Page 22 of Omega's Formula

7. Nolan

Well, it sure made a change from my room above Mrs Kay’s.

I stand in the doorway of my new apartment and the smell hits me like a fist to the chest.Him. Erik. His scent is everywhere—soaked into the walls, the carpet, the air itself. Rich and dark and so intenselyalphathat my knees actually buckle. I grab the doorframe to steady myself.

Get it together, West.

I force myself to breathe through my mouth and actually look at the place. It’s... not what I expected.

One bedroom, small kitchen, living room with a couch that’s seen better days. The furniture looks like it’s been here for years, solid but unfashionable. Boxes stacked in the corner, never unpacked. A thin layer of dust on the windowsill. The afternoon light catches motes floating in the air, undisturbed until I opened the door.

This isn’t a staged set. Someone actually lived here.

I set my duffel bag down and make myself take a real breath. His scent floods my lungs and my whole body lights up with it, every nerve ending sparking like I’ve grabbed a live wire. I want to lie on the rug and roll around in it. I want to bury my face in the couch cushions and breathe until I can’t think anymore. I want to find whatever piece of clothing holds the strongest concentration of him and wrap myself in it like a goddamn security blanket.

I will not do any of that, because Erik Nilsson has not driven me insane.

Yet.

I’ve always known what scent does to an omega. Of course, I do. I spent years studying biochemistry. It’s the one talent I have. Or had. There is limited biochemical research to be had in making coffee. Or at least, not in any coffee shop with reasonable hygiene standards.

But I couldn’t find work after the Alistair debacle. My name is now out there as a researcher who cannot be trusted not to try steal someone else’s work. I’m a troublemaker and a fraud.

That’s Nilsson’s fault and I can’t help seeing the irony me knowing exactly what it is that his scent is doing to me. I also know exactly how addictive a prime match can be.

That was basic first year biology at college. Every hormone of mine is perfectly matched to be compatible with him.

But that’s all it is: an addiction and addictions can be conquered. I wasn’t expecting the scent, but I can do this. I’ll get a scent blocker.

I force myself to move through the space methodically, opening the windows as I go. The kitchen is small but functional—gas stove, the kind that takes a match to light. A coffee maker that’s seen better days. The refrigerator hums in a way that suggests it’s one bad day away from giving up entirely.

None of this makes sense. Erik Nilsson is worth billions. He lives in a penthouse that costs more than I’ll earn in ten lifetimes. Why would he keep this place? Why would he offer it to me, of all people?

The bedroom is smaller than I imagined. A double bed with decent sheets, nothing fancy. The closet is just a closet—not a walk-in, not some elaborate dressing room, just a normal wardrobe with sliding doors that stick a little when I pull them open. And there, hanging in neat rows on one side—

Erik’s clothes.

But they’re not the designer suits I expected. They’re good quality, better than I can afford, but they’re not designer.

Something uncomfortable shifts in my chest. I don’t want to feel this. I don’t want to think about Erik Nilsson as anything other than the man who ruined my life.

There’s a box on the shelf above, half-hidden behind a stack of old magazines. Part of me feels like I’m intruding, but I’m not. Not if it’s Nilsson. The part of me that filed the court case thought that the nightmare of those days has been put behind me, but the last week has made it clear that it has not.

I am still furious and I am still resentful and I don’t give a flying fuck about Erik Nilsson’s privacy.

I pull the box down. Inside I find concert ticket stubs, a cheap digital watch with a cracked face and at the bottom, a photo in a cheap wooden frame—two teenagers standing in front of a Mercedes, grinning at the camera like they own the world.

Erik looksyoung. Seventeen, maybe eighteen. His arm is slung around the girl beside him, and she’s laughing at something he’s said. I recognize her from the wedding: his sister Anna.

I turn the frame over. Someone has written on the back in faded ink: E & A.

I put the box back on the shelf, my hands not quite steady. It feels weird.

This was Erik’s home. His real home, before the penthouse and the designer suits.

I keep snooping. No, I’m not snooping. I literally live here. It’s now my home. I have a legal contract that says I have the right to be here and that includes opening all the doors.

Someone has been here recently. There are toiletries and a toothbrush in the bathroom and dirty clothes in the hamper which I do not smell.