Angol
They call it The Den-where alphas and omegas give in to our baser instincts, stripping away etiquette and inhibitions in a haze of raw heat, slick, and sweat. It's a place where masks provide anonymity, and we can unleash our primal urges.
I show up on a whim, drawn by the boring monotony of my life. I need something, someone, to make me feel alive again, if only for a little while.
The moment I catch a whiff of him, I'm a goner. He smells like the best dessert-sweet, intoxicating, and irresistible. Every piece of me aches to hunt him, to chase him, to claim him. To discover if he tastes as good as he smells.
But some omegas don't want to be claimed. Especially when the one I chose, the one who smells like crème brûlée and mine, turns out to be my supervisor at work.
I know I should walk away. That he doesn't want an alpha. But he makes me feel alive like nothing else ever has. And surrendering to our instincts feels like the only mistake worth making.
