Scentless Omega Posing as Beta, I Caught the Alpha Allergic to Omegas

The first time I saw Grayson Hale, he was staring at me like I was a stain on his morning. I had arrived at the off-campus apartment an hour early, arms full of boxes, expecting to meet a friendly Beta or maybe a quiet Beta student like the profile had said. Instead, a tall Alpha with dark hair and a jaw that looked carved from stone stood in the doorway, arms crossed, eyes doing a slow scan of me from shoes to scalp. "You're the roommate," he said. It was not a question. "Mira Callahan," I said, shifting the box against my hip. "I'm your new roommate, yes." He didn't move aside. The hallway light caught the sharp line of his collarbone, the way his shirt strained just slightly across his shoulders. Even through the blockers, I could tell he was the kind of Alpha whose presence filled every inch of a room. I had spent years learning to breathe through that feeling without giving anything away. "You're Beta," he said. "Last time I checked." "Good." He finally stepped back. "I don't room with Omegas. Ever." The words hit me in the stomach, but I kept my face blank. I had practiced that face in mirrors for four years. I had learned to be invisible in the one way that mattered. "Lucky for you," I said, "I'm not one." That was the first lie I told Grayson Hale. It was not the last. The apartment had two bedrooms, a shared bathroom, and a kitchen that looked like it had been decorated by someone's grandmother. Grayson claimed the room at the end of the hall and disappeared into it, leaving me to unpack in silence. I could hear him on the phone through the thin walls, his voice low and clipped. "She's here," he said. "Fine. A Beta. I don't care what the housing office says, I'm not doing this again." I paused with a stack of textbooks in my arms. Not doing what again. I wanted to know, but I wasn't about to ask. That night I lay in my bed with the door cracked open, listening to the city outside and the occasional shift of Grayson moving in his room. I had taken my suppressants before I left the old place, and I had my emergency supply locked in a small metal box under my mattress. The box was the most important thing I owned. Inside it were the pills that kept my body quiet and the truth that could ruin everything if anyone ever opened it. I had known from the age of sixteen that I was an Omega. I had also known, from the way my mother looked at me when the tests came back, that being an Omega in our world meant being seen as a problem to be managed. She had enrolled me in a private school across the state and told me to tell no one. Four years later I was still following her rules from a distance, still taking the pills that made me smell like nothing at all. The only good thing about being a scentless Omega was that no one could tell. The bad thing was that it made the lie easy, and easy lies had a way of getting comfortable. By the second week, I had learned a few things about Grayson Hale. He was a senior in the business school, a track star, and the son of a woman whose name appeared in the alumni newsletters more often than the university president's. He woke up at five to run, came back at seven, and drank his coffee black while reading the financial news on his tablet. He was polite in the way of someone who had been raised to be polite and had decided it was easier than being rude. He also had rules. Rule one: no one in his room. Rule two: no noise after ten. Rule three: never ask him where he was. I broke rule three on a Friday night, mostly by accident. I had come home late from the library, tired and hungry, and found him sitting on the kitchen counter with his shirt half unbuttoned, pressing a cold compress to his neck. His skin was flushed, and his breathing was too fast, and the air around him was thick with something I had been trained to recognize and ignore. "You okay?" I asked, stopping in the doorway. He looked up, and his eyes were off, pupils blown wide, jaw tight. "Fine." "You don't look fine." "I said I'm fine." His voice came out rough, and he pressed the compress harder against his neck. "Have you ever heard of not asking questions?" I could have walked away. I should have walked away. But the smell coming off him was making my chest ache in a way I hadn't felt in years, and some reckless part of me wanted to see how far I could push. "I thought you were on blockers," I said. "I am." He closed his eyes. "They're not working tonight." There it was. The c***k in the wall. I stood there for a long moment, watching the way his fingers dug into the edge of the counter, the way his whole body seemed to be fighting something I couldn't see. Then I did the dumbest thing I had done in four years. I crossed the room and put my hand on his shoulder. He went still. Completely still, like I had hit a pause button on a machine that had been running too fast. His skin was hot through his shirt, and I could feel the tremor underneath it, the Alpha biology he was trying so hard to control. "Mira," he said. Just my name. Not a warning. Not a dismissal. "You should go to bed," I said, and pulled my hand back. He caught my wrist before I could move away. His grip was gentle, but his eyes were dark and desperate in a way that made my stomach flip. "Stay," he said. "I can't." "Why not?" Because you would not want me if you knew what I was. Because I have spent years avoiding exactly this moment. Because my whole life is a lie, and you are the one person I can't afford to lie to. "I just can't," I said, and pulled my wrist free. He didn't stop me. He just watched me go, and the look on his face stayed with me long after I closed my bedroom door and leaned against it with my heart pounding. I had a feeling I was in trouble. I just didn't know how much.