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Summary
He’d caught a whiff of it by the docks where the stench of the city had mostly wafted out on the ocean breeze. The smell of burnt sugar poked through the murky coagulation of brine and sea salt like a needle through linen, subtle yet sharp and undeniable.
Omega.
And not just any omega, one that was on the verge of heat. Matt estimated he had maybe an hour before they were in the thick of it, and an omega in that state at the docks this late at night didn’t bode well. His worries only increased as the sweet scent soured with distress, intertwining with another hauntingly familiar scent.
Kevlar and gun smoke.
Poindexter.