2. Chapter Two
Chapter Two
Mira
A vicious cramp from nowhere twists through my abdomen. The plates on my tray rattle as cold sweat breaks out across my forehead. A bead trickles down my spine. My hands shake as I try to steady the tray, my knuckles white against the cheap plastic.
“Here's your order,” I manage through clenched teeth, carefully setting down the greasy burgers in front of the four college boys who've been making my life hell for the past hour. Their expensive watches glint under the fluorescent lights. Rolex, Cartier, the kind of accessories that cost more than I make in a year. Trust fund babies slumming it in a downtown diner for kicks while I’m battling the reality of my worst nightmare.
The blond one—Chad or Brad or something equally pretentious—brushes his hand against mine as I set down his plate. His fingers are soft, uncalloused, having never known a day of real work. “Thanks, sweetheart.” His touch lingers, making my skin crawl. “You sure you don't want to join us? I bet you're due for a break.”
Another cramp twists my insides. Heat floods through my body in a terrible, familiar wave. I force my lips into what I hope passes for a smile, though it’s probably more like a death rictus.
One pill every two days instead of daily seemed a reasonable compromise when I was rationing what I had left, but my body knows better. It's been storing up this heat, like a pressure cooker, waiting for the smallest crack in my defenses. Fucking biology at its best.
An omega needs a heat every three months “to maintain optimal biological harmony.” I still hear Dr. Richards's clinical voice explaining how our bodies are designed to serve our alphas, and how fighting our nature would only hurt us. How we hunger for strong alphas to guide us through our heats, fill us with their knots, and breed us like the animals they think we are.
I've been forcing my body to deny that cycle for two years. Two years of black-market suppressants, of living on the edge, of victory in every heat-free month. Now my biology is staging a revolt without its daily fix.
I thought it might work the other way—that the build-up of suppressants would give me a buffer.
I didn’t think I’d go through withdrawal.
I’d do anything— anything —not to be omega. I’m not the only one. Just ask any omega. No one wants to be biology's cruelest joke.
“Can I interest anyone in dessert?” My voice sounds strange in my own ears, higher than usual. Wrong. “Our apple pie is fresh baked daily.” The words come out automatically, rehearsed customer service patter that is surreal as panic starts to set in.
My stomach lurches as a wave of heat rolls through me. I can’t let this happen. One last pill is the only thing I have that stands between me and the heat I should have had years ago after my first one nearly killed me .
I can’t do that again… the craving, the loss of control, the helplessness.
I won’t do that again.
One heat spent writhing on the cold concrete floor of an abandoned warehouse is enough for lifetimes. Still, it was better than being sold to the highest bidder in my first heat.
All I need is that one measly pill left in my measly stash back in my measly apartment.
Why didn’t I bring it with me?
Leaving it in the back of my cupboard, secure in the lockable box hidden behind the cleaning fluids alongside the locket my mother gave me seemed like a reasonable thing to do… this morning.
“How about you served up with that pie?” Chad/Brad leers, his friends snickering like it's the height of wit. He pulls out a wallet fat with hundreds, making sure I see them. “I'll make it worth your while. What's your rate, honey? Got to be more than the pitiful amount you make here.”
The way they're looking at me turns my stomach. I recognize that predatory gleam. I’ve seen it too many times before. Omega chasers… betas with alpha complexes and something to prove. They get off on the fantasy, hunting what they think are weak betas who look like omegas. Looking for someone small, delicate, breakable. Someone like me. I pretend I’m a beta, but my body is all omega.
They don't understand what I really am, not with my scent suppressed, but that almost makes it worse. To them, I'm just another petite beta waitress they can intimidate, someone they can pretend is an omega while they act out their twisted fantasies. They target girls with my build all the time, those with fragile features and a small frame—the kind of body that screams 'vulnerable.' The kind that real omegas have.
The irony would be amusing if I wasn't in the middle of a suppressant failure.
The blond one licks his lips, probably imagining how wet I could get, how easily I could take a knot even though they don’t have one. That's what they're all thinking… how fun it would be to play pretend with a beta who can make their fantasy real .
I try to steady myself. These wannabe alphas are dangerous in their own way. No biology holds them back, just pure human cruelty dressed up in alpha pretense. They're the type who'd hurt a beta for fun, telling themselves it's what a “real” alpha would do.
They’re not wrong.
“Dude, seriously?” One of his friends—red polo shirt and an expensive haircut that screams old money—wrinkles his nose in exaggerated disgust. “She's a fucking grease monkey. Can you imagine what she smells like under all that cheap perfume?”
If he only knew. I douse myself in this shit as an extra level of security just in case my natural scent breaks through under the metric ton of scent blocker I wear. Another black-market expense I can’t afford.
“Twenty bucks says she'd do anything for the right price,” Chad/Brad says, like I'm not even there. His eyes rake over me, calculating. “Look how desperate she is. Bet she's got bills she can’t pay. Or maybe a drug habit to feed? What's your poison, sweetheart?”
They have no idea how right they are and how desperate I am, but not for them. I work hard to keep my voice steady. “We only serve food here, sir. If you’d like some dessert, I’m happy to get that for you.”
“Probably riddled with disease anyway,” Red Polo sneers, loud enough for the whole diner to hear. “Not worth the risk, even if she is desperate enough to fuck for cash.”
“As I said, you don’t get that type of service here, sir,” I say, forcing politeness despite the crush of appropriate words jammed up in my throat. My years of ‘training’ have paid off. I know how to keep a serene look on my face and my comments to myself no matter what might be happening. A few cheap shots is nothing compared to true torture.
I turn away, legs trembling with the effort of staying upright. Their laughter follows me as I walk behind the long counter that stretches across the diner.
Through the service window, Mac's weathered face appears, concern etching deeper lines around his eyes. “You okay, kid?” His gaze flicks to the college boys, then back to me. He's seen their type before, knows what they do to girls like me. Mac's been looking out for me in his own gruff way since I started. Even when he was out sick last week, leaving me and the other wait staff with Andy's cruel management and empty stomachs, he came back with extra food portions to make up for his absence.
“I'm fine,” I lie, forcing brightness into my voice. The smile might crack my face. “Just tired.”
He doesn't believe me—I see it in the way his brow furrows—but he says nothing. I keep my smile for him, knowing he’ll probably put a little extra in my take-home food tonight, and I could kiss him for it.
I grab the coffee pot with shaking hands, making my rounds to the customers at the counter. Every tip counts when you're paid in tips. No wages, no security, but no paper trail either. Perfect for an omega in hiding, which is why I keep working here. Perks!
An elderly man in a trucker cap holds out his cup, and I start to pour, but another cramp hits, harder this time. The pot wavers, coffee sloshing dangerously close to the rim. Black spots dance at the edges of my vision as a hot warmth drips between my legs and sugared lilac blooms around me. Sweet and unmistakably omega. The trucker’s nostrils flare and he looks up from his study of the worn counter, a slight line between his brows as he seeks out the source of the scent.
Fuck .
The coffee pot nearly slips from my hands. I have to get out of here. Back to my apartment, back to what passes for safety. I hope to hell that one pill will stave off the effects of withdrawal before I somehow find Marcus and beg or threaten him for more suppressants. Anything to stop this.
The bell above the door chimes as the college boys leave, their laughter drifting over the quiet hum of conversation. I glance at their table, plates scattered everywhere, used napkins crumpled and tossed carelessly across the surface and, of course, barely enough money to cover the bill, let alone a tip. Entitled assholes .
“Cindy.” I catch her arm as she passes, trying to keep my voice steady. “I need to go home. Can you take care of my tables?” Cindy is the other waitress. We’ve worked here for months but she’s as cloaked about her circumstances as I am.
She looks at my hand pressed against my cramping stomach, and her face hardens with recognition. “Period?” she asks flatly. There's no sympathy in her voice. Life beat that out of her long ago. She's got her own problems, her own struggles. My pain is just an inconvenience.
“Yeah,” I lie, swallowing hard as sweat begins to dot my forehead. “Really bad this time. You…you can have my tips.”
Her eyes dart to the tip jar, calculating quickly before lighting up. “Fine,” she says, already turning away. “Go.”
I grab my coat from the hook, not bothering to put it on. “Night, Mac,” I call out, catching his worried look through the service window. I can't meet his eyes. He's been too kind, and kindness is dangerous right now.
I'm leaving without tips, without the take-home meal I desperately need, but none of that matters. It might be four in the afternoon, but the sky is already darkening with the snow about to hit later tonight. The streetlights flick on early as I stagger through the streets.
Ten blocks stretch ahead, each step an exercise in agony, but without tips I can’t afford the bus trip, let alone the risk of anyone scenting me. Sweat trickles down my spine despite the cold. Every car that passes makes me flinch. My legs shake with each step, muscles cramping as my body tries to prepare for something I refuse to let happen.
I tip back my head and blink up at the dark brick of my building, vaguely surprised I’m here as the first drop of snow melts on my face. The last four blocks I must have walked in a daze. That’s stupid. Careless. But nothing I can do about it now.
I stagger through the front doors, noticing that the glass has been kicked in again, and make my way to the stairwell as my abdomen twists. Three flights. Just three flights. I can do this. I must do this. I drag myself up, clinging to the railing, counting each step. I fumble with my keys when I finally make it to my apartment, dropping them twice before managing to get the door open. The lock clicks behind me—one, two, three bolts—and then I collapse against the wood, sliding down to the floor before crawling to the cupboard. My hands shake so badly I can barely work the latch on the hidden compartment and grab the lone bottle.
The pill is tiny and inadequate in my palm. I swallow the pill dry, my throat working against the bitter taste. My hands won't stop shaking as I lock the box and return it to its hiding place. The cramping hasn't stopped, but it hasn't gotten worse either. Small mercies.
The adrenaline that kept me going drains away, leaving me hollow and weak. I need to rest. Just a few minutes before I have to go out again and track down Marcus. The thin mattress offers little comfort as I curl into myself. I don’t know how I’m going to pay him, but my eyes are so heavy, my body so drained...
I wake with a jolt. My phone's harsh blue light pierces through my exhaustion-blurred vision and I realize it was the notification bell that woke me. I pick up the phone and read Stacey's message. I know it’s her because I literally have no one else to add to my contact list.
STACEY: Need you at a different location tonight. 1247 Blackwood Ave. Liam's out sick. Can you cover?
I stare at the screen, my stomach churning. Blackwood Avenue is in Brynwald. I don’t like going to new locations at the best of times, but that area? It's all glass-and-steel high-rises and across the other side of the city. I’d have to take three buses just to get there.
My fingers hover over the keyboard, trembling slightly. I never hesitate to answer Stacey. Never. The woman who gives out extra shifts to her favorites doesn't appreciate hesitation, but tonight, with my body still fighting off the beginnings of heat...
ME: New client?
STACEY: Yes. High-end offices, nothing personal, and I need my best. I had Liam down but he’s out with flu.
ME: Not great tonight myself.
The admission of weakness makes me wince. I almost hear Stacey's calculating thoughts through the phone.
STACEY: I’ll double your normal rate for the short notice. The client specifically asked for a thorough cleaner and you never let me down, Mira.
She's playing me but she's also offering exactly what I need most right now—enough cash to convince Marcus to find me more pills.
ME: Safe area?
My hand drifts to my stomach, where the cramping has subsided to a dull ache. The pill is working, for now, but for how long?
STACEY: Luxury building. Doorman. Security cameras. Better than your usual spots. Top floor. Private elevator. Executive offices.
I close my eyes, fighting another wave of exhaustion. Every instinct screams to stay in my nest and hide, but instincts don't pay for suppressants, and neither does fear. At least with offices I’ll be alone this time of night.
ME: OK. I'll do it.
STACEY: Thanks, Mira. You’re a lifesaver.
I let the phone drop onto my chest, already regretting my decision. But what choice do I have? Double pay for one night might be enough to convince Marcus to find more pills, or at least point me toward another dealer.
At least the cramping has subsided to a dull ache, and my scent has faded back to its artificial neutrality. Small mercies. I'll take what I can get.
The phone buzzes again:
STACEY: Can you wear the proper uniform this time? I’d like to make a good impression. I’ll text you the codes for the private elevator and the cleaning cupboard .
Another notification pings a few seconds later with the codes. I glance at my wrinkled clothes from the diner shift and sigh. Time to dig out the scratchy polyester uniform with the company logo. Another layer of respectability to hide behind. Another mask to wear.
Just another night trying to survive.