**Chapter 5** "Where the hell do you think you're going, smelling like that?" I bark, casting Uri a disapproving glare. He stands stiffly outside his office, every muscle tensing the moment my words slice through the air. He’s defensive, protective of whatever—or whoever—is tucked behind that office door. With a hurried swipe, he ruffles his famously untamed black hair, shrugging nonchalantly, his voice a careful mask of neutrality. "Just going for a run." A run? On a Sunday morning, no less—after disappearing for the night, wearing rumpled slacks and a disheveled white dress shirt? His lies are as pungent as the scent-neutralizer clinging to him. I don’t need my nose to confirm it; the truth is seeping from every pore of his skin. "You’re soaked in scent neutralizer," I accuse, stepping closer, my nose sniffing the air by his shoulder. Not a trace of his familiar, earthy aroma lingers. No, instead, the air is filled with an eerie, sterile void that churns my stomach and pushes my instincts to the surface, my body desperately trying to reclaim its natural territory against this unnatural absence. It's wrong—so wrong for Uri. He hunches down slightly, a tell I recognize too well. There’s something he’s hiding; Alphas typically don’t mask their scents, and Uri only cloaks himself like this when something is amiss. If I wasn’t so aggravated, I’d find his blatant deceit amusing. "I just wanted to try a new route, and didn’t want anyone getting uncomfortable," he adds, rubbing the back of his neck nervously. A twitch flickers in his left eye, and I know without a shadow of a doubt—he's lying. Sure, Uri has always been sensitive about how his towering frame makes others feel; he’s always adjusted his demeanor to make people more comfortable. But today, the lengths he's going to hide his scent, especially when the office is empty, raise red flags. His absence from our home last night and lack of communication since he warned Paxton about the HR hire only deepen the well of my concern. "What the hell happened between then and now?" The thought gnaws at me. We try to keep our Sundays for family, to avoid office work unless absolutely necessary. Sure, my pack is filled with self-declared workaholics; we clock in far too many hours. But something feels off today. "I see," I say carefully, stretching the vowels as I scrutinize him more. He shakes with nerves, each tiny motion amplifying my unease. "Well, I’ve got a meeting in twenty, so I need to get sorted. Will you be back here soon?" His gaze darts to his office, and a flicker of something—longing, regret, concern?—crosses his face. I hate that he’s masked himself; it’s infuriating because I feel like I’ve lost a clue, a lifeline to unravel why my big Alpha is acting like this. "Yeah. Thirty minutes, max." I bite my tongue, resisting the urge to point out how ludicrous that timeframe is for a run, especially when he’s clearly trying to conceal whatever his secret is. I nod, lightly pat his shoulder, and stride past him, slipping into my office. I leave my door ajar, a calculated move to keep an eye on what unfolds in his space. The office building is off-limits to anyone outside my pack; my security measures ensure our safety. The executive level is a fortress compared to the busy, bustling floors below where freelancers and clients weave in and out. Up here, however, every step is observed, every signature counted. If my instincts are correct, I’ll glean a wealth of information about Uri's clandestine arrangement. My curiosity piques—who, or rather what kind of woman is Uri hiding? Since our pack formalized eight years ago, Uri is the only one who hasn't confided in me about a love interest, a fling, or even an annoying stalker. He’s not a virgin; he was much more active than the rest of us in our university days, but after the mess with Lacey, I could almost swear he took a vow of celibacy. Just then, a soft, almost muttered "Ow" drifts through the air, and every hair on my body stands on end. I can’t deny that whine belongs to an omega. Shit. Uri’s with an omega? My instincts kick into overdrive; a rush of something foreign prickles across my skin, my gut churning as I dart to my office door. Just as she stumbles, I don’t open it too wide, though my curiosity is ablaze. The scent of sex and something slick hangs in the air, interlaced with the heavy charge of her pheromones. Her heat, rich and intoxicating, wraps around me; I manage to catch a deeper breath before I can rein myself in. I’m not a voyeur. I swear it—this is purely to memorize their scent. My heart pounds as I strain to pick up any other sounds—anything at all. I may not possess the obsessive instincts my fellow pack members have towards omegas, but I know how lovely their whines can sound. Peering through the crack of my door, I catch only the back of her head silhouetted against the desk. Her long, brown hair is tousled, clearly a mess. She's limping as she navigates around, and when she finally emerges properly, I notice she’s wearing black leggings that cling just right, complementing her curves, paired with a wrinkled light pink blouse. Red-soled heels dangle from her hands, unmistakably pricey. So, she’s a well-off omega. Interesting. Not what I would expect from Uri. And the way she carries herself? Controlled. Measured. This isn’t a lost omega swept up in the aftermath of an Alpha’s knot; no, this is a woman who knows how to play a part. She presses the lift button, but nothing happens—she didn't scan an employee card. I see the way her shoulders hunch slightly, and an insatiable urge to see her burns within me. I step out of my office with firm purpose, aiming to capture her attention without startling this seemingly manipulative creature. Her head jerks up, wide blue eyes locking onto mine. And damn. She’s stunning—not just with the typical delicate beauty omegas possess, but in a way that ignites a primal awareness within me. I’m trained to detect danger, to sense when something is amiss, and right now my instinct is screaming: alert! Her fearful eyes hold a calmness beneath the fear, suggesting this is a woman who has been well taken care of. "Sterling," she murmurs, her voice soft yet unsteady, glancing down at her feet as pink flushes her cheeks. "I mean, Mr. Carter. I’m, um..." An employee? Is she actually part of our team? God damn it, Uri. Didn’t anyone tell him not to mix business with pleasure? "Do you need me to let you out?" I ask, tilting my head toward the lifts, careful to keep my distance. I might play the role of a hardass, but I have no desire to intimidate Uri’s secret omega just yet. She flinches at my voice, pulling in unconsciously, yet she manages to meet my gaze. "Um, yes, please." As I approach, her scent overwhelms my senses—a mix of sex, anxiety, and something elusive just beneath the surface. I know what I’m detecting is a concoction of Uri’s scent intertwined with hers at a molecular level, sparked with notes that draw me in. "What’s your name?" I demand, swiping my card against the reader to allow her to press the button letting her descend. Please say something revealing so I can investigate her background. "Emmeline Whitmore," she responds, subdued, her gaze locked firmly on the ground, avoiding direct contact. Is she afraid of me? No; I couldn’t even fathom Uri hurting her. Why then does her nervousness linger when I merely stand before her? "What are you doing here?" I press, as the lift begins to descend, my brow raised in suspicion. "I was working on something with Mr. Rothschild." Her gaze, previously averted, lifts to meet mine, and I notice a spark of confidence igniting in her posture, shoulders squared. She arches a brow, a hint of challenge in her stance that shouldn’t captivate me the way it does. I’m aware omegas are adept manipulators, and something in her sudden self-assurance screams red flag. She probably believes this will endear her to me, but the layers of her approach stoke the flames of my inherent skepticism. "I understand the building's usually closed to staff on Sundays, but this project was time-sensitive, and I’m off for my heat for the next two weeks." I smooth out my features, knowing that I’m losing precious time with her. "And you’ve been here… all night?” Her arms cross defensively beneath her chest. "I have, yes." Her tone could chill ice, an indication that I wasn’t the only one sensing the tension in the air. Before I can respond, the lift dings and the doors slide open, revealing the inviting expanse below. She gently presses her hand on my forearm, heat racing beneath my skin, each nerve alighting with shockwaves of electric tension. What is this? It isn’t desire... it can’t be. But my instincts shift as she crosses the threshold with practiced ease and slips into her heels, movements calculated by a woman evidently familiar with these encounters. One thing rings true in my parents' teachings: betas see everything and learn to blend in, waiting patiently for the opportune moment to strike. Still, here I am, caught in the crosshairs of her charm—dangerous and compelling. "Thank you for your assistance, Mr. Carter," she says, enunciating each syllable, yet her voice drips with self-assured grace as she presses the button to the ground floor. Uri clearly hasn't trusted her enough to grant access to our private parking structure; the thought sends curious chills down my spine. "Miss Whitmore?" I call, unable to hold back the impulse. The lift doors stutter to a halt as she presses to reopen them, and I let my judgment wash over her. "Next time you do the walk of shame, maybe take a shower first if you don't want to out yourself," I reply with a smirk, sauntering back towards my office. As I return, my thoughts swarm with her presence; I’d just secured a meeting with Emmeline Whitmore, an omega glaringly trying to encroach upon my pack. Not on my watch. The thrill of the potential chaos sets fire to my thoughts. How will Uri react when he discovers his covert omega has slipped through his fingers? Will it provoke annoyance, or is this precisely the outcome he anticipated? I fire off a quick message to Paxton, our head Alpha, letting him know I’ll be tied up longer than expected and offering apologies for missing our family dinner tonight. In our delicate pack dynamics, every action matters; we share not only our work but our lives. Weekly family dinners blur the lines between personal and professional, a delicate balance that both strengthens and exposes us. We’ve surrendered hope on ever finding our omega, perhaps forging a path without one could work. But as the silence pervades the space, my instincts roar—it’s a unique void that stretches out, a warning that something vital is amiss. Emmeline’s scent clings stubbornly to my forearm where she brushed against me earlier. An involuntary flicker of acknowledgment dances in my chest; there’s something primal urging me to catalog her essence as home. But, I push that thought back vehemently, clinging tight to my better judgment. Emmeline Whitmore is a danger, and whether she’s an omega or not, no one—no matter how appealing—threatens the sanctity of our family.