Page 2 of The Honor of Being Hers (Terms of Devotion #1)

The hotel lobby smelled like cedarwood diffusers and filtered confidence.

Polished concrete floors stretched beneath soft Persian runners, the latter’s wool dense enough to muffle the click of heels.

Sleek lighting cast everything in a honeyed amber glow, while curated touches—cashmere throws draped over steel-framed chairs, and velvet cushions in jewel tones made the space feel expensive without being warm.

Lauren’s boots echoed a little too loudly as she stepped inside, her suitcase trailing behind her.

She took a long, deep breath and held it, testing the air. The scent layers here were faint due to the expensive cedarwood from reed diffusers, and underneath, the faint, bitter tang of ozone-clean air from the scent cancellers, which meant serious money had been spent on neutralization systems.

“Lauren!”

A blur of warm wool and clove-scented hair collided with her a second later. Rachel, who was tall and elegant, with dark hair pulled back in her signature low chignon, was wearing the kind of perfectly tailored coat that spoke of her consulting success. As always, the hug came first, talk later.

Her coat smelled like skin musk and orange blossom—safety, memory, structure. Lauren folded into it instinctively, pressing her nose into Rachel’s scarf as her ribs loosened.

“I’m so glad you’re here,” Rachel murmured. “Kyle texted an hour ago. He says your room’s been cleared.”

“Thanks,” Lauren said, pulling back.

Her cousin had been her unofficial handler since her late presentation, equal parts Alpha bloodline and overqualified event babysitter. If anyone could keep a well-meaning academic from wandering into her space, it was Kyle.

Justin swept in next. Willowy and graceful with platinum blonde hair and the kind of bone structure that belonged in magazines. He was all silk and sass, with a scent that smelled like bergamot, vetiver, and perfectly cooked sugar. He pulled her into a hug, kissing the side of her head.

“You’re luminous, darling. A little haunted, but in a sexy post-thesis sort of way.”

“I’m not haunted,” Lauren mumbled.

“You’re brilliantly exhausted. That’s a different category.” Justin stepped back and took a long, appraising look at her. “Nevertheless, you’re here, and we love that for us.” He finished with a smile.

Samantha arrived last, petite with soft brown curls and kind eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses that matched Lauren’s own.

Gentle and quiet as ever, she pulled Lauren into a warm, enveloping hug that smelled like lavender and clean cotton.

“I’m so proud of you for coming,” she whispered against Lauren’s hair.

The four of them stood together in a loose, casual circle, the way only true friends did, present but not intrusive, supportive without ceremony.

Eventually, Samantha brushed her arm. “Want to go up? Your room’s ready.”

Lauren nodded, throat tight with the kind of relief that never asked for attention.

The elevator ride was quiet and peaceful. Lauren’s room was on the twelfth floor, overlooking the conference center’s gardens. She dropped her suitcase by the bed and took a moment to breathe in the neutral air, letting her shoulders drop for the first time since arriving.

They had about an hour before the opening reception. Lauren showered, changed into her conference outfit, a tailored blazer over dark trousers that made her feel armored and professional. She was touching up her makeup when Kyle knocked on the door.

“Ready for battle?” he asked, taking in her appearance with a knowing and approving nod. His familiar scent of clean soap and something faintly woodsy had always reminded her of safety, helping to settle her nerves.

“As I’ll ever be.”

“Are you feeling any better today?” Samantha asked, walking on Lauren’s other side. Spotting the redness around his nose, she suspected he hadn’t recovered from the cold that had been plaguing him the last few days.

“Mostly, I just have a stuffed nose, the headache’s gone though.” he smiled appreciatively at her, causing a flush to appear on her cheeks.

“How have you been, Sam? Did you manage to straighten out the issue with your mother?” He cast her a concerned look as they made their way back down to the mezzanine level, where the symposium’s open gallery of booths and side-session sign-ins hummed with energy.

“Ah, you know—” Samantha trailed off when they reached their destination, and they were engulfed in coffee-scented urgency mixed with the rustle of conference programs and the low murmur of academics networking with practiced efficiency.

The conversation ended when they reached the efficient registration desk, where Lauren’s badge was waiting, along with her speaker packet and schedule. She clipped the badge to her blazer as she surveyed the crowd with her friends and cousin forming a loose protective circle around her.

“Dr. Langford?” A young man with a press badge approached, holding a tablet in his hand. “I’m with Modern Mathematics Quarterly. Could I get a quick comment on your latest paper? Some colleagues are saying your algorithmic model fundamentally challenges current therapeutic approaches.”

Lauren paused, her academic instincts overriding her social anxiety.

“I’d say it refines them,” she replied calmly.

“The issue isn’t with existing therapeutic frameworks, it’s with their application.

When you account for individual cognitive variance rather than treating patient groups as monoliths, success rates increase by thirty-seven percent.

The algorithm simply makes personalization scalable. ”

The reporter’s eyes sharpened with interest. “And what about the criticism stating that this approach is too complex for practical implementation?”

“Complex problems require sophisticated solutions,” Lauren said, her voice gaining confidence. “We wouldn’t ask a surgeon to operate with a butter knife because scalpels are ‘too sharp.’ The question isn’t whether we can simplify the tool, it’s whether we’re willing to learn to use it properly.”

Several nearby academics had stopped to listen, nodding in apparent agreement. The reporter scribbled notes quickly before thanking her and moving on.

Lauren felt a slight flush of satisfaction. This was what she was good at. Explaining how the mathematics could be used, the ideas, and the clarity of purpose that came when she could focus on problems rather than people.

She spent the next twenty minutes moving through the crowd with her friends, exchanging pleasantries with colleagues, discussing research, settling into the familiar rhythm of academic networking. She was in conversation with Dr. Elizabeth Merritt about neural pattern recognition when it hit.

A scent that was rich and deep. Clean, wrong and familiar in a way that bypassed all thought. Leather and wildfire. Wind-cut citrus. A hint of iron.

Lauren’s breath caught. Her body went still, every instinct suddenly alert. The scent was delicious. She wanted to follow it to its source and breathe it in until her mind spun. Her skin began to warm, the first hint of her natural perfume blooming in response.

She turned her head slightly, just enough to confirm the direction. And there he was.

Ryan Monroe.

Tall—easily six-foot-two—with dark brown hair that was slightly longer on top and sharp green eyes that she remembered too well.

His suit was charcoal grey, crisp, and tailored perfectly across shoulders that were broader than she remembered.

His face was older, leaner, but still unmistakably him with that strong jawline that had once made her teenage heart stutter.

He stood with his jaw set tight, a muscle jumping beneath the skin like he was holding back words. When their eyes met, that tension spread down his neck, visible even from across the room.

Except it wasn’t just Ryan. Two other Alphas flanked him, and as the air currents shifted, their scents reached her too.

One was warm and grounding, with notes of cedar and vanilla, accompanied by an undertone of clean cotton, like fresh laundry dried in summer air.

The other was cooler, more complex, with bergamot and sage, and something darker underneath, like leather and ink.

All three. Her body recognized them before her mind could catch up. Her perfume strengthened, the sweet floral scent that marked her as an interested Omega beginning to fill the air around her.

Months ago, she had read an article about Ryan’s pack.

She hadn’t wanted to, but his company had invested a lot in the development of products meant to help Omegas.

She had found it unbelievable then, but couldn’t help but be somewhat impressed.

The company, she refused to consider it was Ryan, had created some good products, and his packmates were similarly impressive.

The largest of the three, William Orton, she remembered his name now, stood at least six feet three with the kind of muscular build that spoke of a military background.

Short dark hair with hints of early silver, steel-blue eyes, and a square jaw that looked like it could take a punch.

He inhaled sharply, his nostrils flaring as he caught her scent.

His entire body went rigid, predatory stillness replacing casual alertness.

His eyes found hers across the room and held, pupils dilating.

He was the current head of security of OmegaSafe, the independent governmental organization that ensured the safety of all Omegas regardless of sex, wealth, or social status.

It gave him unfettered access to any Omega’s information, including medical, if he deemed it necessary.

Anything to protect Omegas against people who would take advantage of them.

She didn’t even want to imagine how high his security clearance was.

The third man, Tyler Harlan, was leaner than the others, standing at approximately six feet with a gentle face and sandy brown hair that looked soft to the touch.

Warm hazel eyes that belonged on a therapist, which she vaguely remembered he was.

He went perfectly still in a different way.

Where William looked like he might move, Tyler looked like he was rooting himself in place through sheer force of will.

His hands clenched at his sides, and she could see him taking slow, deliberate breaths.

Ryan, on the other hand, looked like he’d been hit. Not physically, but somewhere deep down, he’d been gut-punched. His lips parted slightly, like the breath had been knocked out of him. One hand had formed a fist at his side, knuckles white with the effort of staying still.

For a moment, the four of them were locked in place, connected by invisible threads of scents, recognition, and want so intense it was almost painful.

Then reality crashed back.

Lauren turned sharply on her heel. “We’re leaving. Now.”

She sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the floor.

Rachel crouched in front of her, steadying hands on her knees. “Talk to me.”

Lauren closed her eyes.

“It’s him.”

“Who?” Justin asked, low and sharp.

“Lauren,” Samantha said gently. “Who?”

Lauren exhaled once. “Ryan Monroe. He’s... he’s my scent match. All three of them are.”

Silence fell like a dropped curtain.

Rachel was the first to speak. “From school?”

Lauren nodded, throat thick.

Justin swore under his breath.

“I need a shower,” Lauren whispered. “I need to get their scents off me.”

“You didn’t touch them,” Samantha said gently.

“I know. I still need to scrub.”

The three of them exchanged looks but didn’t argue. Rachel stood and kissed her forehead.

“We’ll guard the door.”

And they did.

Back near the registration table, the three Alphas stood quietly after they had watched her walk away.

Ryan still looked like he’d been hit by a truck.

William’s sharp gaze, which normally catalogued exits and potential threats, was laser-focused on the space where Lauren had been standing.

Tyler’s gentle presence seemed to anchor them both, though he wasn’t any less affected.

“Did we just meet a scent-sympathetic Omega?” Tyler murmured, as if he couldn’t quite believe it.

William nodded, but Ryan kept staring after her like the world had just turned upside down, and as if every careful plan he’d ever made had just turned to ash.