Betas didn’t have fated mates. That nonsense was reserved for alphas and omegas, and Cove was glad for it. He didn’t need the universe telling him who he was supposed to love. What did they know? Nothing.

So why the hell were you his fated mate?

Cove refused to believe it at first. There was no way. He hardly believed in this soulmate-fated-mate-nonsense in the first place, but then you’d, quite literally, bumped into him and something clicked.

He’d read about fated mates before. Alphas and omegas would talk about that instant attraction that made them weak in the knees, that made them want to stay by the other for the rest of their life. They didn’t mention how absolutely terrifying it was, though.

Cove had shoved you off of him and ran off, refusing to go back to the shoot. Apparently you were the photographer or something. He didn’t care. Cove wanted nothing to do with you ever again.

His manager questioned him but didn’t push it. Whatever this feeling was, Cove was going to ignore it. He focused on writing songs, on continuing his tour with his band, Lover’s Lane, even gave up drinking for a month. That had been miserable.

He’d begun to obsessively look through forums on fated mates after he couldn’t get you out of his mind. Everything he read pointed at you being his, but nothing mentioned betas having one. You were an omega, or maybe an alpha, he wasn’t sure. Like most betas, his sense of smell wasn’t the strongest.

He had liked your scent though.

Cove dated any beta with a pulse as long as they were attractive. He wasn’t the type to commit to anyone. Another reason he didn’t date omegas or alphas. They were all so intense with their second genders. It was unnerving.

Two months after bumping into you Cove demanded another shoot with you as the photographer. His manager relented, of course. He was the face of the band.

He didn’t bother giving you a fake smile, cornering you away from prying eyes. “You,” he said. “Who are you?” Surely you felt this annoying connection, too.