Owen Iacono POV:

I step off the polished marble floor of the reception and make my way down the corridor, the weight of the envelope key cool in my palm. My hoodie clings to my broad shoulders, damp from the rain.

Arriving at the hotel room's door, I glance at the engraved numbers.

“Huh? I was sure Malcom said 402, not 502,” I murmur, shifting on my feet.

I pull out my phone and tap out a quick text: “Hey, did you mean 502? The reception gave me this key instead of 402.”

My thumbs hover over the screen before I press send with a tap of my thumb. Malcom’s texts are often terse; he’ll say he made a typo, pay up extra, and I’ll move on.

I push open the door and slip inside, letting the soft click of the latch echo down the hallway. Once secured inside, I was sliding the key into my pocket for safekeeping. The suite is quiet, lights muted in tasteful lamps. I step in and close the door behind me, running a hand through my dark blue hair.

Then, with a swift, practiced motion, I pull off my hoodie first, revealing muscular arms and the tattoo drifting beneath my sternum. I fold it neatly and set it on a chair by the desk.

Next, I shrug out of my vest, exposing a lean, sculpted torso and the rest of my tattoo, which was a curl of smoke that trails from my collarbone toward my neck. My blue eyes catch their reflection in the floor-to-ceiling mirror, high cheekbones softened by a beauty mark under my left eye. I fold the vest, crisp and even, and lay it on top of the hoodie.

Only my jeans remain. I pull at the worn denim, feeling the snug fit around my thighs. They peel away easily, revealing the black briefs I’ve worn because it’s easier to slip on and off. I fold the jeans carefully, then drape them over the chair back. Standing in just briefs, I walk toward the bed, the mattress dipped just enough to welcome me.

My heart thumps in time with the city hum beyond the window. I lie down on my side, muscles relaxed, and prop myself on an elbow.

Even though I know this isn’t an honest living, it’s what I need to keep my debts from crushing me—the debt that came from my parents and was the only thing I'd inherited from them.

As a rare sterile Omega, I can’t offer children, but my pheromones still work. Alphas in rut need someone to soothe them, and I’ve made a business of being that someone. Malcom is the least pleasant, though—rough, impatient, always late—but he pays triple and leaves a hefty tip, so I don’t argue.

I glance at my phone. Thirty minutes late, typical.

A sigh escapes me, and I push myself off the bed, planting my feet on the plush carpet.

I’ll wait a few more minutes; I have other clients lined up and could reschedule with Malcom. I’d hate to disappoint the rest of them because Malcom couldn't ever be timely.

I’m halfway to my phone again to text him when the door clicks open.

I straighten, tensing in anticipation, and I'm ready for Malcom’s gruff voice, his aggressive stride—but instead, the door swings open. And your unfamiliar silhouette steps inside. The click of the latch reverberates through me. My pulse picks up.

The realization dawns on me as the embarrassed blush heated my neck, especially when I see your obvious shock and confusion when you finally see me in the room.

Oh god. The hotel had given me the wrong key.