Puck Your Nanny (Puck You Omegaverse #2)

1. Daisy

Chapter 1

I 'm scrolling through yet another nanny job posting.

Must be fluent in Mandarin and willing to relocate to China bi-yearly.

I'm seriously considering just giving up.

My stomach twists. I can't do that. I mean, the giving up part. I don’t know Mandarin, though. And China is not exactly on my list of must-live places.

I pause, my mouse hovering over the X on my laptop screen. Things have been tense lately with Freda and Brent, my roommates. It’s been like walking on eggshells for weeks—whispered conversations, pointed silences when I enter a room.

And Brent. I really don’t like him.

I shove the laptop aside, the springs in my ancient mattress groaning in protest. I’ve been trying to ignore the tension. I hate confrontation. But it’s getting harder.

It’s been eight months since I moved in, after I lost my au pair job. My actual, good-paying au pair job of three years, when the Millers up and moved to Switzerland. Suddenly. ' No Daisy, you’re part of the family, come with us.' Nope. Just a, 'So sorry for the short notice. We don’t need you anymore; the kids are getting older.'

"Daisy!"

Freda’s voice floats up the stairs, tight and a little too cheerful. That’s the worst part. The cheerfulness. It means that the thing I know is coming is coming.

I freeze. Oh God. This is it, isn’t it?

My stomach does a full-on nosedive.

"Daisy! You coming?"

Freda again. Still too bright.

"Yeah, yeah." I push myself up from the bed. Might as well get it over with. I head down the narrow staircase, trying to look casual, even though my insides are doing the jitterbug.

Freda’s perched on the edge of the sofa, fiddling with the frayed edge of a cushion that she’s holding over her stomach.

Brent, of course, is sprawled in my armchair—the only piece of furniture I brought with me—laptop balanced on his knees, fingers flying across the keyboard. He doesn’t even look up. He is always on that thing.

There’s a small coffee table between the sofa and armchair, a couple of mismatched chairs scattered around. It’s a tight space, especially with three people in it.

I force a small, "Hey." I settle into one of the smaller chairs, the one closest to the window, pulling my knees up a bit.

Freda offers me a wobbly little smile, but her eyes dart away, refusing to meet mine. She pushes a mug toward me across the coffee table. It’s chipped and has my name on it.

I don’t reach for it.

Brent clears his throat, finally looking up from his laptop, though he doesn’t close it. He gives me an almost-smirk that he wants to pass off as a smile.

"So, Daisy."

He pauses, letting the silence hang for a beat too long.

"When you moved in, I thought it would only be for six months."

My stomach clenches. Thought? That’s not what he said. I remember him beaming at me, all fake-friendly, saying, 'No timeline, Daisy! Stay as long as you need!' The day I moved in.

'Help Freda’s best friend? Of course!'

Two-faced. That’s what he is.

I keep my face neutral, though. No point in giving him the satisfaction of seeing me squirm.

He folds his hands over the laptop, still not closing the damn thing. "And, you know," he continues, his voice taking on this whiny edge that always grates on me, "I don’t like feeling like a gopher and personal chef, either."

I frown, my hands clenching into fists.

What is that supposed to mean?

I was told that dinner was provided, that they would cook, and breakfast and lunch were on me. I buy my food. I’ve even offered to cook dinner plenty of times. He always makes some excuse. My food is bland. I don’t season properly. I set off the smoke alarm that one time.

He’s the only person who’s ever complained about my cooking. It was perfectly fine when I cooked for the Millers.

And gopher? Seriously?

They told me to put things on the shopping list. They offered because I don’t have a car, and they insisted that part of my rent would cover it.

Five hundred dollars, plus an extra three hundred I insisted on adding, was supposed to cover groceries and household stuff.

Eight hundred dollars.

Eight hundred dollars to live in a cramped room and now listen to him complain.

I shift, crossing my arms, a hard knot of resentment forming in my chest. It’s not like I’m living high on the hog here. My savings—the little cushion I had after the Millers left—is disappearing.

I apply for jobs daily. I’ve applied for everything: retail, waitressing, even that dog-walking gig that required a positive aura.

Nothing. Zip. Nada.

Brent, oblivious to my internal rage, closes his laptop, setting it on the coffee table with a thump.

He’s got this perpetually messy, sandy-brown hair that he runs his hand through constantly, and a smattering of freckles across his nose that somehow make him look even more irritating.

He leans back, stretching his arms over his head with a loud groan, like he’s the one who’s been put upon.

Freda, on the other hand, is almost his opposite—dark, sleek hair always pulled back in a tight ponytail, pale skin that seems to absorb all the light in the room.

She usually has this bright, vibrant energy, but right now, she just looks small. Defeated.She still hasn’t said anything. Just sits there, picking at that cushion.I want to shake her. Say something! Defend me!

But the silence stretches, thick and suffocating.

"Look," Brent starts, his voice now taking on a tone that suggests he’s being incredibly reasonable, "it’s just not working out."

My breath catches.

Not working out? That’s it? No discussion, no attempt to—I don’t know—talk like adults?

He continues, "We need the space."

We?

I glance at Freda, desperate for some kind of sign, some flicker of disagreement, but she avoids my gaze, staring intently at her hands.

My best friend.The one who swore, through thick and thin, we’d always have each other’s backs.

A wave of nausea rolls over me.

My best friend. Since middle school. And now—nothing.

"So." Brent’s voice regains some of its earlier sharpness. "We need you to be out by the end of the month."

The end of the month.

Two weeks.

Fourteen days to find a new place to live, a new job, a whole new life.

Panic flares, hot and prickly, under my skin. I try to swallow, but my throat feels like sandpaper.

I finally find my voice, though it’s small and shaky. "Two weeks?"

Brent shrugs, the picture of indifference."Seems fair."

Fair? To him, maybe. He's got his perfect little life, his perfect little girlfriend who won't even look at me, his perfect little job where he gets to sit on his ass all day and type away on his perfect little laptop. He doesn't have to scramble, to worry about where his next meal is coming from, or where he's going to sleep.

Freda finally lifts her head. Her eyes are red-rimmed, but she still can't quite meet mine. "Daisy, I..." she starts, then her voice trails off. She takes a shaky breath. "I'm so sorry."

Sorry doesn't cut it. Sorry doesn't pay the rent. Sorry doesn't magically create a job out of thin air. Sorry doesn't fix the gaping hole that's just opened up in my life.

I stand up, my legs wobbly. I need to get out of here, away from Brent's smug face and Freda's pathetic apologies. I need to breathe.

"It's fine." The word sounds surprisingly steady, considering the turmoil churning inside me. "I'll be out in two weeks or less."

I turn and walk away, not looking back. I head back up the narrow staircase to my tiny room, the room that's no longer mine. Each step feels heavy, weighted down by the sudden, crushing reality of my situation. I reach the top and head into my room, and once the door is shut, I take a deep breath. I need a plan. A real plan. And I need it fast. Because fourteen days, in the grand scheme of things, is nothing.

I walk to my bed and plop down. I have a plan. Maybe. It depends on whether she answers her phone. I take out mine and click on contacts. I scroll to the letter M and then to Mom. I hesitate a moment, then hit call. It rings and rings. The machine picks up.

"You've reached Roberta. I doubt I'll get your message."

I don't leave a message. Of course she didn't answer. The hope that had sparked when I pressed the call button fizzles out, leaving behind the familiar ache of disappointment. It was a long shot anyway. I knew that.

It's not like she offered any real help when the Millers let me go. Just that same old line, delivered with that tone of forced cheerfulness she uses when she wants to avoid a difficult conversation: "You're such a strong, independent woman, Daisy. You always figure things out."

As if it's a compliment, some kind of badge of honor, instead of a way to deflect responsibility. As if I choose this constant struggle, this feeling of being perpetually on the edge of disaster. Like I enjoy having to claw my way through every single day.

I toss the phone onto the bed beside me. The screen flashes, a bright, mocking rectangle in the dim room. I push myself up, my hands digging into the worn mattress, and start to pace.

The room feels smaller than ever, the walls closing in. I wrap my arms around myself, trying to ward off the chill, a chill that has nothing to do with the temperature.

A tiny, traitorous part of me, a part I usually keep buried deep, whispers a pathetic wish. What if I were an Omega? It's a ridiculous thought, one I immediately try to squash. But it lingers, like a stubborn weed.

I've heard about the Omega Protection Program, of course. Everyone has. It's no secret that it's far from perfect. The shelters are overcrowded, the stories of forced pairings with "compatible Alphas" are horrifying, and the whole system reeks of antiquated ideas about Omega biology and societal roles.

But... a locked, omega-only shelter. A guaranteed place to sleep, no matter how basic. Food, however bland. A temporary reprieve from the constant pressure of finding a place to live, of worrying about where my next meal is coming from. Right now, even that flawed, restrictive system has a certain twisted appeal.

It's a horrifying reflection on society, though, isn't it? That Omegas are so marginalized, so controlled, that their only options are to find an Alpha who'll claim and care for them in their own way, or rely on government handouts and the dubious protection of the state.

There's no real path to independence, no encouragement for them to thrive on their own terms. It's a system designed to keep them dependent, to reinforce the outdated hierarchy of Alpha, Beta, Omega. It makes me angry. But it would fix my issue now, wouldn't it?

I shake my head, fiercely trying to banish the thought. I'm a Beta. Plain, ordinary, no-heat-having Beta. And while that comes with its own set of challenges, it also means I don't have to deal with the biological imperative, the societal pressure, the constant threat of an Alpha's unwanted attention.

I can't even imagine going through a heat right now on top of everything else going wrong in my life. The overwhelming need, the vulnerability, the risk of an Alpha in rut. No. Absolutely not. My regular period is bad enough with the cramps, the bloating, the emotional rollercoaster. Adding a week of intense, uncontrollable desire to the mix? I'd probably jump off a bridge.

At least as a Beta, I'm in control of my own body, my own choices. Even if those choices are currently limited to finding a place to live and not starving.

I stop pacing and find myself in front of the dusty, overflowing bookshelf in the corner. It's a hodgepodge of genres; romance novels Freda insisted I'd love—I didn't—self-help books my mother sent with the best of intentions—they mostly made me feel worse—a few well-worn fantasy novels that are my true escape.

A pang, sharp and unexpected, hits me. I'm going to have to get rid of most of this. Sell it, donate it, trash it, whatever it takes. There's no way I can haul all these books around with me, not without a permanent address, not without a car. Each book represents a tiny piece of my life, a memory, a comfort, and the thought of letting them go feels like another small loss in a day that's already been full of them.

The book on top is an old romance novel, Alpha's Prize , Freda gave me a year ago, claiming I needed more romance in my life. I pick it up, the cover displaying a ridiculously muscular Alpha and a swooning Omega. I throw it back on the bed, face down. The idea of an Alpha's anything, right now, makes me feel a little ill.

I grab another, this one a self-help book my mother sent me, its title proclaiming the secrets to Unlocking Your Inner Potential and Achieving Self-Sufficiency . I hold it in my hand for a moment. Self-sufficiency, as if it's a switch I can just flip.

I walk to the small trash can. It's already piled high with crumpled tissues and takeout containers. I let the self-help book fall. It lands with a soft thud, sliding partway down the side of the overflowing mess.

Just as I turn away, a sharp ding cuts through the heavy silence of the room. My phone. I grab it from the bed, my heart giving a pathetic little flutter of hope, quickly squashed when I see the sender. Freda.

I unlock the screen and read the message.

Freda Daisy, I am SO, SO sorry!! I tried, I really did, to talk to Brent, but it's his house, you know? He's made up his mind. I feel awful. :(

His house . Right. Because that somehow excuses everything—the years of friendship, the promises, the supposed support. All of it tossed aside because it's his house.

A wave of frustration, mixed with a heavy dose of resignation, washes over me. My thumbs hover over the keyboard, a brief flicker of anger sparking a desire to type out a reply, to lash out. But what would be the point? It won't change anything, and making Freda feel worse won't make me feel any better. It'll probably make me feel worse. It is Brent's house, after all. He doesn't have to let me live here, even if I am paying rent.

I close the message, not bothering to reply. The silence in the room feels even heavier now, pressing down on me. I stare at the phone's home screen, at the neat rows of apps, each one a reminder of a life that feels out of reach.

Then another notification pops up. A bold banner across the top of the screen: NannyJobs4U - New Job Alert! My breath hitches. I pay an exorbitant monthly fee for this service, specifically for the "priority notifications" that are supposed to alert me to any live-in or high-paying nanny positions that match my criteria. It's been nothing but a money sink so far, a constant reminder of my dwindling funds.

But this... this could be something. I tap the notification, my fingers tremble. The app opens, and the new job posting fills the screen. My eyes scan the title, and my heart leaps into my throat:

URGENT FAST HIRE: New Alpha Guardian to Infant Half-Brother Needs Live-In Nanny (Betas Only)

My eyes scan the details below the headline.

NannyJobs4U Exclusive Posting. That means the person who posted this paid extra for the agency to handle the initial screening, to weed out the unsuitable candidates. That's promising and a little intimidating.

Location: Berllow (approx. 1 hour from current location) . The same state, at least. Close enough that I could get there for an interview, even without a car. Far enough that running into Freda and Brent would be highly unlikely.

I scroll more, reading further:

Seeking experienced, reliable Beta nanny for long-term, live-in position. Must have extensive experience with infants and a degree in Child Development or a related field. The successful candidate will be responsible for the full-time care of a 3-month-old male infant, half-brother to the Alpha guardian. Due to the unique household dynamic—a pack of Alphas—only Beta applicants (male or female) will be considered.

My heart beats faster. Extensive infant experience? Check. Degree in Child Development? Check. Long-term, live-in? Exactly what I need. The pack of Alphas part gives me a slight pause, but honestly, it's not a dealbreaker. I roll my eyes a little. It’s not like any of them would be interested in me. Betas can’t take a knot, so what’s the point in even thinking about it? It’s safer this way—less complicated. At least I won’t be tempted.

NannyJobs4U will be conducting initial screenings and selecting the top six candidates for in-person interviews with the Alpha guardian. Further details will be provided to shortlisted applicants. Must be willing to start in the next two days. This is an emergency hire.

Six. Only six. The odds aren't great, but they're better than zero. And right now, better than zero is all I have.

My thumb hovers over the Apply Now button. What do I have to lose? I take a deep breath and tap the button. The screen changes:

Application Submitted.

Now, the waiting game. The agonizing, stomach-churning waiting game. I glance at the digital clock on my phone. Two weeks. Fourteen days. That's all the time I have before I'm officially homeless. I clutch the phone tighter, a silent plea forming in my mind.

Please, please let this work. Please let me hear back before it’s too late.