Page 56 of Knot So Lucky

Something that cuts through the acrid chemical stench with startling clarity, making my Omega instincts sit up and take notice despite the suppressants that should be dampening all biological responses.

Gasoline—sharp and familiar.

Vanilla—sweet and unexpected.

Ozone—clean like lightning. The metallic tang of steel.

And underneath it all,sandalwood—warm and grounding and fundamentallyrightin ways I don't have words to describe.

It's the most bizarre scent combination I've ever encountered.

But it's also... perfect?

The scent heightens my awareness beyond relief, flooding my system with sensations that feel both foreign and deeply familiar. It reminds me vaguely of my own scent—the smoked vanilla that my suppressants try to hide—but layered with masculine notes that make it distinctly Other.

Distinctly Alpha.

And my Omega instincts are going absolutelywild.

Desire floods through me with intensity that makes the suppressants feel like tissue paper against a tsunami. Pure, primalhappinessthat has no logical explanation, joy that wells up from somewhere so deep in my biology that I didn't know it existed.

It's mind fuckery of the highest order, making me dizzy in a way that has nothing to do with the crash.

Did I hit my head? Is this a concussion?

Some kind of traumatic brain injury manifesting as olfactory hallucinations?

Before I can process what's happening, someone speaks.

"Oh my god, are you okay?"

The voice comes from my left—soft, concerned, pitched in that particular register that suggests genuine worry rather than performative concern.

I turn my head, moving slowly because my neck protests the motion, and my eyes lock with the softest green I've ever seen.

Time stops.

Not metaphorically. Not as some poetic exaggeration. Time actually seems tostop, the universe contracting down to this single point of connection where storm-green meets spring-green and something fundamental clicks into place.

His eyes are wide with shock and awe, framed by black-rimmed spectacles that are perfectly round—like he literally stepped out of a Harry Potter movie. Freckles dust across his nose and cheeks in patterns that my brain wants to memorize, to trace with fingers or lips or map with dedicated attention.

His brown hair is a tousled mess, falling across his forehead in ways that suggest he either doesn't bother styling it or ran his hands through it repeatedly in stress.

My heart goes on a beating goose chase, rhythm erratic and wild as it tries to keep pace with the flood of chemicals my body is suddenly producing. My nostrils flare involuntarily, trying to draw in more of that irresistible scent that's making the entire world spin on a different axis.

I've never experienced anything like this in my life.

And yet, looking at this man—this Alpha with his soft eyes and worried expression and scent that calls to something primal in my soul—feels like experiencing love at first sight.

Which is insane.

Love at first sight isn't real. It's a fairy tale, a rom-com trope, a biological impossibility that has no basis in?—

A quiet "meow" breaks the connection.

The kitten.Right.The tiny black ball of fluff that caused this entire disaster, currently cradled in the Alpha's arms and looking entirely too pleased with itself.

The Alpha's voice is breathless when he speaks again, barely above a whisper.