The Silk Den #2
Mother has always been stick-thin—petite, delicate, the perfect model of what an omega is supposed to be. And she hates how different I am compared to her. Even now, even in public, she can’t stop herself from those little pinpricks.
Hell, when I was thirteen, she told me that ‘ballet wasn’t meant for chunky girls’. She said the words like it was a casual piece of advice. Like her opinion was a kindness. I spent years bleeding through pointe shoes just to spite her.
But still, I wish she’d get over the fact that I don’t look like her….just once.
“Do you have anything looser on top?” Mother asks the young attendant. “Something longer, too?”
“Of course!” She nods eagerly. “We got a new shipment in. Tea-length silhouettes with high collars. Perfect for formal ceremonies and very popular with omegas graduating this year.”
Mother’s mouth pinches as her eyes drop to the hem of the dress I’m wearing. “This one is supposed to be tea-length,” she says sharply. “It looks downright inappropriate with how tall she is.”
The beta recovers smoothly. “Oh! Yes, well. There are a few styles made specifically for tall omegas.” She turns to me with an apologetic little laugh. “It’s hard to dress tall girlies. Nothing ever falls where it’s supposed to, right?”
I force a smile because it’s easier than revealing how close I am to crying.
“Show me,” Mother says instantly.
The perky beta gestures toward a gleaming display near the front of the boutique, fabrics shimmering like frost under the lights.
Mother flits off after her, already chattering about hems and propriety and modesty.
The moment she’s gone, the air should feel lighter. But it doesn’t.
I still can’t breathe.
Not in this shimmering boutique with its overly polished marble floors and gilt mirrors. Not with customers giggling between racks of silk and the dull classical music humming overhead like a trapped bee inside my skull.
My chest pinches like my ribs are pulling too tight around my lungs.
I need some fresh air. Just a second of it.
My gaze drifts away from my mother, toward the front of the store.
Sunlight spills through the large glass doors, streaking across the marble floor.
Outside, the air looks crisp and cold. It’s not yet spring, but it’s a far cry from the choking frost of winter.
A few betas stroll down the sidewalk, carrying glossy bags from the expensive shops that line this district.
I swallow hard.
Omegas aren’t allowed outside without an escort.
I ease away from the changing rooms like I’m only browsing. I take one careful step, then another, sliding past racks of pastel dresses and glittering shoes.
My pulse kicks up as I check over my shoulder. Mother is still busy fussing with the shop attendant, too absorbed in collars and hems to notice me.
I wait one more beat, making sure her attention stays pinned on the clothes.
Then I turn and cut for the glass doors, fast. Head down, breath shallow, chasing the first hit of outside air like it’s going to save me.
I push through the heavy glass door, and the fresh air hits me instantly.
Cool. Clean. Crisp. It washes over my flushed face like a balm, and the tight band around my chest loosens by degrees.
But before I let myself really sink into it, my eyes sweep the curb.
I squint, looking for my family’s black town car.
I don’t want Mother’s driver to see me and freak out.
But the car isn’t here.
The street is mostly empty. There’s a wide ribbon of pavement and quiet storefronts, with the occasional expensive car gliding by too slowly, as if the drivers are shopping with their eyes.
Thank goodness.
My body instantly relaxes, and I suck in a deep breath. My abs slowly unclench as I fill my lungs again and again.
For a heartbeat, I simply stand next to the glass doors, letting my heart settle back into something close to normal.
That’s when I notice him.
A large alpha walking down the sidewalk, broad-shouldered and impossible to miss. There’s a male omega at his side—obviously his mate. The omega’s body stays close, leaning into the alpha and laughing easily at something the alpha just said.
My stomach knots.
I don’t really spend any time around alphas.
Very few alphas work at Danvers, and even the ones who do aren’t allowed to get too close to the omegas. They mostly work in the admin office, and they’re required to wear scent blockers.
I’ve haven’t been this close to a free-moving alpha in years. At least, not one I’m not related to.
What if his pheromones hit me?
What if my body betrays me right here in broad daylight?
I don’t want to go back inside. Not yet. But I can’t stand here and wait for his scent to slap me in the face.
I glance around, desperate to escape for a second or two. And that’s when I spot a narrow alleyway between the Silk Den and the artisan chocolate shop next door. It looks narrow and dark. The perfect place to hide.
Without thinking, I rush toward it.
The alley is barely more than a seam between buildings. I press my side against the cold brick, trying to force my body to shrink into something smaller. Someone must have thrown out a stack of shipping boxes recently. There’s a clean cardboard smell beneath the usual city grit.
The alpha’s footsteps draw closer, and I hold my breath. My pulse thunders in my ears, adrenaline spiking as I wait.
Don’t breathe.
Don’t react.
Don’t let your body notice him.
Seconds later, the alpha drifts past the mouth of the alley. A slip of crisp air follows in his wake, stirring my hair, carrying his scent away with him.
I don’t move. I don’t even blink. I stay wedged in shadow until the sound of their voices thins out down the sidewalk. Until all I can hear is the city again, distant and uninterested.
Only then do I let myself breathe.
I pull in a careful inhale. Then another. My shoulders loosen by a hair, my spine uncoiling like I’ve been holding myself together with sheer will.
I’m okay.
I’m—
Then I freeze as the scent of alpha hits me like a fist to the gut.
It’s not the fading trace of the one who just passed. This is immediate. Dense and whole. It fills the narrow alley around me like it’s been poured into the tight space.
My body reacts before my brain catches up.
An instinctive pull tightens low in my belly, ugly and unwanted. Sweat blooms across my forehead, and my heartbeat stutters, then lurches into a sprint like it can’t decide if it wants to run or collapse.
No.
No, no, no.
I shift—half a step, a desperate pivot toward the street, toward the Silk Den, toward lights and rules and my mother’s awful, predictable control—
—and something moves behind me.
A presence. Too close.
Before I can turn, a rough cloth slams over my mouth and nose, pressed so hard it pulls at my upper lip, pinching me. My breath bounces back into my own face as a large arm wraps around my middle.
Shock pins me for one brutal second.
Then instinct takes over.
I try to twist, claw, shove, every muscle firing at once. A sound tears up my throat, but it dies muffled under the fabric. I try to bite and hit, but the grip on me is iron-tight, keeping me in place.
I suck in a frantic breath through the rag, and a chemical sweetness floods my lungs. The edges of my vision smear, and the alley tilts. My stomach clenches with a sick roll that makes my knees threaten to fold.
I swing my elbow back, but the movement is slow—too slow. My arms feel suddenly distant and heavy, like they’ve been filled with wet sand. My fingers scrape uselessly at the hand clamped over my mouth, at a sleeve, then at a muscular arm.
The alpha scent surges again, intense and suffocating, and my body remembers before my mind can argue. Vicious memories slot into place like teeth in a trap, as I’m reminded what it feels like to have no control.
Suddenly, I’m small.
Powerless.
A terrified child all over again.