Chapter 7
ANITA
I’m burning up.
The wig is itching against my scalp. The binder is squeezing my ribs like a medieval torture device. And these layers of clothing that seemed so clever this morning now feel like I’m trapped inside a portable sauna.
I tug at my collar, trying to get some air circulation, and immediately stop when I notice Mason’s eyes on me from across the room.
Again.
He’s been staring at me all morning. Not constantly, but enough that I’m hyperaware of his gaze every time it lands on me. Like he’s trying to work me out.
This is going to be okay. This is totally manageable.
Except my body is doing things it absolutely should not be doing.
Every time one of them walks past my desk, their scent floods me and something low in my belly clenches with want.
The suppressants are supposed to stop this.
The patch is supposed to mask everything.
But apparently my traitorous Omega biology doesn’t give a damn about my careful planning, because I’m sitting here trying not to squirm every time I catch a whiff of them.
This shouldn’t be happening.
I’ve been around Alphas before. Plenty of them. I’ve managed my reactions, kept myself professional, maintained boundaries.
But these three? They’re something else entirely.
And they keep watching me. All of them. Like they’re surveillance cameras and I’m the only interesting thing happening.
I glance toward Dylan’s office and catch him staring too. He quickly looks back at his computer, but I caught him.
What is their deal? Do they watch all their employees this carefully? Maybe this is the issue. They have trust problems, surveillance habits that make Omegas feel like they’re under a microscope. No wonder people leave.
I force myself to focus on the phone in my hand, scrolling through Instagram posts from the past six months. The content is sporadic at best. A photo of a boat. Another boat. A sunset that’s washed out. A whale breach that’s so blurry it could be a rock.
No consistency. No brand voice. No strategy.
I can work with this.
I open a new spreadsheet on my laptop and start building a content calendar. Column for date, column for platform, column for content type, column for caption ideas. It’s familiar work, comforting. This I can do.
I’m deep in planning a week’s worth of posts when I remember why I’m actually here.
Not to revamp their social media.
To investigate whether they’re systematically getting rid of Omegas.
My followers doubled last week when I announced I was going undercover. Doubled. Thousands of people waiting for updates, waiting for me to actually follow through, not just talk about change but actively pursue it.
And then there’s Reed.
That asshole Alpha with his radio show, spending every broadcast ranting about how Omegas are too emotional for professional work, how we can’t handle pressure, how businesses that hire us are lowering their standards.
He’s gotten a massive following. Thousands of Alphas and perhaps even some Betas who eat up his garbage and parrot it back like it’s biblical truth.
I’m doing this to prove him wrong. To show that the problem isn’t Omegas, it’s the systems designed to push us out.
I just need to bide my time. Get close to them. Eventually get access to files, employee records, anything that shows a pattern.
I can do this.
Even if Mason Grey looks like he should be on the cover of a magazine and keeps staring at me with an intensity that leaves me burning up hotter than my clothes.
God, why couldn’t I have gone undercover at a company run by elderly men I have zero attraction to? That would be so much easier.
But looks don’t matter if they’re purposely suppressing Omega opportunities. Attractive jerks are still jerks.
I’m typing up content ideas, getting into a rhythm, when the main door opens and Jasper strolls in.
He moves past my desk without saying a word, but his scent washes over me like a tidal wave crashing against rocks.
Sandalwood. Pine. Molasses.
It wraps around me, sinking deep into my lungs, and suddenly that delicious tingle is back between my thighs.
No. Absolutely not.
I press my legs together hard, trying to will away the response, but it doesn’t work. The tingle intensifies, warmth pooling low in my belly, and I have to bite the inside of my cheek to stay focused on my screen.
I didn’t plan for this. I hid my scent, masked everything about being an Omega, but I didn’t think about how to protect myself from their scents.
Monumental mistake. Catastrophic oversight.
I need to move. Get some space. Clear my head before I do something stupid like moan out loud.
I stand up casually, and immediately all three heads pop up from their respective offices like meerkats.
Mason. Dylan. Even Jasper, who just walked past thirty seconds ago.
All of them are watching me.
“Just need the bathroom,” I say, and my voice comes out higher than intended. I clear my throat. “Bathroom break. Very normal. Standard biological function.”
Stop talking, Anita.
I head toward the back of the office, trying to remember how men walk. Loose hips. Confident stride. Don’t sway. Think John Wayne. But less bowlegged.
The bathrooms are tucked in the back corner, and I’m relieved to be out of their direct line of sight for a moment. My heart is hammering, and sweat is gathering under the wig.
There are two doors. One with a little figure in a dress. One without.
I reach for the women’s room automatically, my hand on the handle, then freeze.
No. Can’t do that.
I glance back toward the offices. They’re all focused on their work now, or at least pretending to be.
I take a breath and push open the men’s room door.
It shuts behind me, and I lean against the wall, eyes shut, exhaling loudly. The cool air feels incredible against my overheated skin.
“Thank God,” I mutter.
Then I hear the sound of a belt buckle.
My entire body goes rigid.
I turn my head slowly, eyes opening, dread creeping up my spine, and find a large man standing at the urinal, hands on his belt.
Oh God. Oh, no.
He’s huge. Easily as tall as Jasper, maybe taller, with broad shoulders that seem to take up half the small bathroom.
Black hair, short and messy like he’s been running his hands through it or fighting with the wind.
A few days’ worth of stubble covers his jaw, darker than his hair.
Steel-gray eyes meet mine, and there’s amusement dancing in them.
And I recognize him.
The realization smacks into me like cold water to the face.
The ferry yesterday. The smooth-talking stranger I fangirled over like a teenager at her first con. The voice that narrates every spicy romance in my earbuds. The one who made Norse mythology sound like foreplay.
He’s here.
In the men’s bathroom of Wilde Charters.
About to use the urinal.
While I stand frozen like a malfunctioning animatronic at a haunted house.
“You all right?” he asks, voice low and rough. Still sexy, dangerous, and Joe freaking Hamilton’s.
My brain is scrambling. Because the second he speaks, his voice crawls right under my skin. Low. Calm. Smooth enough to make me stupid.
“Joe?” I blurt out. “What are you doing here?”
He pauses. Turns slightly. One brow arches. “Wait… how do you know that name?”
Shit. Joe Hamilton is his pseudonym to narrate filthy romance books. The one he definitely wouldn’t expect some random, male-presenting marketing newbie to drop in casual conversation.
I let out a laugh that’s one step away from a wheeze. “I—sorry. I swear I thought you were someone I knew. You look exactly like him.” I gesture vaguely at his whole existence. “Total déjà vu situation.”
His mouth twitches. Not a smile. But not a frown either.
“Huh,” he says, studying me now. “That so?”
“Yeah,” I say quickly, my body humming from that voice. “Creepy, actually. Anyway.” I point toward the urinal like it’s suddenly fascinating. “I’ll let you… do your thing.”
He snorts softly, shaking his head as he turns back around. “Unless you were planning on racing me.”
“Nope. All yours.”
I retreat into the nearest stall and slam the door shut harder than necessary, the sound echoing like a judge’s gavel.
From the other side, I hear a low chuckle. “When you gotta go, you gotta go.”
I sink onto the closed toilet lid, face and body on fire, heart pounding.
I almost blew my cover in the men’s bathroom on day one.
Fantastic start, Anita. Truly flawless execution.
What are the actual statistical odds that Joe is here? Does he work here, or is he hiring them?
I hear the sound of a zipper, then water running. He’s washing his hands. This is almost over. I can survive this.
Just stay quiet. Don’t engage. Wait for him to leave.
“So you’re the new recruit?” he says casually, like we’re not in a bathroom together. Like this is a totally normal place for conversation.
My plans of staying quiet evaporate.
Damn, so he must work here to know that? I’m going to have to face him again after this mortifying encounter, yet I can barely stand on my feet whenever he speaks.
“Yeah,” I manage, then remember to deepen my voice. “Yeah, that’s me. Started today.”
“Thought so. I’m Slater.” There’s a pause. “I work here with the guys.”
Slater.
My mind races. Is he just an employee? Another recruit?
“I’m their pack leader,” Slater continues, like he’s reading my thoughts. “But I spend more time on the boats than in the office. Just brought one in a few minutes ago.
Pack leader. Right. So not only is he the man I fantasize about when I listen to his narrated romance books, and not only does he work here, but he’s also the Alpha in charge of the entire operation.
Just perfect.
He’s the narrator of sins. And now, apparently, my boss.
This is fine.
“I’m Ash,” I say, because I have to say something. “Good to meet you. Officially. Again. I mean, for the first time. We definitely haven’t met before.”
Smooth, Anita. Very smooth.
“Right,” he says, and I can hear the grin in his voice.