2. Chase
2
Chase
"But most of all, the Perfect Omega serves her Alphas exactly as they wish. What they request of her, she provides."
I press the power button on the remote, plunging the house into silence rather than listening to more drivel from the 'Perfect Omega.'
It's not the first time I've seen her paraded around by the Design Clinic, an advertisement for how everyone, with the right amount of money, can build a perfect child.
Fucking bullshit.
Sure, she is beautiful and poised, and apparently, everything society says I should want in an Omega, but I'm in no fucking rush to find an Omega to bond with. I've got too much on my plate.
It's rare that I get an afternoon like this off, and I thought sitting down and zoning out to some television would be a good way to relax, but something about the blank look in the Omega's eyes and the subdued, almost medicated tone of her voice raised my hackles.
There is no way that demure affect is legitimate. There is nothing real or raw about the girl, and the more I dwell on it, the more my ire for her and everything that the Clinic represents grows.
I can't allow my thoughts to continue to spiral, and I have loads of nervous energy that I have to release, so I do it the only way I know how – in the kitchen. It's too late for lunch and too early for dinner, but that doesn't stop me from pulling out everything I can find for a full meal.
My mother was an Omega and an incredible cook. She would pack my lunch every day for school, cook every dinner, and make every birthday cake. As soon as I was old enough to hold a knife, I was in there with her, learning her recipes and techniques. Every Sunday, we would make strawberry shortcakes from scratch. She taught me about creaming the butter and what temperature it needed to be, how to sift the flour and the right way to dice the strawberries. She would always add a little mint to the macerated strawberries and would make me whip the cream by hand.
It was something we did together every Sunday until two years ago when cancer took her.
Cancer that she knew she would get since everyone in her family died from it.
Cancer that my parents scrimped and saved to Design out of my genes.
She only had one Alpha, my father, and when she passed, it basically destroyed him. He followed her soon after.
The celery cracks under my knife as I dice it into increasingly smaller pieces, putting together the mirepoix for a gumbo for the pack for dinner.
My kitchen is beautiful, upgraded with new appliances, a massive island, and sleek black accents. When we bought the pack house, the first thing I did was redesign the kitchen to meet my needs. I'm a chef. I can't have a shitty kitchen. Plus, there are five of us. It takes a big kitchen to feed this many big dudes.
A door slams, loud boots stomp through the entryway, and I don't have to look up to know Blaine is home. My packmate throws himself across a stool in front of the island dramatically, slamming his head onto the counter.
"You're home early," I say, not looking up from the cutting board.
"I've got to do a firewall check tonight when the office is closed, so I bounced a little early to get rest."
Blaine works with computers, and I'd be lying if I said I understood most of it. I know that companies pay him to hack into their systems and then fix the mess that allowed him to hack in in the first place. It's a bit above my head, but he seems to enjoy it. Until I met Blaine, I pictured hacking as a lot of zeros and ones, but really, it's just him swearing at a bright screen and listening to loud music.
He has a small office that he rents in the city center for when he wants to get out of the pack house, but most of the time, he's capable of working from home. He's kind enough to clear out on my days off, though, just to give me some privacy and quiet. We've been friends since we were kids and hell, my mom practically raised him, so he's really good at reading what I need. At what the whole pack needs, truthfully.
"I'm making gumbo for dinner," I say, moving on to chopping the onions.
"I thought we were going to go to that Omega social tonight," he says, forgetting his sprawled position and sitting up. "They feed us there, you know?"
"I'm not doing an Omega social, I've told you this."
He stands and makes his way to the fridge, his long legs helping him cross the distance quickly. He pulls out one of the dark beers that only he drinks. "We can't do them without the whole pack. Don't you want to complete our pack?"
"What's wrong with our pack as it is now? And what, we get a perfect little Omega who only cares about decorating the house and is entirely subservient to us? That's what you want?"
"I see you watched that interview with the Perfect Omega."
I growl, "I'm sure the whole fucking city watched it. Fucking Design propaganda. There is no way that's who that woman is."
Blaine returns to his seat as I grab some carrots, and I hear him crack his beer open. "I'm sure there are plenty of Omegas out there that are nothing like Miss Perfect."
"I don't see why we need an Omega," I say quietly, turning my back to him as I start cooking the roux over the stove. "We're fine just the way we are."
I hear the jangling of chains as he unhooks his wallet and keys from his belt loops and crashes them on the counter. "It would be nice to have someone to come home to, Chase. I mean fuck aren't you just a little lonely?"
"I find Betas," I grumble, stirring the flour and lard together and waiting for it to darken. Betas are fine; they scratch the itch. I know it's not the same as having an Omega. Our biology is literally designed for one another, and both parties suffer if they aren't fulfilled. Alphas can go feral, and Omegas can be seriously injured in their heat without a knot.
We all get kind of a raw deal, if you ask me. Biology is bullshit.
"Dude, Betas are not cutting it anymore," Blaine groans, leaning back and adjusting his crotch. "I swear to all that is righteous, if I don't get an Omega to knot soon, I'm going to lose my fucking mind."
"You want to go to the social just to find someone to knot?"
He's already drained his beer and is in the kitchen, in my space, tossing the can in the built-in trashcan that is next to the sink. He leans against the counter next to me. "Not the only reason, man, but c'mon, it would be nice." Blaine runs his hand through his shaggy dark hair and sighs, his voice dropping low. "I'm fucking lonely, man. You're great company and all, but, like, we're getting old, dude. There's gotta be more to life than this."
I squeeze my eyes shut tightly, taking several deep breaths. I struggle to reject anything Blaine says, so I have to choose my words carefully when I do. "I hear you, brother, I do. But I am not in the headspace to do this tonight. But I will go with you next month, you have my word."
His dark eyes perk up immediately, his wide smile splitting his face in half. "Next month? You mean it?"
I nod tightly. "I mean it. Next month."
He whoops loudly and picks me up, tossing me over his shoulder. He's considerably shorter than me, but the dude has strength hidden somewhere. "Put me down, asshole!"
Blaine loops around the island before setting me back down and grabbing my face, kissing me on the forehead. "I can't wait to tell the guys, they're going to be so fucking stoked."
"Stoked, yeah," I grumble, turning back to my roux.