Gold Rush (Golden Omegaverse #1)

Chapter 1 – June

CHAPTER ONE

JUNE

Today is not my day.

I can barely tolerate the airport normally, but as I stare at the red text on the departures board, my stomach churns and my palms sweat.

My flight from New York to London has been delayed again . I wanted to fly out of DC — it was the closer option to my Virginia apartment but Janet, my literary agent, asked if I could come to New York City, just for a last minute meeting before my European tour.

“ I know you hate it in the city, Juniper, but we really need you to sign the rights agreement .”

So I agreed — it was the only polite option, even though this building is an overstimulating hell for my anxiety. Bright lights, loud noises, mixes of perfumes, and chemical enhancers — all creating a volatile mix in the air that makes me want to walk away from my gate and say fuck it .

I can’t though. Tickets have been sold, readers are excited, and I’d have to be lying dead in a ditch to disappoint that many people.

Chewing on my lip, I glance up at the board again, watching the numbers flash. I don’t know why they keep pushing it back, but the sheer number of hours I’ve spent both in this wretched city and this chaotic airport is starting to make my skin crawl. I operate better at home, in my tiny apartment I’ve lived in since college, with my creature comforts of shitty take-out and a litany of romance novels lining the second-hand shelves.

There’s three separate waiting areas at this gate, and from my seat at the very back, I can see them all.

The primary one — full of chairs and people and bags scattered — looks like every other airport gate I’ve had the misfortune to be temporarily stuck at. There’s enough space not to feel like you’re sitting on top of the next person, but not enough to truly spread . I have my carry-on between my legs, my arm hooked around it as my eyes land on the priority sections.

One is entirely for alphas — mostly in business, because who else has the time to accrue enough airline miles to be a priority boarder? The section isn’t as busy as the beta section, but it does look comfortable. The seats are a little more plush and there’s a beta attendant flitting around serving drinks.

The same cannot be said for the rest of us, we get questionable water fountains or overpriced bottles from the convenience stores.

To the right, though, is a partition. I’ve never been at a major airline’s gate that had one before. The screens are semi-transparent, separating the seats from everything else and giving the illusion of calm and privacy from the bustle. It’s only for packs, or bonded omegas and their alphas.

I’d kill to be around the corner right now, not listening to the beta woman next to me bitch into her phone about the flight delay.

She stands, and with her comes a cloud of perfume enhancement spray. Her natural scent is almost sticky, clinging to my nostrils and punched up with the chemicals, turning the floral notes into something near-noxious. It’s like being showered in faux rose water. I turn my head, my eyes watering as I let out a little breath, flexing my fingers and readjusting in my seat.

Betas don’t have as strong of scents as alphas or omegas. The natural pheromones are subtler, but there are products that claim to make a beta’s scent as alluring as other designations.

It never works. Everyone ends up smelling like cheap body spray, which is great for anyone with sensory issues — like me.

I sat away from the gate for that very reason, even though I’d prefer to be closer. It’s not like getting on board any faster would make a difference, my ticket is still economy — and I highly doubt any of the alphas are going to glance twice at a beta woman sleeping on a balled up sweater as a pillow in the back of the plane.

The chatter of people talking mixes with the smell of half-burnt bagels from the kiosk down the wide hall and the passengers around me. There’s a bitter scent lingering, and I briefly wonder if the combination of smelling it and burnt toast means my anxiety has finally decided to kill me via stroke.

Leaning into my own arm, I sniff my sweater. I’ve been anxiety-sweating since I left the agency offices this morning. The last thing I want is to be yet another person adding to the noxious mix. If my flight is delayed anymore, I’ll be going straight from the damn airport to the bookstore.

And I’d really like to sleep.

“Could you grab me a fizzy drink?” A woman drops into the vacant seat next to me, bringing with her a cloud of blueberries. I blink, glancing to the side as she smiles up at a tall, lean man with a crop of red hair.

“Are you nauseous?” His eyes flare wide, concern evident as he reaches for her.

The woman next to me leans back, making a face. “Actually, I’d like you to leave me alone for five seconds, but sure, if it helps — I’m nauseous, go get me a fizzy water.”

The man stares at her for a beat, a mixture of amused devotion lifting the edges of his lips before leaning forward and pressing a kiss to her dark-skinned forehead. “Brat.” He hums the word softly and affectionately. When he pulls away, he glances down at her. “I’m going to find Quint — he might be able to get us into the pack seating.”

The moment he’s gone, the woman glances at me, her brown eyes bright.

“Well, you’re probably going to hate me for saying this, but I’m glad this flight was delayed, it took us forever to get through security. I’m not surprised the pack area is full-up.” Her British accent is light as she smiles at me, her lips pulling up at the corners, smooth brown skin flawless.

“Oh.” I glance at her, not expecting the immediate conversation. “Yeah, it filled up quickly.”

I’ve been here way too long, and watched the entire three seating areas slowly become more and more crowded. I didn’t need to leave the offices so early, but with the delays it’s turned my semi-unreasonable anxiety-fueled early arrival into an hours-long wait. I settle on the simple words, because nothing is worse than a stranger trauma-dumping their anxieties on you in a public place, my voice softer than the omega’s.

She’s beautiful. Her long black hair in a low ponytail, not a bag in sight — which makes sense, if she has a pack, they’ve probably taken care of it all for her.

She won both the genetic and the biological lotteries.

The omega shrugs, looking over at the gate. “I like to leave early, but you know the lines here, even with express. My alphas all have different passports, it makes it a bloody nightmare to get from point A to point B. Hopefully they’ll let us on soon.”

“Well, regardless, you’ll have first dibs.” I try for a reassuring smile, but it feels unnatural. The omega looks back at me, her brows drawing in tight and I flounder for a moment. “Because your pack will board first?”

She pauses, and for half a second I think she almost looks startled, like she thought we were talking about two different things. After a delayed second, she tilts her head. “Yeah, packs board first.” Her hand drops to rest on her stomach, flat under a bulky crewneck emblazoned with some rugby team. “People always think omegas have easy lives — useless shit about how we all get lucky to find alphas to settle down with, but if you turn on the news, you’d be clued in that is far from the truth.”

Embarrassment pangs through my chest, and mild confusion. She keeps including me in her statements, like we’re not perfect strangers stuck waiting at a glorified bus stop. My brain reels, trying to grasp at some kind of topic.

“I saw the reports about the blood testing breakthrough this morning.” Blurting the words, I stumble ahead. “They found traces of golden blood in a fourteen year old lupus patient. Apparently her designation hasn’t fully emerged, but they were looking for experimental treatments. I don’t like to think about how young it starts — how they don’t have a choice almost from the word go.”

My words die off, hanging in the air.

No biologist has figured out why omega blood is golden-hued. And I’ve never seen it before, as a beta with standard red blood. Designation detection blood tests are run yearly from puberty onwards to check that no previously-assumed betas show signs of a different designation. For alphas, it’s silver-hued blood, slightly luminescent like an oil slick.

It presents a unique set of challenges. Omegas who need blood transfusions can really only take them safely from universal alpha donors, with bonded alphas being the safest option. Society and medicine have intertwined themselves, with most omegas predisposed to chronic conditions or illnesses.

Omegas don’t have the option of deciding their own future. The designation is increasingly rare, and parents or guardians take over the decision-making for their omega children, setting them up with designation centers that will help the omega choose alphas to bond so they’re cared for the rest of their lives.

“I heard about that.” The omega next to me jars me out of my thoughts, her voice lower. “Doctors always want to test for designations earlier and earlier, but they never seem to care as much after we’re older — unless you’re pregnant. Then there’s a vested interest, of course.” She gives me a chagrined look, her hand on her stomach shifting slightly.

Her alpha’s overprotective behavior suddenly makes a lot of sense.

I don’t know what to say, and as I settle on the obvious — a congratulations — she squints.

“I don’t know how betas stand it. These lights and smells give me a headache.” The omega shifts in her seat, groaning slightly. “Forgive me, I totally forgot to ask — what’s your name?”

“Oh it’s —”

One of the gate agents crackles over the intercom, interrupting me mid-sentence. “ Thank you for your patience, at this time, we’ll be allowing priority pack boarding. ”

“Oh!” The omega pops out of her seat as another man appears. He’s massive — muscles stacked on muscles, stocky with a wide smile on his face. Undeniably alpha, but he looks like a giant teddy bear. “We’re in luck.” The omega glances at me, smiling wide. “Maybe I’ll see you on the plane with your pack?”

I open my mouth, startled all over again, but her alpha adjusts the bag slung over his shoulder, talking first. “Ol and Quint are coming. You ready to head home?” He slides an arm around the omega’s shoulder and she leans into him, her smile gentle.

“Mhm.” The omega waves at me as they head around the throng of people who’ve been waiting hours . “It was nice meeting you!” She joins up with two other alphas at the gate, one of them — a blond — handing over their boarding passes before they’re all ushered to board.

I sit back in my seat, biting my tongue as my brain reels.

She thought I was an omega like her. Suddenly the entire conversation makes a hell of a lot more sense, but I can’t fathom why she even made the assumption in the first place. I’ve been sitting alone for hours, shoved at the back of the seating arrangements, with no sign of a doting alpha or bond mark.

Maybe omegas don’t have it all. Being born and almost immediately told you’re biologically weaker is bullshit. Not to mention the expectation to find an alpha and marry them, just because society doesn’t want to recognize someone can be chronically ill and still an active member of the world. But fuck, if I don’t want the other perks, the world adjusting to their needs .

The fluorescents above me crackle, making me nauseous, flickering as the gate agents welcome the single alphas to board. One golden-sheened bond away from being the world’s priority.

My head aches as I slump in the uncomfortable seat, waiting for final boarding like the rest of the betas sitting in economy.

I throw up the second I unlock my hotel room, barely making it to the toilet before the soda and crackers from my flight reappear.

It was a nightmare . Someone in front of me had a toddler that was old enough to know better than to scream and thrash for four hours straight, leaving a nap impossible. And the guy next to me smelled like cleaning products and chemicals — I’m not sure who he thought he was going to attract in the back fucking row of economy with his faux perfume, but it only made the mounting nausea worse.

A migraine tagged along with me when I left the airport, an unwelcome passenger as I drop my single carry-on onto the little luggage bench inside the room, digging out my phone from my pocket as it rings.

I don’t know why I look at the caller ID expecting my mom — she never calls, she’s too busy going to “charity” events with Dad and chatting to other betas who pray and hope they’ll have an alpha or omega kid they can pair off, because “ God put betas on this earth to help alphas find their single, perfect omega. Packs are ruining the god-honored sanctity of bonding. ”

I moved out for college and haven’t looked back.

The ID, instead, reads JANET in all caps, and I answer my agent as I suck in a long breath.

“Juniper?” Janet’s Queens accent is thick. “I saw the flight finally landed, did you get to the hotel safely? The bookstore confirmed the signing for tomorrow evening. I told them you would be there, rain or shine.”

“Awesome.” I move over to the bed and drop down onto it, holding the phone to my ear while I attempt to sound chipper, even though I feel like I’ve been run over by a kitschy red double-decker bus. “I’ll be there, I’m meeting a friend in the hotel bar tonight and then getting some sleep.”

“Okay,” Janet’s voice is a little softer. “Just remember, it’s only a London signing, and a couple in Manchester and Brighton, you’ll be back by the end of the week.”

I breathe out softly, feeling a smile tug at my lips. For as punctual and stern Janet is, she’s a total mother hen. She’s been my literary agent since I was fresh out of college, a cool six years ago at the ripe age of twenty-two. She’s fostered my career as much as I have, helping my little contemporary romance debut grow to the point that readers even want to come see me in London of all places. Even while feeling like garbage, gratitude fills me.

“Thanks for calling to check on me.”

“Of course.” She’s back to business in a flash. “Go have one drink, then go to bed. Agent’s orders.”

I laugh, pulling the phone away after saying goodbye and looking down at it. My cell is four years old, my old laptop is still sitting on my desk inside my apartment, and yet, somehow, in the past week, I’ve found myself signing a multi-million dollar deal to sell the film rights for my first book.

The Pack and I has gained so much traction in the last six years, it makes my head spin.

Flopping on the bed, I finally suck in a deep breath and then glance at my phone when it buzzes again .

Michaela

I’m at the bar! I got away early, don’t rush.

The text makes me smile. An old friend from one of my first creative writing classes — Michaela — was in London and saw the signing announcement. She said she couldn’t make it tomorrow night, but offered to meet for a drink if I had the time. I think she’s working as a copywriter at a PR firm handling sports teams these days.

I sit up, pushing back errant strands of my auburn hair as it frizzes in front of me, sending a quick reply.

Me

Just got to the room, I’ll be up there in five.

I take five minutes to throw myself into the bathroom, scrubbing my teeth twice to get the taste of bile out of my mouth, swearing off actually consuming anything alcoholic tonight. I don’t drink often — I’ve never really subscribed to the Hemingway-adjacent lifestyle other authors do — and my stomach is still churning so horrifically, I can’t fathom anything but water touching my lips.

The harsh lighting in the bathroom highlights the slight sweaty sheen to my pale skin and the redness in my flushed cheeks. It’s not… great, but I can pass it off as harried and wind-swept. I deem myself presentable enough , tugging the sleeves of my sweater down and smoothing out the front. The rumpled outfit screams that I’ve been on a plane, but I snag my phone and purse instead of digging for something better from my limited options.

In the hall, I rush toward the elevators, narrowly missing one of the two as the doors shut and send it up. Groaning, I stab the button again, watching the other light up, coming from the ground floor. Smoothing out my hair again in the warped reflection of the closed doors, I mentally pep talk myself.

Michaela was always nice. We sat next to each other for the entire semester and kept tabs on each other until we graduated. Then she did congratulate me when I published my debut novel. Just because we’ve not seen each other in years doesn’t mean the conversation will be awkward. We could talk about the weather. We could talk about…

I look to the side at the windows overlooking the busy London streets, dappled with rain, my brain immediately supplying how fucking awkward the chat with the omega in the airport was.

We can talk about the weather. It might be less painful that way.

The elevator dings and I jolt away from my reflection as the doors slide open.

I barely glance at the two men inside, standing near each other and as I step in. As I reach for the button, one of them also moves forward.

He’s slightly taller than me, maybe a few inches, with the richest, dark skin I’ve ever seen. His brown eyes are soft, his lips pulling into a smile as he motions to the buttons, voice deep and accent distinctly American. “What floor?”

I flounder for a second, opening my mouth, then look at the buttons quickly, seeing the rooftop is lit up. “Actually, it’s already pressed. I’m good.” I shuffle back, keeping my distance from them and giving them their personal space, but I can’t resist a glance at the man’s companion.

The other man is a couple inches shorter than the first — almost in line with my own height — tanned skin at the junction of his neck and shoulder scarred in a round silver-toned bite, only exposed because his long brown hair is pulled away from his throat, tied into a loose bun.

An alpha and his bonded beta.

The first man returns to his side — strength in his narrow shoulders. He bends his head and says something, and the other man looks up with a grin, shrugging.

I look away, pressing my lips together, glancing down at my phone. There’s no doubting the dark-skinned man is an alpha. He radiates power in the small space of the elevator. There’s a light fragrance in the air, sweet like chocolate covered oranges I’ve indulged in around the holidays. The numbers ding as the elevator rises and rises, and just as it nears the final five floors, there’s a metallic CLANG as it grinds to an unexpected halt.