
This Alpha is going to panic. Going to call for medical help. Going to draw attention that I absolutely cannot afford right now, not when I'm bleeding and obviously injured, and my scent is apparently breaking through suppressants that should be working for another four hours.
I quickly press my finger to my lips—the universal gesture for silence—and let my eyes plead with him in ways my voice can't.
Please.
Please don't say anything.
Please don't expose me.
He stares at me for a long moment.
Those soft green eyes are searching mine, reading the desperation and fear and absoluteneedfor secrecy that I'm broadcasting with every fiber of my being.
Finally, he whispers, "A secret?"
I manage to nod, grateful beyond words that he understands.
My voice comes out as a croak, damaged from smoke and adrenaline and the effort of forcing words through a throat that doesn't want to cooperate.
