Chapter Text
The scent blockers Nick used were military-grade, chemically engineered to choke out any trace of what he actually was, leaving behind nothing but the generic, chalky smell of a standard Beta. To the rest of the Portland PD, Detective Nick Burkhardt was just a remarkably effective, slightly intense Beta who worked too many hours and drank too much coffee.
Only three people in the world knew the truth. Juliette, who had been his rock long before his Grimm biology woke up; Monroe, who had nearly choked on his own tongue the first time he caught a whiff of Nick's true scent beneath the chemical mask; and Rosalee, who carefully brewed the custom suppression tonics that kept Nick from dropping into heat during a homicide briefing.
When he was entirely clean, devoid of the blockers and the synthetic sprays, Nick smelled like white tea, lavender, and honey. Clean, slightly floral, but grounded by a deep, golden sweetness. It was a scent meant for a secure nest, not a grime-covered crime scene.
"You're pushing it, Nick," Monroe had warned him just last night, handing over a fresh batch of Rosalee’s heavy-duty scent-neutralizing soap. "Your inner chemistry is changing because of the Grimm stuff. The blockers are wearing off faster. If an Alpha with a decent nose gets downwind of you when you're stressed..."
"I'm fine, Monroe," Nick had replied, rubbing his tired eyes. "I just need to get through this week."
The precinct was suffocatingly hot. The air conditioning on the second floor had died three hours ago, and the stifling July heat was doing no favors for anyone’s tempers or their scents. The bullpen was a chaotic soup of aggressive Alpha musk, anxious Beta sweat, and the sharp, sour tang of stressed Omegas from the administrative pool.
Nick sat at his desk, typing up a report with a focus that bordered on manic. His skin felt too tight. A low, dull ache was beginning to throb at the base of his spine, a warning sign he desperately tried to ignore. 'Not now. I’m three weeks out from my cycle. It’s just the heat.'
"Burkhardt. In my office. Now."
Captain Sean Renard’s voice cut through the bullpen’s din like a razor.
Nick swallowed hard, his throat dry. He stood up, shaking out his shoulders, and ignored the sudden, dizzying spike in his body temperature. He grabbed his case file and walked up the steps, acutely aware of the eyes on his back.
When he stepped into the captain's office, the heavy glass door clicked shut behind him, instantly cutting off the noise of the bullpen. But it also trapped the air.
Renard was standing by the window, his jacket off, the sleeves of his crisp white shirt rolled up to his forearms. He was a dominant Alpha in every sense of the word regal, commanding, and utterly lethal. His natural scent was usually tightly controlled, but the heat and the stress of the current political climate had let it bleed out.
The room smelled heavily of black amber, sandalwood, and bergamot. It was dark, rich, and intoxicatingly sharp.
Nick felt a sudden, violent shiver run down his arms. His inner Omega, usually locked behind iron bars, practically slammed against its cage, recognizing a premier predator. Nick forced his expression to remain completely blank, his Grimm stoicism acting as a secondary shield.
"You wanted to see me, Captain?" Nick asked, keeping his voice even and holding himself at a strict distance.
Renard turned around. His piercing blue eyes locked onto Nick, tracking his movements with an intensity that made Nick’s pulse hammer against his ribs. Renard walked slowly toward his desk, lean and imposing.
"The ME report on the killer came back," Renard said, his voice a low, smooth baritone that vibrated right through Nick's chest. "They found traces of a paralysis toxin. Something old. Something Wesen." Renard paused, leaning his hips against the edge of his desk, putting him dangerously close to Nick's personal space. "I need to know if your... sources have found anything."
"Monroe is looking into it," Nick said, his breath hitching slightly. He hated how small his voice sounded in his own ears.
Renard tilted his head. His nostrils flared, just a fraction.
Nick’s heart stopped.
The heat in the room, combined with Nick's soaring stress levels, was doing exactly what Monroe had predicted. The military-grade blockers were failing, cracking under the pressure of Nick's fluctuating biology.
A tiny, microscopic fractured line of Nick's true scent escaped. Just a whisper. A single note of sweet, soothing white tea mixed with the sharp terror of wild lavender.
Renard froze.
The captain’s eyes darkened instantly, the pupils dilating until the green was nearly swallowed by black. The dominant Alpha musk in the room surged, thick and demanding, filling the space like a physical weight. Renard’s gaze dropped to Nick's throat, where a heavy pulse was visibly throbbing against the collar of his shirt.
"Captain?" Nick whispered, taking a cautious half-step back.
Renard didn't answer immediately. He moved with a terrifying, predatory grace, stepping away from the desk and closing the distance between them until Nick could feel the heat radiating off the older man's body. Renard leaned in, his head tilting just an inch from Nick's jawline, drawing in a deep, slow breath.
"What," Renard murmured, his voice dropping an octave into a low, rumbling vibration that made Nick's knees dangerously weak, "is that smell, Detective?"