Power Shift (Harbour of Hope #1)

Chapter 1

1

brIAR

“Push it, omegas! Asses up and loose. Let me see those hips sway!”

I grunt and push back, struggling with my slick palms to keep a good hold on the stationary bike handles.

Salty liquid drips down my forehead and into my eyes and mouth as I gasp in the hot air around me.

It’s like I’m drowning on my own sweat.

It’s only a matter of time before I start gargling.

My ears ring from the volume of the music blasting in the airless room, and I’m pretty positive that I could collapse at any given moment.

Continuing to pump my legs isn’t really a reality at this point.

They might very well just fall off.

“That’s it! Only thirty seconds longer. Keep your backs straight and pump!”

Thirty.

Seconds.

Will I even make it ten?

This class was a giant, massive mistake.

I’ll be stuck at home for the next three weeks recovering now.

“Twenty seconds!

My lips are crusty, and the taste in my mouth is repulsive. There’s iron coating my throat regardless of how often I swallow. The constant sawing of air into my lungs has most likely stripped layers of flesh off, resulting in said iron.

“Ten seconds!

”

Oh, fuck. I’m soaked.

I’ve never been wetter in my entire life, and that’s saying something.

Is there a puddle beneath me?

My left hand slips from its handle, and my right arm wobbles as I tilt slightly, off balance.

The world darkens as I try to regain my hold and stabilize myself before I fall onto the wet floor.

“And time! You can slow to a cooldown.”

I don’t just slow to a cooldown.

My legs stop pushing entirely as I collapse against the front of the bike.

Any minute now, I’m sure I’ll pass out.

At the rate my heart is pounding and my lungs are screaming for a break, I’m absolutely destroyed.

“They should call an ambulance for me. I’ve got mere seconds left,” I wheeze.

“It’s . . . not . . . that bad.”

I don’t have the strength to turn to give my best friend the look I want to be giving, so I don’t bother.

Instead, I keep my arms slung over the front of the bike and continue to gasp for breath like a fish tossed out of a fishbowl.

“You’re . . . dead to me,” I dig.

“You’ll feel good . . . tomorrow.”

I doubt that.

I’ve successfully been turning down the offers to join her at her spin class for months.

If it weren’t for her nasty breakup last week, I’d have done it again.

I couldn’t leave her on her own tonight, with how devastated she’s been.

If I did, she probably would have spent another night at a club being reckless in an attempt to mask her hurt with a different alpha’s scent than the ones belonging to her dickwad ex and his pack of discount losers.

Clover has never been one to like using her scent-blocking perfume—claiming she hates the way it sticks to her skin—and while I agree with her, it’s just not safe to go completely without it.

Ever since I found her doing exactly what I worried she would last weekend, I don’t trust that she won’t try it again, this time opting out of calling me midway through the night.

Not using scent blockers or at least a dampener in a situation like that isn’t something an omega should be doing often, especially when we’re out somewhere like a club and loose with alcohol.

One second of wavering control is all it would take to risk turning a crowd of drunken alphas into beasts with one thing on their brain—finding whichever omega it is that’s spraying out their scent and rutting them into tomorrow.

It’s certainly not fair, but it’s the reality of living as an omega.

The odds of anything happening like that are low but not impossible.

To most people, it wouldn’t be a concern.

But to someone like me, the type of woman who has a habit of thinking too much and worrying even more, anything is a possibility.

I prefer doing things that I already know how to and going places I know well.

It makes everything simpler.

Clover and I both have strong scents.

We have since we were teenagers.

While hers is more of a decadent variation than my overall sweet one, we’ve both been drawing far too much attention to ourselves since we realized how easy it was to make a hormonal alpha growl at a simple walk-by.

I never forget to wash my body with a scent-blocking wash or spritz myself before leaving my place.

“Hello? Earth to Briar,” she says, pushing my head up with a palm to my forehead.

Her microbladed eyebrow is lifted as I peel open my eyes and meet her gaze.

“You’re not actually supposed to die from a spin class.”

“Not dead. Just . . . dead.”

“Did you do the cooldown?”

“No.”

“You’ll feel even worse tomorrow, then,” she says, helping me into a proper sitting position.

“I’m already going to feel like death. What’s a little more pain?”

“How are you going to explain your limping to Greg?”

“I’ll say that I was helping a friend in need and got a little carried away.”

She twists her mouth.

“I’m not in need.”

“Don’t even try it, Clove. You’re one bad decision away from me locking you up in my closet for the foreseeable future.”

Her puffed exhale fans my face.

“You only say that because you’ve gone too long without dick, Briar. And your closet is so small I’d have to become a contortionist to fit inside of it.”

“What does dick have to do with you losing your mind?”

“Everything. It has everything to do with it.”

Yeah, I should have thought that question through.

I’ve never been with a pack before.

Not the way Clover has.

Every alpha I’ve dated in the past shared my dream of finding one, but we just .

. . never could. They were either too busy to make it—and me—a priority, or there just wasn’t anyone around who fit what we wanted whenever we got the nerve to start the search.

My heart has always ached for my scent-matched pack.

My mates. With every failed attempt to find them, my hope has dwindled.

With Greg, I’ve come as close as I ever have before.

If dinner goes well Friday night, I might actually have a chance of meeting his packmates and finding the closest to a scent-matched pack as I fear I’ll ever have.

“I’ve been doing pretty alright on my own, haven’t I?” I ask a bit too self-consciously.

The other omegas in the class have already started filtering out of the room, leaving scuffing sneakers and light chatting in their wake.

I’m in desperate need of a shower, but I would prefer to go once the locker room isn’t so busy.

The less judgmental omegas in one place, the better.

Clover leans against the handle of my bike, her perfectly smooth, pale skin glistening with sweat in an almost pretty way.

Like instead of sweat, she’s dripping liquid diamonds.

“You’ve never done a bad job of taking care of yourself, Bee. Alphas are more work than they’re worth sometimes. Betas are where it’s at, I’m pretty sure. Do you have their box checked on those fancy apps of yours?”

“You’re pretty sure? That’s not a real boost of confidence.”

“They can’t be worse than knotting, growling alphas who pitch fits every time you don’t let them gnaw on your neck like a bone.”

I choke on a laugh, carefully swinging my leg off the bike.

When I wobble, I lean against Clover and wince at the burn already growing in my hamstrings.

“You should put that on a T-shirt.”

“You know what? I just might.”

With Clover supporting nearly all my weight, we finally head for the door.

We’re the last ones out, and I release a sigh of relief.

“So, tell me about Greg’s pack. You’ve kept all the juicy details close to your chest, haven’t you? I feel like I know nothing,” she says when I flop down on the bench in the empty locker room and stretch my leg with a groan.

The pain has travelled from my hips all the way down to the tips of my toes, and as I stretch, it only gets worse.

In a really twisted way, it almost feels good.

Almost .

“Well, there isn’t really anything to share yet. There’s only three of them, including Greg, and they work for the same bank he does. He speaks really highly of them.”

“Well, obviously. They’re his packmates. He isn’t going to shit-talk them right before you meet them. Pack loyalty is insane. They choose each other first every single time.”

Clover tosses me the gym bag I brought with me and then strips out of her sweaty shirt, exchanging it for a tight tank top.

Her bitterness is understandable after her experience with her last pack.

I force myself to walk to the mirrors above the long marble countertop and use half a tube of deodorant beneath my arms. She’s already watching me in the mirror when I look at her.

“They’re thirty-six, like him, and have known each other for the past five years,” I add.

Her nose scrunches. “Thirty-six? Have they ever had an omega before? Five years isn’t that long.”

“Don’t say thirty-six like that. They’re still pretty young. We’ll be there before we know it.”

“Twenty-five, Briar. You’re twenty-five. They’re over ten years older. And you didn’t answer me. Have they ever had an omega before?”

I set my deodorant down and brace my hands on the countertop, leaning closer to the mirror.

My pale blue eyes are dull today.

I’d love to say that it’s more noticeable due to the pink in my cheeks, but it would be a lie.

Truth is, I’m still tired from my last heat.

Not just the lack of sleep but the lack of intimacy.

I’m tired of being alone and having to spend a week locked up in a room with an alpha who’s paid to please me or, like my most recent heat, alone with a thrusting dildo.

I want something real.

My heat only made that yearning inside of me worse.

I’ve never been so bone tired after one before.

It was like I gave more than I had in me and got nothing in return for the last time.

“No, they haven’t had an omega. Greg is nice, Clove,” I mutter.

“Yeah, I’m sure he is.” She finishes getting changed.

“Get dressed, Bee. We’re going to get some ice cream. No more alpha talk.”

I blink away from my reflection and at hers instead.

“Isn’t that the worst thing to do after a workout?”

“Why else did you think we worked out if not so we had room to scarf down bad food?”

Ice cream sounds really good right now.

Anything frozen does.

“Alright. Give me five minutes.”

“You have three,” she barters, kissing the top of my head and wrapping an arm around me in a quick hug.

I sigh, fighting my first instinct to nuzzle into her.

I’m too close to reaching touch starvation status, which is only yet another reason why I need Friday night to go well with Greg.

In a perfect world, he’d bring me home to meet his pack, and I’d get to spend the night snuggled up in bed with all of them.

That could be moving too fast, but in my mind, it’s the perfect pace.

I’ve known Greg for a few weeks now, and if his pack is as great as I’m hoping they are, there won’t be any need to go slow.

I’m ready for this. Ready to be a pack omega.

With a new pep in my step, I change out of my damp clothes and follow Clover out of the studio, more excited than ever for Friday night.