ELIANO #2
Luckily, my T-shirt is black, and my sweatpants are dark purple, so no stains should show. I just look like some young guy who went out for a jog and accidentally wandered into a marriage contract fair.
We enter the hall, and I have to admit, the place is impressive.
It is filled with long rows of glass booths, each occupied by betas of different ages. In the front section, closest to the entrance, are the betas whose contracts have never been purchased, according to the sign.
This section stretches across the entire length of the hall, forming a long, narrow strip, almost like a corridor, with booths lined up on both sides. I glance at the people sitting inside.
Many of them are staring at their phone screens, avoiding eye contact with those passing by.
Honestly, that does not surprise me. They are probably embarrassed, which is understandable. Events like this remind a lot of people of a livestock exhibition.
There is heavy social criticism surrounding these fairs, but also significant support, because contract marriages are highly successful in terms of durability.
They function strictly like business agreements, and breaking the terms comes with severe financial penalties and the possibility of being barred from entering future contracts. Because of that, people take them seriously, as if they were standard, legally binding business deals.
Personally, I have mixed feelings about it.
I always naively believed that love would be the sole reason I would ever enter a relationship.
Unfortunately, that is still ahead of me.
I have never been in a relationship. Living in my uncle’s fortress, I had no contact with omegas, except for those miserable ones Rocco and Anzo used, and I was supposed to stay far away from them.
For some reason, as I follow Storm, I begin to feel a certain tension, like something is about to happen. Once again, I run my fingers through my hair and straighten up a little. Even though I am a tall alpha at six foot seven, next to Storm’s seven foot two, I probably look like a dwarf.
From a distance, I spot the section marked with large green Second Chance banners.
There are only a few betas there, and as we approach, I somehow immediately know which booth we are heading toward.
My eyes lock onto that person from about a hundred and fifty feet away.
This particular booth is set at a solid distance from the others. There is one person inside, but two chairs are placed in front of the glass. A police officer is sitting in one, and an older omega in the other.
Storm heads toward them with a purposeful stride.
I experience a sudden pull in my chest, surprised at the wave of nerves that has appeared out of nowhere.
Of course, I do not allow myself to think that this could be my fated mate, but why not at least entertain the idea for a moment?
We stop in front of the booth. Only then does the young beta inside lift his head, and my eyes meet his.
My body reacts as if jolted by electricity. I have to clench my hands into fists to keep them from trembling.
Our eyes lock. Wow.
The man is young, close to my age. Part of his hair on the left side of his head is shaved short, exposing scalp tattoos I cannot make out from this distance.
The other half is dyed a deep blue, though black roots are visible, as if the dye did not fully take.
His hair falls a few inches past his collarbones.
He has a ring in his nostril, eyebrow piercings, and several earrings in the ear I can see.
There are tattoos on his neck as well, trailing down toward his collarbones. He is dressed in what looks like a blue jumpsuit, marking his status as a felon.
Since he is sitting, it is hard to judge his height, but he looks slender. His forearms, visible beneath rolled-up sleeves, are also covered in tattoos.
His expression is indifferent, and he looks at me the way he probably looks at any other employee. He may assume I am just one of Storm’s associates. I certainly do not look like a serious client with deep pockets.
The older omega sitting next to the police officer stands up when he sees Storm.
"I brought someone interesting, Mr. Gessler."
The older omega raises his eyebrows. They are thick and bushy, and he has a small goatee. He does not look particularly friendly.
"What do you mean, Mr. Nolan?"
"The young man I met outside the building is Salt’s True Mate."
A strange silence falls. The omega’s gaze shifts to me. I make an innocent face and shrug slightly, as if to say, sorry, this was his idea, not mine.
The omega does not fall for it, obviously.
"Are you joking, Mr. Nolan? Salt is a beta. That alone reduces the chances to nearly zero."
"Not to zero. My own brother has a beta as his fated mate, so it does happen."
"May we speak privately for a moment?" the omega says, narrowing his eyes.
Storm shoots me a tense look.
"Will you wait here for a bit?"
"I can wait, but make it quick."
Storm rolls his eyes slightly, then steps aside with the omega. The difference in their height is almost comical.
I am left alone with the police officer, who studies me with an equally amused expression.
For some reason, I really want to avoid looking at the man inside the glass booth, the one I understand is named Salt.
He probably still has no idea why I am here. There are plenty of company employees in the hall, after all. His face remains uninterested.
After a moment, he reaches for a stack of papers on a small table beside him and picks up a pen. He leans over and starts drawing something, or maybe writing, ignoring everything else around him.
When he lowers his head, I take a moment to study the line of his neck and jaw.
I have to admit, it looks good. Harmonious.
His collarbones are clearly defined and elegantly shaped.
As an alpha, my gaze instinctively seeks the neck, looking for bite marks on the neck glands, but there are none visible there. The skin is pale and smooth.
I turn slightly sideways so I can easily glance in his direction while also keeping an eye on Storm and the older omega.
From a distance, I can see their conversation is intense.
The omega lifts his hands to his temples, then turns toward me and makes a dismissive gesture.
Storm stands with his arms crossed over his chest, as if guarding a post, his chin thrust forward in defiance.
The conversation goes on for a while, at least it feels that way. I shift my weight from my left foot to my right. The beta inside remains focused on his papers.
Occasionally, I glance over and see his slender hands moving across the page. A blue strand of hair falls low against his cheek, and I catch myself staring.
At one point, he lifts his gaze for a brief moment, and our eyes meet again. I feel blood rush to my cheeks. Damn it. He is attractive! I cannot deny that. Something stirs deep inside me, a spark of interest, maybe even something sexual.
A moment later, I decide to read his placard.
Each booth has an information board with basic details about the person offering a contract, and this one carries a large Second Chance label.
It lists the following:
● Name: Salt ********
● Age: 22 years
● Height: 5’11.5’’
● Weight: 162 pounds
● Number of previous contracts: 0
● Education: Middle school diploma; some high school coursework
● Occupation: Tattoo artist
● Declared fertility status: Infertile (beta)
● Health status: No STDs, no other health issues beyond a permanently dilated pupil in one eye due to childhood injury, vision unaffected
● Legal status: Convicted of quadruple homicide
The fuck? I stare at that last line. Well, great.
Quadruple homicide!?
So he’s a sociopath, and I’ve had more than enough experience with people like that.
I assumed it was some dumb bar fight, drunk idiots swinging bottles, someone getting cracked in the head, or maybe a knife in the back of a cheating boyfriend caught in flagranti.
But a quadruple murder? That’s heavy. Way heavier than anything I had imagined.
No matter what subtle hint of sexual interest I might have felt, this is the moment to turn around and leave.
Just then, I notice that Storm and the omega have finished their conversation and are walking back toward the booth.
"Can I talk to you for a moment?" Storm says, his voice tight.
All these side conversations must look slightly ridiculous, but the quadruple murderer in the booth ignores everything completely, bent over his papers.
With an impatient grimace, I follow Storm and immediately go on the offensive.
"You forgot to mention the tiny detail that he has four murders on his record. Not exactly a dream candidate for a contract husband!"
Storm exhales sharply.
"Listen, first of all, his case handler is not exactly, let’s say, on board with this whole idea, but I pushed for one thing.
He agreed to let you enter the booth and shake Salt’s hand, just to see if there’s an electric jolt like during First Touch.
The only issue is that with betas it does not always work the same way.
It might be just a faint shiver, but I do not want to give up at this stage. "
"Wow, how conveniently you just brushed aside the quadruple murderer thing."
"Let’s just… leave it aside for now, okay? Focus. Just touch his hand and that’s it—"
"That was our original deal from the start! But new circumstances have obviously emerged!"
Storm leans in slightly and places a hand on my shoulder, his fingers tightening as if to anchor my attention.
"Listen, dude, why do I feel like I’m the only one here who actually wants to bring this situation to a clear conclusion? You do want to meet your True Mate, right? Unless I’m mistaken."
"Forgive me for not being enthusiastic, but I have some doubts about a serial killer being my fated mate. Reasonable, don’t you think?"
He huffs again and gives me a light shake.