Heat Expectation (Queenie’s Omegaverse #2)

Chapter 1

Imogen

Oppressed rage bubbles beneath the surface of my skin, making my cheeks burn, my neck hot and itchy, anger threatening to spill out of my pores in a fiery storm.

But… perfection. A state of mind drilled into my head for years, buried so deep for so long it's no longer a cloak, it's another layer of skin, attached and varnished no matter how hard I might try to scrub it off.

So, the words stay trapped in my throat, the feeling of my righteous anger ebbing and flowing, suppressed and redirected inward. Just smile, Imogen. That's all anyone wants from you, anyway. A pretty smile, blind obedience. Not rage. Not emotion.

It’s not fair.

All I ever wanted was a choice. A pack, a family to love and cherish. But one of my choosing.

Resisting the temptation to stomp my red stilettos down the busy sidewalk, instead, I effortlessly stroll with light steps, so practiced, I could carry a full cup of tea atop my head, none the wiser of my inner turmoil.

I’ve never been to South Loop and certainly never to a strip club, but somehow, being here aligns with how the rest of my day is going.

The bouncer guarding the door eyes me warily, giving me a slow up-and-down perusal, complete with a skeptical eyebrow lift. It's a practical once-over, and I can feel his judgment in one bemused smirk: I don't belong here.

But he swings the door open without protest, and I walk in, head held high, preparing myself for… well, anything, really, who knows what happens in a place like this.

There are topless women everywhere I look, and now, my cheeks flame red for a different reason. The bartender watches me skeptically, but I’m saved when Ophelia shouts my name from across the room, her voice ghosting over the loud bass-pounding music filling the club.

Tentatively, I straighten my spine and walk to a small table near the stage, dodging leering, cat-calling men, laughing, drinking beers, more rowdy than they've a right this early in the evening. A tiny woman wearing nothing but hot pink strings—I’m not even sure what else to call them, just straps and strings criss-crossed and looped and tied that barely cover her pint-sized body—smiles happily beside Ophelia.

"Imogen, this is Franky," Ophelia nods toward her friend.

The short woman with dark, olive-toned skin turns her infectious smile on me and bounds closer. Her natural scent hides beneath quality scent-blockers, while doused in a fruity perfume and a dusting of glitter shimmering across her chest.

"It’s so nice to finally meet you, Immy! Phe Phe's told me you're so sweet, and she always knows all the best people." Franky smiles unnaturally wide, showcasing bright teeth which look purple against the backdrop of the glowing club lights, adorable dimples settling deep in her cheeks. It's the kind of smile I always wanted, but could never manage that level of authenticity.

Her smile isn't perfect: it's too big, too happy, too joyful. It's not subdued or practiced in the way I've been taught.

Unsure how to respond, I clasp her hand in mine to give it a nice, professional shake, but she slaps it out of the way and wraps her surprisingly muscular arms around me. I’m taller by several inches, especially in my heels, but it doesn't stop Franky one little bit.

"Nice to meet you too, Franky," I rasp.

She let go as abruptly as she pulled me in. "Okay, gotta get back on stage. Love you Phe Phe!" She sings happily and, with an alarming amount of strength, launches herself onto the stage in a running jump, throws herself onto the stripper pole, and swings her body around in gravity-defying gymnastics.

"You can close your mouth," Ophelia snorts.

My mouth snaps shut, and I clear my throat, taking the seat beside her. "I hope it’s not rude to stare. She’s really quite impressive."

"Quite. Franky is really fun to watch, and it's not rude to stare. Kinda the point. But if you stare a lot, maybe throw her a few bucks," Ophelia chuckles.

"Oh my goodness, you’re right," I gasp, rushing into my purse. Ophelia stills my hands with hers.

"I’m kidding. Relax. You doing okay? You sounded upset when you called."

Right. I sounded upset. Not like a burgeoning volcano of rage. It was all buried too deep, and what came out was a gentler version of what I actually felt.

I called Ophelia and asked to see her, to vent, but somehow, getting the courage to come here, to a strip club of all places and meeting the overwhelmingly happy Franky, poked a hole in my balloon, and, with the distraction of the club, all that's left as I sit in this chair is… hurt. Uncertainty.

"My parents…" Rubbing my fingers into my temples, I search for the words that hurt the least.

"Oh no. What did they do now?" She leans in closer, taking my hands in hers.

I think back to my conversation with my mother before I left the house.

"Imogen, we’ve received an offer."

"For what?" I asked, innocently munching on a carrot stick while my mother neatly folded herself onto the high-top chair beside me.

"Your hand."

You’d think I’d be used to it by now; we’ve had this exact same conversation so many times, and I'd always firmly rejected it. But this time, something about her tone was different. Icy dread trickled down my spine.

"My hand," I repeated, carrot frozen mid-air.

"The Stevens Pack. They’ve been in negotiations with your fathers and have come to an agreement. The wedding will take place before the new year."

"Where are your mates?" I change the subject, forcing my lips to curl despite the pain.

She hooks her thumb toward a hall I hadn’t noticed, nestled behind the long bar top. "In the office with Cass and Red. I think they're bro-ing out on some new security software." She adds an eye roll, but her voice is thick with love and adoring pride.

My return smile feels fake despite my genuine happiness for her and Constantine. I’m not jealous. I swear I’m not jealous. My lips quiver the bigger they stretch.

"Oh, Imogen, what happened?" Ophelia leans forward again, forcing my gaze to meet hers.

"I'm getting married," my voice shakes. Delivering such news without inflection feels wrong. The words cut like glass, and it takes effort to keep a straight face. But… perfection. So I downcast my eyes, plaster on a neutral smile and fold my hands in my lap.

She’s quiet for a minute, pulling her hands back to her side of the table and picks up her drink. Glancing at the stage, she finger waves at Franky, who somehow has mixed calisthenic exercise moves with a stripper pole that shouldn’t look sexy but somehow does.

Without looking back at me, she says, "You’re getting married if that’s what you want. Is it? Is that what you want?"

I choke out a wet cough, the torrent of rage threatening to spill over caught in my throat. I suck it all back in, and admit, "Actually, yes. I really, really do."

"Let me rephrase. You’re getting married to who?"

"The Stevens pack."

"The Mayor?" Ophelia shouts, whipping her head toward me.

"Yes," I sigh.

Her lips press, like she’s trying very hard not to yell profanities. "Okay, so you’re getting married to the mayor and his pack. Is that what you want?"

If I try to respond, I’ll cry. No one wants a crying omega in a strip club. My head shakes back and forth just once.

"Then you’re not getting married."

As if it were that simple. "That’s what I told my mother when she informed me of the wedding date. Before she threatened to cut me off from the family. She said they didn’t do all this work for their omega daughter for it to amount to nothing, and Stevens made a very generous offer for my hand. My parents will disown me if I don't accept."

"What in the hell does that mean, they made an offer? You’re not a fucking pawn!" Ophelia growls. Taking a deep breath, she apologizes, "I’m sorry, Imogen. But you’re not a commodity. We are not special edition toys to be traded and sold."

She’s been working behind the scenes for months against injustices just like this, but she’s only one person. With her pack at her back, she's helped install new security features at various heat clinics, and she’s been collecting testimony from omegas all around, even from the High Hills, my neighborhood, about negative experiences at heat clinics. The mayor—my to-be-betrothed—has been working with the DA to identify and prosecute alphas who thought they were getting away with taking advantage of omegas in heat at the clinics.

But she cannot change our culture overnight. I was born into a wealthy family that values money, power, and good standing in social hierarchy, and my purpose has always been to elevate my family—even if I have to sacrifice my happiness to do it. That's just how it is for most omegas. We're so rare and treasured by alpha packs that any family in possession of one could be set for life.

"Face it Ophelia, I am a pawn. I don't want to lose my family over this. I love them, and they mean well, they really do. They just want what's best for me. I've always dreamed of settling down, and they know that. Maybe they're right, and I've been too picky."

"What's best for you is giving you a choice. It's not theirs to make."

"I mean, is it really so bad? The Stevens Pack is nice. They smell good. They're a little boring, but they're wealthy and can provide for me and our children. All I've ever wanted is to be in a pack, fall in love, have kids…"

"Are you in a rush to do it? Immy, you're only twenty-three. Not exactly a spinster."

I reach across the table and snag her drink. It's a little crass, something I'd never normally do, but I'm a ball of nerves, so I take a big sip, ignoring her amused smirk at me stealing her drink. I nearly spit out the sickly sweet soda, but the sugar is distraction enough to keep the nerves at bay.

"Imogen…"

When I don't answer, silence settles between us, beneath the music, and our gazes wander up to watch Franky. Her smile radiates, like she has some kind of superpower, transfixing her audience like a siren while she bends, spins and stretches. It makes me miss dancing. Even if it was only ballet, I miss moving my body to music, closing my eyes, and performing, even just for myself. When I was on stage, I was in control.

"So, where did you leave things?" Ophelia eventually asks.

"After she threatened to cut me off if I didn't accept, I told her to go right ahead. Then I stormed out and called you. And now, here I am…" Stormed out is a bit of an exaggeration. I quietly left the house and drove here under the speed limit in my BMW, suppressing my hurt with every step.

"Here you are." She squeezes my hand from across the table, then her eyes light up. "Oh! I have an idea." Digging through her bag, she pulls out various items: tissues, silver packets of pills, a water bottle, four different flavors of gum. More items fill the table, and she nearly knocks over her drink, but I catch it before she can make a mess. Finally, she lights up. "Got it!"

"What's this?"

"Freedom," she winks. "I used to live at C-Block. It's an apartment building a few minutes walk from here. My old apartment is still empty. It's furnished. We kept it empty, so we had a spare room for anyone—an omega, in particular—who might need a place to hide out or stay for a while. It's recently renovated, though probably not what you're used to…"

I take the key. Innocuous metal, dull, unassuming. Lightweight. But my salvation. Possibly.

"I don't know…"

"You don't have to move in. And I'm not suggesting you tell your family to just fuck off and be done with them. But maybe having a place to stay for a few days could help give you some perspective. Give you space to think about what you want to do?"

The key warms in my palm. From my body heat, the reaction to the metal, it calls to me, like it's pulsing out a signal. Take it, Imogen. Make a choice for yourself, for once.

"Can I ask you something?" She prods.

"Of course."

"Are you maybe looking for reasons to say no to the proposal? On the one hand, you seem resigned to saying yes. But on the other… Imogen, I know we haven't been friends for long, tell me if I'm way outta line, but you also seem like you need help getting out of this. You're not for sale, no matter what ass-backwards dowry your family—and I can't believe I'm saying this, but the mayor—says. If you need help starting over, alone, you only have to ask."

I feel her outrage mirrored inside me. It takes a moment to slip on my OFA cloak, as Ophelia calls it, letting my placid smile clear the way for all the words caught in my throat. "It's not out of line, Ophelia. I appreciate your concern. I did call you upset, after all. But… I want to get married. Maybe not to them, but I can't seem to meet anyone I truly want. My parents are probably right, I'm too picky. So, yes. I think I'm going to accept." Shame pokes its head through my anger, but I ignore it, trying hard to keep my smile from getting too tight. On a whim, I add, "But, I'd like the key. Just… for some time to myself. If that's okay."

"Yeah, Immy. Of course. It's all yours," Ophelia says softly.

I look back up at Franky on stage. She looks so happy up there, dancing. I've never met a person of any designation who looks so carefree, like she's flying in the wind, above it all. I'm jealous of Franky.

The difference between us couldn't be greater. Unbridled by expectations, the women here are choosing how they want to live, not following the pattern laid out for them.

Impulsive has never been me. I'm calm. Cautious. Submissive. And so I do not know what foreign entity has taken control of my body when I ask, "Do you think I could dance?"

I look back at Ophelia, whose eyebrows shoot high in surprise. "Dance? What, like here? On stage?"

Embarrassed, I immediately backtrack, resuming control of whatever possessed my stupid, errant mouth. "Nevermind. That was ridiculous—"

"No, no, that's not what I was thinking. It's not ridiculous. It's just…" Her eyes go wide, and she nods toward the stage. There's another dancer taking Franky's place. The woman immediately drops into a split, her barely there lime green thong covering almost nothing. She rocks her pelvis up and down, practically having sex with the stage floor, before spinning on her bum with her legs extended, coming to a stand and repeating the move, only this time, upright, with the pole. It's graceful, but pornographic.

Ophelia's apprehension is warranted. It was a ridiculous suggestion. I amend, "I used to perform ballet. I can dance, but nothing like this. It was a stupid thing to say. Nevermind."

"Don't say that, it wasn't. I think it's a great idea. If you're curious, you should try it. I mean, is stripping so different from ballet?"

I give her a skeptical look, but she doesn't laugh. "I'm serious. The outfits are obviously a little more risque, but you can wear whatever you want up there. And sure, the moves are more…"

We both look up at the stage. The dancer holds the pole between her hands, her bum pushed out toward the audience while she sways her hips in time with the music, in a figure eight motion on repeat. At first, it seems lazy, languid. But the way her butt shakes and rocks… it's actually mesmerizing.

She continues, "But it's still just dancing. Moving to the music. Ballet's beautiful. Erotic dancing can be really beautiful too. And I don't know about ballet, but I can say for certain—pole dancing? Takes a crazy amount of strength. It's a great workout."

"I wouldn't even know where to start," I laugh self-deprecatingly.

"There's no better place than Queenie's to try it out. Don't overthink it. If you're serious, and you want to give it a shot, I'll get Roxy to talk to you. You might have to do a practice set for her, she's the one who does all the hiring."

"I thought your friends owned Queenie's? The male alphas, Dante Pack, correct?" I'm curious about the origin of this club and the infamous Dante Pack behind it all. I've heard Kenneth, the mayor and my to-be-betrothed, mention Red Dante in particular in heated debates at dinner parties, usually with a kind of grudging disdain, although they're supposedly on the same team regarding omegas rights.

"Yeah, but they don't get involved with hiring dancers. It's supposed to be a safe haven; the last thing some omegas need are male alphas watching them dance and perform, judging to see if they're good enough. That's where Roxy comes in. She's like the de facto manager. And she's awesome. You'll love her."

A fantasy flashes before my eyes, a vision of my future, of being an omega like these women from South Loop, who are their own bosses. Who are in control of their own lives and their own decisions.

As mad as I was an hour ago, I was resigned to my fate. I still am. But I can take a detour. I've never done that before, but if I'm getting married soon, to the mayor's pack, no less, I will go crazy if I don't do something for myself. So that someday when I have children and grow old, I can look back and think, I did something once. It wasn't what was expected of me; it wasn't something my family or future alphas would ever approve of. But I still did it.

"I can't believe I'm saying this, but yes, I want to meet Roxy. And stay at your apartment. At least for a few days." For the first time since I left my house, maybe for the first time in ages, I feel something like excitement. It's not strong, more nerves than anything, but it cuts through the shame and sadness of my fate, urging me forward.

"Stay as long as you want. Sully owns the place, it's not like he needs the rent money." She rolls her eyes again, making me laugh.

This is insane. I can't dance at a strip club. What in the world am I thinking?

And yet, as Ophelia gives me directions to her old apartment, shares her neighbor Melanie's phone number with me in case I need anything, and sets up a meeting with Roxy for the following day, something inside me screams to follow this path, no matter where it leads.