Chapter 16 #2
"That was cruel and unusual."
We're bickering. It's almost normal.
We wander.
Giraffes. Elephants. A tiger that looks like he knows exactly how trapped he is and hates us all for existing.
I drift at the edge of the group, close enough to be counted, far enough that I'm not an obstacle to Marie's orbit.
She clings.
To Drake, mostly, but she's not shy about wrapping herself around Ragon's arm either, leaning into Eli's side when he says something soft. She's still prickly with me—polite, but with a thin film of something sour whenever our shoulders brush.
I get it.
She's still reeling from the bonding conversation.
I'm still reeling from the idea that someone would want to permanently mark me.
We're both walking around with raw edges.
Hers cut outward more often.
Lunch is worse.
We hit the outdoor food court between the big cat section and the primate house. It's crowded—families, strollers, packs doing weekend bonding.
The tables are mostly full.
Ragon scouts ahead, scanning for a decent spot. He finds one by the railing: one of those long picnic tables bolted into the concrete, room for maybe six if everyone squeezes.
One end is occupied by a mom and two kids decimating a plate of fries. The other has four open spots... and a single empty space on the far bench.
We split.
Ragon sits at the head. Eli takes the spot beside him; Drake slides in opposite, grinning as he elbows Ragon and steals his pickle.
That leaves the open seat at the end of Drake's side, near the kids.
I step toward it automatically, balancing my tray.
Marie gets there first.
She doesn't sit.
She puts her bag down.
Right in the middle of the only available space.
Not a casual drop, either.
A deliberate placing.
"Oh," she says, looking up at Ragon with wide eyes. "Is there enough room?"
He glances at the table, then us.
"We can make some. Vee, you can—"
"It's fine," I say quickly, heat already crawling up my neck. "I'll find somewhere else."
"There's a bench over there," Marie notes, nodding toward a shaded spot under a tree. "Less commotion."
"That's fine."
I paste on what I hope is an easy smile. "You guys stay together. I'll be right there. Penguins aren't going to watch themselves."
"Vee," Eli starts, and there's a warning in his tone.
I don't want a scene.
The kids at the end of the table are already looking at us.
"I'm okay. Really. This just looks chaotic."
Marie's scent tightens, a little triumphant twist she probably doesn't even notice.
"We can move my bag," she offers, voice too sweet.
I imagine sitting there, squeezed between her and a stranger's sticky child, pretending I don't feel like I've been measurably excluded.
"It's okay."
Before anyone can argue, I pivot away, tray balanced carefully.
The bench Jasper pointed out is half in the shade. I sit in the dappled part, facing the penguin exhibit down the path.
From here, I can see my pack at the table.
They look like a postcard.
Ragon listening to Marie talk with that intent tilt to his head. Drake stealing fries, making her laugh. Eli, profile stoic, saying something to Jasper, who has finally settled at the far edge, half-facing me.
I eat my burger in small, mechanical bites.
It tastes like cardboard.
I'm not mad at anyone in particular.
I'm mad at the geometry of it.
One omega gets the center.
The other adjusts.
The penguins save me.
After I give up on eating, I dump my trash and wander down the path, pulled by the sound of water and kids shrieking about tuxedo birds.
The enclosure is big—rocky outcrop, a glass viewing window that looks into the water where slick black-and-white bodies torpedo past.
Penguins are ridiculous.
They walk like drunk toddlers and swim like tiny gods.
I watch one waddle to the edge, hesitate, then belly flop into the pool with such commitment that I snort.
Another tries to steal a fish and gets shouldered into the water for his trouble.
"Rude," I tell them through the glass. "That was uncalled for."
One turns its head, beady eyes staring right at me, and honks.
I laugh.
The sound is rusty, but real.
"You look like you're losing the competition," a male voice rumbles beside me.
Instinct flares.
Alpha.
Big.
I feel him before I turn—scent like smoke and dark spice, body heat a warm presence.
I turn slowly.
He's massive.
Taller than Ragon, broader than Drake. Tanned skin, dark eyes, hair cropped close. A beard that's more jawline shadow than full. His clothes are casual—Henley, jeans, boots—but everything about the way he occupies space screams alpha who knows exactly what he is.
He's handsome in a way that would have terrified me when I was younger.
He terrifies me a little now.
He's also standing just slightly too close.
"Sorry. Didn't mean to hog the glass."
"You're not," he says, amused. His gaze sweeps the area. The families. The couples. Then returns to me. "Just noticed you're alone. An omega. That's not really safe."
I shrug. "You don't need a chaperone to watch penguins."
His mouth quirks. "Most omegas out with a pack don't wander off without an escort."
My jaw tightens.
Of course he scented that.
I glance back toward the food court.
From here, my pack is a blur of familiar shapes. I can pick them out by posture alone—Ragon's tall stillness, Drake's animation, Marie's small form tucked between them.
They are laughing at something.
It looks like a scene from another life.
"Guess I'm not most omegas."
His attention flicks between them and me, calculation sharp. "Guess not. Still seems like a waste."
"Of what?"
He leans his forearms on the railing, deliberately mirroring my posture. "Of you."
My chest does a painful little lurch.
He searches my neck with his eyes, his gaze zeroing in on the bare skin there, eyes darkening with interest.
No scars.
No marks.
Nothing.
His brows rise. "Unclaimed."
It's not a question.
The word still makes me want to fold in on myself.
My fingers twitch toward my collarbone. "Depends who you ask."
"Any alpha with teeth would say the same. No bond scar. No mark. No registry ink." His nostrils flare once. "You smell like you belong to that lot over there, but they didn't bother to make it official."
I swallow.
"That's complicated."
"It shouldn't be. You don't leave something like you unmarked if you intend to keep it."
Something in me bristles, defensive and loyal.
"They do intend to keep me. They're sorting paperwork."
The alpha huffs a quiet laugh. "Paperwork. Of course."
"I don't know you. And this is weird."
"I'm being rude," he acknowledges, and weirdly, he sounds genuinely apologetic. "Let me try that again."
He straightens, steps back just enough that my lungs decide to keep working.
"Name's Chase. I lead a pack on the west side. I pay attention to dynamics when I see them. Yours is..." His eyes flick back to my people. "...imbalanced."
I want to argue.
I don't.
His gaze returns to my neck. There's a hunger there, but it's not the slick, gross kind. It's more assessing. Predatory in the way a recruiter is predatory.
"Why aren't you claimed?"
My mouth goes dry.
Because my first pack rejected me.
Because Ragon wanted a scent match.
Because the timing and Marie's arrival complicated everything.
I shrug instead. "Bad timing. Bureaucracy."
He makes a low sound in his throat that might be disagreement.
"Can I?" he asks suddenly, lifting a hand.
"Can you what."
"Move this," he says, fingers hovering near the curtain of hair falling over my shoulder. "You're hiding the view."
I should say no.
There's a whole list of reasons why I should say no.
We are in public. He's a stranger. My alphas are here.
But some stupid, wounded part of me—raw from Marie's "spare omega" comments, from years of feeling half-chosen—wants someone to look at my bare neck and see it as a problem worth fixing.
I nod.
He very carefully brushes my hair aside.
His fingers don't touch my skin, but the motion is intimate anyway. My neck feels exposed, vulnerable.
He studies the unmarked stretch of skin, the spot where, in another life, Ragon's teeth would have left a scar years ago.
"It's a shame. Whoever's dragging their feet doesn't deserve you."
My throat tightens.
"You don't even know me."
"I know enough. You smell like loyalty and longing and a pack that hasn't figured out how lucky they are."
My eyes sting.
I stare very hard at a penguin so I don't burst into tears in front of a stranger.
"I shouldn't be talking to you."
"Probably not. But I started it, so I'll finish it."
He reaches into his pocket, pulls out a small white card.
No logo. Just a name, a phone number, a district.
He holds it out.
I look at it like it might bite.
"Call me. When you've had enough."
"Enough of what?"
"Of being an afterthought. I'll show you how real alphas treat an omega they want to keep."
My heart is trying to claw its way out of my chest.
"I'm not—"
"Disloyal," he finishes, lips twitching. "I didn't say run away. I said when you've had enough. Maybe they'll get their act together before that. Maybe they won't. Options won't hurt you."
His scent is steady, confident. No waver. No fear.
It makes me dizzy.
I reach for the card, fingers closing around it before my brain can veto.
It's just cardboard, smooth and innocuous, and it burns my palm like a brand.
"Good girl," he says, satisfied, and some part of me hates that the words instinctively make my stomach flip.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?"
Ragon's voice hits like a thunderclap.
The air between us snaps tight.
Chase's attention shifts over my shoulder, unconcerned.
He doesn't step back.
I stiffen.
The scent of smoke and pine and alpha command floods in from behind me, heavy and sharp.
"Ragon," I whisper, turning.
He's a storm walking.
Jaw clenched, eyes cold, shoulders coiled. He closes the distance in three long strides.
"Get your hand away from my omega."