Chapter 10
The knife moves through the carrot on autopilot, my wrist flicking in the same rhythm I’ve maintained for the past six years.
Chop, slide, gather. Repeat.
The scent of garlic and onion fills the kitchen, both salvaged from the discount bin at the corner market. One more meal stretched from ingredients that cost less than bus fare. One more night of pretending we’re not counting pennies to make it to the end of the month.
Behind me, Lena’s pencil scratches across her homework, the sound punctuated by occasional sighs. Afternoon light creeps into the apartment through the angled blinds, painting golden ribbons across the ceiling and highlighting every crack in our worn furniture, every stain in the paint.
“I found a job posting,” Lena says without looking up from her calculus homework. “The coffee shop by the school needs someone for after classes. Four to seven, three days a week.”
My knife pauses mid-cut. “No.”
“You didn’t even think about it.” Her pencil taps the table in a staccato rhythm that grates on my nerves. “The tips would help with groceries.”
“Your job is school.” The knife resumes its steady rhythm. “Focus on graduating with grades good enough for a scholarship.”
“That’s next year.” The chair creaks as she shifts. “We need money now.”
“We’re fine,” I lie, as if saying it will change anything.
Two days ago, I’d stood in front of Hector at Beacon on Beacon, begging for my job back.
He had remained impassive as I explained about Lena’s emergency call, how I’d had no choice but to run out mid-shift.
Three strikes, he’d told me, arms crossed over his chest, indifference to my situation.
The restaurant wasn’t a charity, and I wasn’t his problem anymore.
The final paycheck sits in my wallet, already half-spent on rent.
I’d let my boss over at Ironclad know I could take on more jobs, but locksmith work is an on-demand service, and demand is low.
“Are we? Fine?” Her voice rises in challenge. “Is that why you’re cutting the carrot thin enough to see through? Trying to stretch it to last longer?”
My jaw tightens, but I don’t turn around. “Thin slices cook faster. It saves on electricity.”
“Right.” Sarcasm drips from the single word. “And rice for breakfast saves on milk for cereal.”
The peppers come next, seeds and ribs discarded to stretch the flesh further. “This discussion is over. No job.”
Silence falls between us, broken only by the rhythmic contact of blade striking the cutting board and the distant sound of traffic filtering through our thin windows, and it worries me that she didn’t push harder.
Lena doesn’t back off.
She’s the kid who once screamed at a substitute teacher for marking her absent when she was five minutes late.
Now she just shrugs and lets it go, and the change worries me.
“Mr. Finch asked why I’m wearing this stupid thing.” Lena cuts through the temporary peace. “I told him it was for safety, but Kaylie thinks I’m sleeping around. Wearing a nape guard at school is the same as hanging a sign around my neck that says ‘available but choosy.’”
I turn to her, knife still gripped in my hand. The cheap guard we got from the Omega Outreach Clinic encircles her neck, black straps stark against her pale skin. She keeps one hand near her throat when she talks about it. Not touching the guard. Just hovering.
The sight twists my insides, relief tangling with rage that she needs protection in the first place.
If I hadn’t been at work… If I’d picked up the phone sooner… If I’d walked her home as I used to when she was thirteen and small enough to hide behind me…
Would any of those have stopped what happened?
“Your safety matters more than what Kaylie thinks,” I tell her.
“Easy for you to say.” She flips a page in her textbook with enough force to tear the corner. “You’re not the one who has to explain to everyone why you’re suddenly wearing a chastity collar for your neck.”
I should get her someone to talk to.
Someone trained. Someone with the skill to untangle what that vile man tried to take from her.
The Omega Outreach Clinic gave us the guard. They can probably recommend someone.
But therapy costs money we don’t have.
“It’s not a chastity collar.” My free hand curls into a fist at my side. “It’s what keeps another Alpha from thinking they can sink their teeth into you whenever they want.”
Her chin tilts up in defiance. “So, why aren’t you wearing one?”
The question catches me off guard. “What?”
“If nape guards are so important, why don’t you have one on?” Her eyes narrow, a spark of triumph in them. “Especially now that you have a boyfriend.”
Heat creeps up my neck. “Rowan is not my boyfriend.”
“Right.” She drags out the word. “He’s some random guy who made us breakfast and gave me his number for emergencies.”
The knife in my hand trembles with the effort of restraint. “Giving you his number without asking me first is why he’s not welcome here anymore.”
Lena crosses her arms over her chest. “You’re avoiding him because of me, aren’t you? Because you think it’s dangerous to have an Alpha around.”
“I’m not avoiding anyone.” The lie, because why not? I’m already on a roll this morning. “And yes, Alphas are dangerous.”
“Not all of them.” She tugs at her nape guard, adjusting it where the plastic plate at the back covers where an Alpha’s Mark would still be if I hadn’t killed Danny.
She hadn’t asked any questions when she woke up Mark free, and I hadn’t volunteered the information, saving us both another lie. But now she’s acting as if nothing happened, pretending her anger is with the collar and not the reason why she’s wearing it, and I don’t know how to help her.
We’re not a family that discusses our traumas, and maybe that’s my fault too. The one time I tried to talk about our parents, she shut down, and I fear putting her back in that space again.
She stops fussing with the collar to glare at me. “And don’t change the subject. If I have to wear this stupid thing all the time, so should you.”
“That’s different.” My fingers tighten around the knife handle. “I’m older.”
“And an Omega, same as me.” She throws the words with the accuracy of a teenager who’s latched onto an idea and won’t give it up. “Who has been spending time with an Alpha. Don’t think your turtle necks are hiding those hickies.”
My mouth opens, then closes, and I resist the urge to fuss with the high collar of my shirt. Lena stands her ground, her fingers wrapped around the edge of her chair, knuckles white with determination.
“You want me to be safe,” she continues, softer but no less intense. “I want the same for you.”
The knife clatters onto the cutting board as I set it down, my pulse pounding in my ears with frustration and the uncomfortable recognition that she’s right. Demanding she wear protection while I don’t is the height of hypocrisy.
“Fine,” I manage through gritted teeth. “I’ll wear one, too.”
“Good.” She arches her brows. “Go get it.”
I glare at her, jaw muscle jumping, before I turn and stomp down the hallway toward my bedroom.
The bag from the Omega Outreach Program sits crumpled on top of my dresser, where I tossed it after returning from the clinic. I dig through the contents, pushing aside condoms and pamphlets until my fingers close around the box for the nape guard.
It’s identical to Lena’s. Black, utilitarian, and cheap.
It has to be unbuckled to come off, unlike the magnetic designer versions rich Omegas wear as fashion statements, studded with crystals or plated in gold.
This one exists for the sole purpose of preventing an Alpha’s teeth from breaking skin during a loss of control.
I turn it over in my hands, the plastic cold and unforgiving.
This small device represents everything I hate about the world we live in, a world where Omegas need physical barriers to protect our autonomy, where the burden of prevention falls on the potential victims instead of the Alphas, who can’t control themselves.
The mirror on my closet door reflects my scowl as I pull down my shirt collar and position the guard at my throat.
The straps hang loose while I adjust the curved shield over my nape, my fingers fumbling with the unfamiliar fasteners. The first attempt is too tight, digging into my skin and restricting my airflow. I loosen it and try again, finding an uneasy balance between security and comfort.
When it’s finally in place, I swallow hard, the sensation strange and constricting. My throat works beneath the pressure of the strap, each breath a conscious effort.
Unbidden, my mind conjures an image of Rowan’s mouth there instead of this plastic barrier, his teeth on my flesh, breaking through to leave his Mark, and the thought sends shameful heat spiraling through my body, pooling in my hips.
My pulse kicks up, thudding against the restrictive band around my neck.
How would his bite feel? Would I melt beneath him? Or be filled with the unstoppable desire to kill the man who tried to claim me?
The questions scatter when I realize where my thoughts have wandered. I grab my phone from the bedside table, checking the screen as I’ve done a dozen times since kicking him out.
No new notifications.
No missed calls.
No texts.
Just silence.
My thumb hovers over the contacts list. It would take less than thirty seconds to call him. Ten seconds to type a text. A few words to cross the line I drew when I pushed him away.
But the words stick in my throat, blocked by stubborn pride and restless fear. What would I say? Sorry, I kicked you out, but come back because I miss having you inside me. Sorry, I accused you of trying to buy us.
Sorry, I’m right, but I wish I wasn’t.
The phone goes dark in my hand. If Rowan wanted to contact me, he could have done so. He has my number. He knows where I live. His silence speaks as loud as mine does.
I tuck the phone into my back pocket and return to the kitchen, head held at an awkward angle to accommodate the rigid plastic at my nape.