Chapter 44
chapter
forty-four
*Pierson Pack Group Chat*
Cassian
What am I picking up for dinner?
Damon
Can’t think.
Remi looks so hot right now, I could legitimately die.
Remi
They’re just muffins, Trouble.
Damon
She’s leaving out the part where she ran downstairs in a thong to get them out of the oven.
Aaaaand she just put an apron on over it.
I’m officially dead.
Smith
Remi, I won’t be home for dinner, unfortunately.
But I think you know what I want as a side for whatever you leave out.
Cassian
Can we focus?
Damon
On how amazing our omega is? Absolutely.
Cassian
On dinner. Chinese or Thai?
Remi
Smith doesn’t like Thai. And I already ordered Chinese.
It’s on its way :)
Damon
Marry me.
…
Did I make it weird?
I made it weird.
“Harder!”
I’ve never been in a room where every single person is simultaneously having the most humiliating experience of their life.
Until now.
“Is that all you’ve got, alpha?”
I suppose, technically, it isn’t every person. The two omegas at the front of the room certainly don’t seem fazed in the least.
In her crimson kaftan and matching turban, it’s impossible to tell how old Irene Underwood is. She moves like a cloud of perfume. Wafting from one side of the conference room’s platform to the other, filling the air with a powdery sort of scent each time she sweeps past my end of the front row.
Her male counterpart is every bit as attractive and age-ambiguous as she is. But Julian Channing stands to the back of the stage, his arms crossed loosely and a small smirk on his goateed face.
For twenty-some years, alphas, betas, and omegas have whispered about this rumored alpha-training.
Is it true some alphas really didn’t know how to care for their mates?
Do two omegas honestly run a whole class for it? Together?
And whose alphas are the ones that stand around the room, watching the other, much younger alphas’ every move?
I can’t tell. But every time any of us so much as flick an annoyed look at either of the elder omegas, threatening alpha auras creep from the corners of the room.
At first, I wondered what the older gentlemen were doing here. It would be monumentally stupid for any of us to disrespect Irene or Julian—they’re practically famous for what they do, and we all had to sign a mountain of paperwork just to apply for this exorbitant class.
But I quickly deduce we’re not dealing with the best and brightest alphas in the world here.
The one standing up on the platform with them is clearly having the worst two minutes of his life. When Irene arrived and immediately asked everyone gathered to close their eyes for a visualization exercise, he had the gall to laugh.
Which, as it turns out, was quite the mistake.
Now, he clutches a limp piece of fabric in his left hand and clears his throat. “I—well, uh?—”
Julian chuckles. “Show us again.” He cocks his head, coy. “Deeper this time, alpha.”
Christ.
I should have brought a flask.
I can already tell the alphas in this room fall into two categories. The ones like me, who know they fucked up and are here of their own begrudging will… and the ones who are here because someone is making them.
I have a feeling Stage Guy is in the second column.
The rest of the alphas in the front row cast each other furtive glances, sizing one another up and, at the same time, checking that no one is looking right at us.
I accidentally make eye contact with a guy three chairs down from mine. We both immediately fling our gazes away, but it’s too late.
Dear God.
Didn’t I run high school track with that guy?
Isn’t he a big-time broker, now? And he’s here?
Well, so am I, I guess.
A fresh round of shame worms its way into my guts as I shift, crossing my ankle over my knee, doing everything I can not to let my leg bounce with anxiety.
It’s a lot harder than it should be; then again, I’m in a room full of similarly aggravated alphas. My instincts tell me not to turn my back for even a moment.
What am I doing here?
I picture Remi, laughing, as Damon twirls her in their daily dance around the kitchen. Cassian stepping between her thighs and putting his forehead right on her shoulder—his supplication and trust, the effortless way she accepts him.
You’re here because your omega hates you. And you can’t take it anymore.
I really can’t. The last few days have been torturous, ever since she started sleeping with Cass and Damon. It was bad enough hearing her with my little brother every night. But now it’s both of them, and I had forgotten that Damon has absolutely no shame.
He’s fucked her in every hallway, on every surface of the kitchen, and seven different ways on the couch.
Yes. I know it was seven. Because I watched.
And, no, they didn’t know I was standing on the other side of the back door, peering through the window the entire time.
That’s the other fucking problem: in addition to being a panty thief, I’m becoming a bit of a voyeur. Always pausing for several beats too long outside her door before I bring in her coffee. Or standing around corners, listening to the way she gasps and sighs while the guys have their way with her.
Between her cold shoulder, my stockpile of panty-pocket-squares, and the vigorous way I’ve been masturbating, I’m surprised my dick hasn’t fallen off.
The alpha on stage looks like his has shriveled up altogether.
His eyes dart over the rest of us while we shift uncomfortably—all of us grateful we aren’t him and scared that we might be next. He lifts the article of clothing to his face, using it to channel his half-assed purr again.
Come on. I might not be an omega expert, but even I can purr better than that.
Irene doesn’t care much. She snaps at him, rolling her eyes while she waves him off. “That’s quite enough, I think. The rest of you? Take out your omegas’ clothing items.”
My joints feel stiff as I take the folded nightgown out of my inner jacket pocket. It’s one of the few items she brought with her from her old apartment. I convinced myself it was fine to borrow it from her room since it clearly needs to be replaced.
The thing is pretty flimsy. Thin and small—just a slip, really. But the worn, heart-patterned fabric sends a pang through my chest every time I look at it.
It acts like a trip-wire of sorts. The second I focus on it, a rumbling begins behind my sternum. I strangle the would-be purr, but not before Julian’s knowing gray eyes snap to me.
They flicker away almost as quickly, but I don’t fucking like it.
Remi is the only omega I want looking at me.
That thought feels stupidly dramatic, but my Alpha grunts in agreement before settling back down, content we’re finally on the same page.
As if he’s given me any choice.
As if you would want any other choice, he huffs.
Such a dick. I wonder if anyone else argues with their instincts like this.
While the rest of the alphas awkwardly fumble their various pieces of omega clothes, the two on the stage watch us all, muttering to themselves.
Julian speaks, and Irene nods. Even before she looks up, my scalp prickles. And I know, in my bones, she’s about to look up, point right at me, and say?—
“You.”
Thankfully,I’m not the only one selected. There are six of us out of the twenty-odd alphas in the room. Two are male alphas in suits similar to mine. One is covered in tattoos. And two are female alphas—a businesswoman in a wrap dress, and a tired-looking woman in athleisure.
Fuck. Why are we here? Did they already pick the worst of us out of the crowd? Are these the hopeless cases?
The other fifteen stay behind with Irene, while Julian leads our smaller group to a quiet corner.
My eyes snag on the alpha wearing leggings. We exchange a grim look, as if confirming for one another that we’re both pieces of shit.
Julian touches a stack of chairs pushed into the far corner, and one of his alphas appears in a blink, unstacking enough seats for seven. Before he steps back to his position along the wall, he tenderly scent-marks our instructor, meeting his gaze for a beat before stepping away.
That same painful stab strikes my heart again. Shit. I don’t know if it’s guilt or jealousy. Some unholy combination of the two probably.
Because I don’t want Remi to be afraid of me. She should be able to count on me. I want to anticipate her needs so she can trust me to fill them.
Behind us, Irene peppers the others with questions. Rapid-fire—she barely gives the alphas time to respond before moving on.
How many hours of sleep should omegas get each night? Do they have any special nutrition requirements? What sorts of food should they eat during their heats?
Those feel like things we should all know. Julian listens to her for a few seconds before turning his laughing eyes on our smaller group. They take on a note of pity as they jump from face-to-face. Preparing, I’m sure, to give us the bad news.
We’re the worst of the worst.
“You six are here because you’re different from the rest of the group,” he starts. My stomach sinks lower. “Most alphas who come here are here on someone else’s orders. But you…”
He looks at each of us in turn, finally resting his focus on my face. “You six are obviously here because you feel like you’re terrible alphas. And it’s killing you.”
The second he says it, the tension in the circle shifts. We’re all relieved not to be pegged as the lowest of the low, but we’re also… ashamed.
That’s what this feeling is. What I’ve carried in and out of our house every single day since Forever Matched. The reason I can’t show my face for meals or bring myself to do anything more than deliver her morning coffee.
Shame.
I don’t recognize it until I see it on five other faces, but there it is. Gut-clenching, soul-crushing, and completely my own fucking fault. It smolders in the pit of my stomach, forcing me to drop my eyes to my loafers and grip Remi’s pilfered nightgown with clenched fists.
“The thing is,” Julian goes on, almost soft. “If you feel like you’re failing your omegas, you likely are.”
I already knew that. But hearing a stranger say it out loud? Fuck.
My throat works over a swallow while I stare down at the slip. There’s a tiny tear, just beside one of the thin straps. One Remi has repaired with the tiniest pink-thread heart.
She isn’t a person who throws things away when they break.
And I’m not a person who gives up.