3. Sophie
Sophie
Six Months Later
The bass from the club pulses through my chest three buildings away.
I try to keep to the shadows as I approach, one hand trailing along the brick wall of the alley, the other wrapped around the knife in my leather jacket pocket.
The suppressants I’ve been taking mute my scent, but they don’t erase it completely.
Anyone who gets close enough can still clock me as an omega.
It’s a goddamn liability, is what it is. One that I’m still learning to work around.
I’ve been watching this place for a month. It caters to wealthy alphas with very specific tastes. The staff is impeccably dressed, the décor is understated, and on the surface it looks completely legit.
But I found them through the forums.
The online spaces where alphas think they’re anonymous, where they trade tips about which clubs serve special drinks that make omegas more compliant and more willing.
They don’t even bother hiding it.
The first time I read those posts, I threw up.
But within minutes, I started planning.
Tonight’s my third visit. I can’t risk the front entrance anymore—the bouncer’s seen my face too many times—so I circle around to the service alley and scale the back wall.
My arms burn with the effort, but six months of hard training have made me stronger.
My body, once weak and soft, has become a weapon I built purposefully, every muscle earned.
I drop down on the other side and land in a crouch. The staff entrance is twenty feet ahead, propped open for the kitchen workers who come out here to smoke.
I slip inside.
The kitchen is chaos with shouting and the clatter of plates, but no one glances twice at another body moving through the mayhem. I grab a server’s apron from a hook by the door, tie it around my waist, and walk into the main room.
The club is dark, lit by dim amber lights that cast everyone in shades of gold and shadow.
A band plays something jazzy and slow on a small stage.
Even from here, I can tell that every alpha in the room is rich as fuck—tailored suits, expensive watches, and that air of casual arrogance, as if everyone else should be so grateful for their presence.
It makes my blood boil just thinking about it.
I find a spot along the wall, near enough to the bar to see everything, and do my best to look like I belong.
The first thing I look for is the bottles.
Who brings them to the tables, who handles them before they arrive, whether anything changes hands between the bar and the floor.
I watch for ten minutes before I notice the pattern—certain tables get their bottles from the bar directly, while others come from the back room.
The second thing I look for is the omegas.
There are a handful of omegas scattered through the room. I watch them too, looking for anything that seems off.
I keep watching. Twenty minutes pass. My eye keeps drifting back to a woman in a pink dress, seated at a booth with an alpha twice her age.
She’s young, early twenties if I had to guess, and something about her has been nagging at me since I walked in.
By the time I figure out what it is, she’s already on her second drink and her eyes have gone glassy.
The alpha can’t keep his hands off her, touching her arm and the small of her back. He tops off her glass from the bottle on the table, leaning in too close while she sways in her seat.
Nobody gets that glassy-eyed on two drinks. Something was in that bottle.
The alpha signals a server and murmurs something I can’t hear. Then he stands, helps the omega to her feet—helps is generous; she can barely stand—and starts guiding her toward the back corridor.
Toward the private rooms.
I follow them into a corridor that’s dimmer than the main room, lined with doors marked PRIVATE. The alpha has his arm around the omega’s waist, half-carrying her now. Her head lolls against his shoulder.
“Get your hands off her.”
My voice comes out hard and cold, nothing like the broken girl who woke up in Sentinel’s medical wing months ago.
The alpha turns. Up close, he looks much older than I first thought, his expression arrogant and unhurried, like he thinks he’s above it all. His eyebrows lift when he sees me.
“Excuse me?”
“I said get your hands off her.” I step closer, positioning myself between him and the door he’s headed for. “I know what you put in her drink. You’re not taking her anywhere.”
He laughs, a short, ugly sound.
“And what are you going to do about it, little omega?” His eyes drag down my body, slow and appraising. “Run and tell someone? Throw a tantrum?” He pulls the woman closer. “This is none of your business.”
I don’t bother answering.
I lunge forward and drive my knee into his groin with every ounce of strength I have.
He isn’t expecting it. His grip on the omega releases as he doubles over, and she stumbles into the wall, sliding down to sit on the floor with a confused whimper.
But I didn’t hit him hard enough.
The last time I did this, that was all it took. One strike and it was over. This one recovers faster than I anticipated, straightening up with murder in his eyes.
“You fucking bitch.”
He comes at me fast. I reach for my knife, but he’s already there, his hand closing around my throat and slamming me back against the wall. My skull cracks against the plaster, and stars explode across my vision.
“Why did you have to do that?” He squeezes tighter. His face is inches from mine, contorted with rage. “Why couldn’t you just mind your own fucking business?”
I claw at his hand, but his grip only tightens. My free hand scrambles for the knife in my jacket pocket, and my fingers close around the handle.
It’s not enough. He’s pinned too close, my arm crushed between us, and I can’t drag the blade free. The harder I struggle, the more the edges of my vision gray out.
My chest screams for air. My fingers go slack around the knife I can’t use, and the world starts to tunnel down to nothing.
“You’re going to want to let her go. Now.”
The voice comes from behind him, low and deadly calm.
Griffin.
The alpha’s head whips around. I can’t see what he sees, but whatever it is, his grip goes slack and he lets me fall.
I crumple against the wall, gasping, one hand pressed to my bruised throat. Through watering eyes I see them—Griffin, Declan, and Nolan, spread across the corridor like a wall of barely restrained violence.
The alpha bolts.
Nolan starts after him, but Griffin shakes his head. “Let him go. We know who he is. We’ll deal with him later.”
Declan is already at my side, crouching down, his eyes searching my face. “Sophie. Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” The words rasp out of my damaged throat. I push myself upright, ignoring the tremor in my legs. “I’m fine.”
“You’re bleeding.” He reaches behind my head, his touch gentle. When he pulls his hand back, his fingers are red.
I hadn’t even realized I was bleeding.
Griffin stands over us, arms crossed. “What the fuck are you doing here, Sophie?”
“I was helping her.” I gesture toward the omega in the pink dress, still slumped against the wall. Her eyes are closed now, her head tipped back against the wall, completely unconscious. “They’re drugging omegas here. Slipping something into the drinks. I’ve been tracking it for a month.”
“And you thought you’d handle it yourself, alone, without telling anyone.” It’s not a question.
“I called the cops,” I snap. “I called them three times. They didn’t do shit.”
“So you decided to play vigilante.” Nolan’s voice is flat, unimpressed. He moves to the omega and checks her pulse, then lifts her easily into his arms. “I’ll get her home. Find out who she is, make sure she’s safe.” He carries her toward the back exit without another word.
Griffin hasn’t moved. Neither has Declan.
“You’re being stupid.” Declan’s voice is quiet but sharp. His hands are clenched at his sides, and he keeps looking at the blood on the wall behind me. “You know that, right? This isn’t brave. It’s reckless.”
“You’re going to get yourself killed.” Griffin’s tone is hard now, stripped of patience. “And for what? To prove something? To feel like you’re doing something? There are better ways, Sophie. Smarter ways.”
I meet his eyes and hold them.
“Then train me.”
The words hang between us. Even the bass from the club feels far away.
“I want to work for Sentinel,” I say. “I’ve wanted it since the day you found me.
And you can tell me I’m being stupid, you can tell me I’m reckless, but I’m going to keep doing this whether you help me or not.
” I gesture toward the blood smeared on the wall.
“So you can either train me to do it right, or you can keep scraping me off the pavement when it goes wrong.”
Griffin stares at me for a long moment. I hold his gaze, trying not to let him see how badly I want this, even as I prepare myself for him to shut me down again.
Then, finally, he exhales.
“Fine.”
Fuck, yes. I smile before I can stop myself, but Griffin doesn’t smile back.
“Eight a.m. Monday. Sentinel headquarters. Don’t be late.”
He turns and walks away without waiting for a response. Declan lingers a moment longer, his brow creased, his eyes not quite leaving mine.
“He’s going to make you work for it,” he says quietly. “You know that, right?”
“Good.” I push off the wall, ignoring the throbbing in my skull and the ache in my throat. “I don’t want it handed to me.”
Declan starts to smile, then catches himself.
“Monday, then.” He follows Griffin toward the exit, and I’m left alone with nothing but the fading bass and the raw ache in my throat.
Monday.
For the first time in a while, I have something to look forward to.