Chapter 20
Chapter twenty
LIAM
My desk chair squeaks as I rock side to side.
Every attempt I have made to make my office feel “right” has failed.
Three years ago, I painted it dark green, bought a couch, an L-shaped executive desk.
And I hated it instantly. I’m back to one bookshelf crammed with junk, oatmeal-colored walls, a standing desk and a gamer chair that fucking squeaks.
The spoon clatters in the cereal bowl as I reach for the computer mouse. I’m not going to sleep anyway so I’ll do one more search.
Beckett had left his phone on the counter as he walked Ash to the door.
Memorizing her number took me seconds, but I had to wait until Beckett went to bed to run a reverse lookup.
I ran it through every site I could think of, the free ones, the sketchy ones, even the data broker tool I pay for.
All I got was that it was a Mint Mobile phone, one step up from a burner you buy at a gas station.
Which isn’t unusual, necessarily. Maybe it’s under someone else’s name. Maybe it means nothing.
I take another bite of cereal, breaking my own rules.
When we moved into this house, it was the first real home Pierce and I had ever had.
We always lived like bottom-feeding, cave-dwelling dude bro alphas.
Dinner was eaten on our laps in front of the TV, or standing over the sink.
But now, we had a house, a home. We should respect it.
A little sugar high should make me feel better.
My center monitor shows an image I ripped from the security camera. Quality of the photo isn’t the issue. It’s 4k, streamed right to my own servers. The footage is always crystal clear, even at midnight or when it’s foggy.
Ash is certainly pretty, gorgeous actually.
But she has that look. When you grow up poor and you never know where your next meal is going to come from, or when the next smack upside the head is going to hit, you look a particular way.
She’s jumpy too, at the smallest things; somebody speaking too loud, a sound she’s not expecting.
Pierce does that. He masks it better than she does.
I know why Pierce does it.
Why does she?
I sigh and scroll through the results again.
The Google image search turned up nothing.
Not even an Instagram account. TinEye is a little more helpful.
She has a few dating profiles on super sketchy sites, but they’re odd.
Omegas looking for heat partners isn’t unusual if you’re single.
Heat is heat. An inescapable biological function that you need help to get through.
So, no shame if she’s blatantly looking for heat partners.
But her profiles are weird. First, her age is listed as eighteen.
That’s a lie. She’s young, sure, younger than Beckett, but everybody knows that no woman on the internet is eighteen.
Eighteen means she’s a minor trying to pass, or she’s lying about her age, looking for an alpha who wants to believe she’s underage.
I’d put her at twenty. Maybe twenty-two.
And the profile itself doesn’t feel like her.
Not that I’m an expert on Ash. It’s written like a caricature.
I can hear a fake, high-pitched voice narrating it.
“I’m just a lonely omega, single with no pack, looking for the right alpha to help me through my next heat.
” That’s what an alpha would write if he was catfishing.
If she was gold-digging or looking for a sugar daddy, it would allude to being spoiled or taken care of.
This is like every alpha’s wet dream of a no-strings-attached heat hookup.
I put the bowl down on the edge of my desk. Before I do, I grab a sheet of computer paper to serve as a coaster. I hate it when there’s anything sticky, especially in my office.
The right monitor is more concerning. All I have is a first name, a phone number, and a picture, but she has no social media profiles.
Not that I can find. I’m not a black hat hacker or anything, but I’m damn good at shit like this.
I cannot believe an omega in this day and age has no social media footprint.
Her image doesn’t come up anywhere. No name or phone number seems to be associated with any account on any site. There’s nothing.
Maybe she’s mastered anonymity and has effectively hidden her footprint.
Possible. I’ve done it. Well, mostly. A few articles of Pierce’s short-lived MMA career will still surface.
But that’s it. We all have sock puppet accounts designed specifically so that Pierce and I can’t be found and Beckett can have a relatively normal social media experience, leaving his official profiles to his agents to manage.
I don’t think she’s good enough to accomplish that.
And she doesn’t strike me as the anti-tech “go analogue or go home” type either.
I spin in a circle with my head back. None of these are red flags by themselves. An omega could have no social footprint. An omega could have desperate, cheesy dating profiles. An omega could have a Mint Mobile phone because she’s broke, and they were offering a good deal.
So who is Ash? Is she an omega down on her luck? A puck bunny? A gold digger?
That’s probably my biggest concern. We’ve all been pretty ruthless in choosing who we date, looking out for people who want to get close to one of us to get close to Beckett and his stardom. That’s not the vibe I’m picking up here. Not entirely.
There’s something I just can’t put my finger on yet. There’s something else about Ash, despite her beauty and her fucking delicious scent. Despite the fact that I’m suddenly jealous of Beckett. He didn’t tell me, but I know they had sex after that date.
And that’s why I’m up at three o’clock in the morning, scarfing Lucky Charms and creeping on a poor little omega.
The second I let myself close my eyes, I’ll be picturing them.
Us. Watching her part her lips for Beckett.
Holding her as she comes again and again and again.
And then the best part. Putting her in the bath.
Washing her hair. Massaging her shoulders.
Soothing her. And then carrying her to her nest with all the pillows and blankets I picked out.
Everything soft on her skin. Warm, even though heat gets too hot.
Wrapping her up. Feeling her against me. Safe where nothing bad ever happens.
Pierce decided a long time ago our life was too uncertain and complicated for an omega. He’s not wrong. But that doesn’t mean it doesn’t leave me feeling empty and washed out.
I close all my tabs, clear the cache, and reboot.
I rinse my bowl and put it in the dishwasher.
The house is dead silent, but I pause in the hallway anyway, staring at Beckett’s closed door.
He’s still mad at us. He probably will be for a long time, until Pierce gets his head out of his ass and we figure out what the fuck we’re supposed to do now.
I could crawl in next to Beckett, anyway. He wouldn’t kick me out. But I don’t want to push it. Not tonight. So I go back to my own room, dig under my own blankets, and try to suffocate the ache in my chest.