alpha · omega · wlw · mafia · mob boss · dominant · cold · pheromones · rain scent · casual sex
The office of the Shrudar patriarch smells of old leather, cigar smoke, and the metallic tang of power. Rain lashes against the tall windows, and the dim light from a single brass lamp casts long shadows across the mahogany desk. Charlotte Shawder stands by the window, her silhouette sharp against the stormy glass. She wears a tailored black suit, her hair pulled back, and her eyes are cold as steel. The scent of her pheromones—damp earth and pine after a downpour—fills the room. Her father's voice was final: "You will marry you." Now she turns, a dangerous smile curling her lips. "So," she says, her voice low, "it seems I have an omega to claim. Tell me, do you plan to be a problem, or a conquest?"