Chapter 3
Imogen
Restless and filled with nervous energy, my stomach churns, and I pace Ophelia’s cramped apartment, torn by the indecision of dragging myself back to my parents house and falling into the role I was born for or taking a brave step towards independence by dancing at a strip club.
These can’t be my only two options.
Sucking in a deep breath, willing my nerves and stomach to settle, I summon the courage to walk to Queenie’s and ignore the societal expectations set upon me, just by existing as an omega. Unfortunately, the apartment is too small to pace in search of clarity.
I’m ashamed to admit the entire apartment is the size of my walk-in closet at home. It’s spartan, with only the bare necessities, though the nest, or bedroom, whichever its purpose, is clean and well stocked.
Not many others have stayed here; I can tell by the faint scent of other omegas, even in the small nest. Knowing it’s used doesn’t bother me; it’s no different from a heat clinic, where I usually ride out my heats.
I’ve shared my heats with courting packs in the past, too, but lately—and for the first time in my life—I’ve considered taking heat suppressants.
When I attended the OFA, the Omega Finishing Academy, it was our choice to experience the benefits of being an omega by staying off suppressants or taking them if we wanted. In the last couple of years, though, the teachers at the OFA began pushing the use of suppressants, implying packs prized virginity, and we may have a better chance of a favorable match if we waited. Saved ourselves were the words they used.
"You realize I’m no longer a virgin, right?" I’d asked my mother after she suggested I go on suppressants since it was the new trend to be pure, pretending that toxic language didn't imply I was somehow unclean.
I’d gone through several heats already and enjoyed every one. As someone skilled in keeping her emotions locked up, having a few days once or twice a year for my heat to let my inhibitions run wild was freeing on a molecular level, and I wasn’t giving that up for anything. Certainly not to feign virginity.
She’d replied, "Of course, but they don’t need to know that. Sweetheart, the alphas in this town have more options, with the OFA facility being so large. Girls who are younger than you, many of them untouched." I scoffed, knowing, behind the scenes, how often that lie was tossed around. An alpha in rut couldn’t tell the difference, an omega could say whatever they wanted.
It was one of the few times I’ve ever truly stood up to my mother and refused—to go on suppressants, or to lie about being a virgin, which is little more than a human construct that means nothing in a relationship beyond possession and control. If a courting pack holds value in virginity, I’ve no interest in them.
My mother wrung her hands nervously, after trying every angle to convince me to lie and take the pills. "You’re getting older, Imogen. And your body won’t stay so thin, young and supple forever. Best to do what the teachers suggest."
Those last days before my graduation never sat well with me. I honestly can’t say what I’d have chosen if I was still a technical virgin and more vulnerable to my mother and the OFA’s pressures, but I’m grateful I was old enough to have already made a choice.
I love having my heat, it’s a part of me. The OFA’s attempt to take that away from young omegas is unsettling. Having a heat is a huge part of who we are.
As it stands, I’m to-be-betrothed to a pack I don’t love, barely know, and while I’ve shared my heat with courting packs in the past, this feels different. They’re not technically courting me as my parents have already told them I’ve said yes. I’m sure I’ll come to love them in time, but when a pack marries, they often bond during their first heat together. Mating, with biting marks and a lifelong commitment between alpha and omega.
If I take suppressants now, I could buy myself some time. The idea of having their mating marks on my body makes my skin crawl, and that’s not exactly how I want to start a family.
Maybe I just need to warm up to the idea.
I need time to let go of my dream of finding my scent-match, my fated mates. I know how rare it is, but seeing Ophelia with her fated mates makes my heart ache in envy.
The first time I met the Stevens Pack was at an OFA event. They were among the first to introduce themselves to me before my parents. The bar shouldn’t be so low that it impressed me, but I admit, it made them stand out. It helped that we were scent-sympathetic, finding each other pleasing. I hadn’t expected how quickly things would fall into place after that.
Their pack came to our house for dinners, they had business meetings with my fathers. Our photograph was taken when we dined together downtown, showing up in the Daily Rag. I knew Stevens Pack were good people, the mayor, Kenneth, and his pack mates Saul, Devon, and Jonathan. Three alphas, one beta. They were all good-looking, like every other pack that tried to court me. They had money, status, power. They said all the right things, they looked the right way. They smiled at me. They smelled nice.
So why isn’t that enough?
Why was my first reaction at finding out I was to marry their perfectly suitable pack to run to Queenie’s?
I’m standing here in yesterday’s clothes, shaking like a leaf, staring in the mirror, wondering what in the heck I’m thinking, but that question—why—is what urges me forward. With one final deep breath, I slip on my red-soled heels and leave the apartment.
Construction dominates the lower levels, vibrating the walls as I navigate my way out of the building. Sully, Ophelia’s mate, has been renovating all the apartments over the last year, but everyone around seems nice and in good spirits, despite the noise. I can’t imagine how it looked before they began renovations; the lower levels, still mostly untouched, have stained yellow walls, chips in the plaster, broken spindles along the staircase. It’s a big transformation, from the top floors down.
Though I remember the way from yesterday, I pull my phone out and follow directions so I can get comfortable with the walk. At Ophelia’s suggestion, I’m wearing expensive scent-blockers, which completely erase my scent, so no one can tell my designation, and being tall for an omega, it’s easy to pass for a beta, boosting my confidence as I trudge through the unfamiliar neighborhood.
The streets are quiet, late in the day for morning commuters, too early for the night owls to emerge. Stepping around cracks in the sidewalk, litters of trash, clusters of needles, cigarette butts and remnants of other nefarious evening activities, despite the mess, the few random people I pass carry on happily. Parents clutching their kids hands crossing the street, shopkeepers in front of bodegas and mini-marts gossiping, everyone laughing and smiling.
It’s around a ten-minute walk to Queenie’s from C-Block. Approaching the familiar building, minus the bouncer and the lively throngs of people, I knock on the front door, a tall metal monstrosity that screams keep out in the harsh light of day. A hot pink neon sign in script, reading Queenie’s, hangs above the door; though now muted since they’re closed, I can see why it’s a beacon for omegas. It screams power and sex. And from what I’ve learned of the Dante Pack, safety. Three things omegas love.
I’m startled by the tall, muscular, bonded Alpha who answers the door. Wearing a loose, aged gray henley, his genial grin is reassuring and I straighten my shoulders, though my nerves return with a vengeance. This is real. I’m really standing here. He’s not judging me like the bouncer from the night before, although I’m wearing the same thing, including the self-deprecating smile.
Stepping back, holding the door open for me, he greets warmly, "You must be Imogen."
"Yes, that’s me. I have a meeting with Roxy?" I left my confidence somewhere in my closet back home, hidden in a stack of expensive high heels. But he doesn’t comment on my question, which should be a firm statement; he must see this kind of thing all the time. An omega who has no idea what they’re doing, attempting to find inner peace at a strip club.
The man smiles wide. Tan, with a big dimpled grin and thick biceps, he steps back, allowing me to walk past him. I enter the club with a vastly different experience from the night previous.
There’s no music, and although thick curtains and shuttered windows block the natural light from outside, the bright lights overhead manage a soft glow without the seediness you’d expect of a strip club in the daytime.
A lithe, smiling omega in a light pink velour tracksuit comes from around the bar and wraps me in a warm hug, much like Franky did. I love that these omegas all hug, and I return the embrace.
"Imogen, it’s so nice to meet you. Ophelia told me so much about you, I feel like we’re already friends. You met my mate, Jess," she gestures at the alpha, who answered the door. "Honey, can you give us a few minutes?"
"I’ll wait in the office," he nods, then he kisses Roxy on the temple and disappears down a long hallway, leaving me alone with the friendly omega.
"Thank you so much for meeting me, Roxy. Honestly…" I clear my throat and take a step back, "Well, to be perfectly honest, I don’t know what I’m doing here. I can’t tell if this is a very bad idea, or just bad idea adjacent," I laugh.
Roxy’s warm smile doesn’t judge. She looks to be in her early thirties but manages a mothering vibe, and I immediately want to spill all my insecurities and hope she hugs them away.
Reaching behind the bar, she pours two glasses of water, sliding one toward me. My shaking hands grasp it and I restrain myself from glugging the whole thing and instead take a few small sips.
I may not feel confident, but I don’t want to leave with nothing to show for my bravery after walking through the front door. If I’m really marrying the Stevens Pack, I need to do something for myself. What can I say that I’ve done that was just for me? This is wild, crazy and stupid, sure, but still, it’s for me.
"Have you danced on stage before?" Roxy asks, leaning against the bar top, attempting to put me at ease.
"Yes—" I start, but then pause. "I did ballet for ten years. I performed when I was younger. I loved it, and I miss it. But no, I’ve never done this kind of dance. Not in front of other people, anyway."
There were those few times after I turned twenty-one when I went to the bars with friends, sneaking out of the OFA facility after hours. Doused in cheap, over-the-counter scent-blockers, we danced all night, like free betas. It was amazing. I haven’t done anything so reckless since I graduated, but I do know I can dance.
"Okay. Ophelia told me you could dance, but she didn’t say ballet…"
She’s losing confidence in me, and suddenly, all I want is to prove to this woman, this strong omega, that I can be brave, too. "Yes, that’s true, but I think I can do this. I’d love to just… try." I don’t even mind that I sound like I’m begging.
"Well, do you want to dance alone on stage for a bit? See how it feels?"
I look around the empty club. Tables scattered, with a long cat-walk leading out into the main floor between them, booths and more tables following the plank. It’s quiet. Clean. Unassuming and less scary in the daytime. I try to picture it full of people, channeling Franky’s confident enthusiasm.
"Could I?"
"Of course. That’s what you’re here for, right? I’ll leave you alone for a few minutes to get a feel for the stage." Roxy squeezes my shoulder encouragingly. She turns, heading to the other side of the bar. There’s a small booth on the far end that I missed last night. A moment later, loud music erupts from the speakers. It’s sultry and sexy and full of bass and beats that make you want to dip your hips low. Roxy instructs me to take my time before vanishing down the hallway after her mate.
And then I’m alone.
Tentatively, I walk to the stage. I almost kick off my heels, but then I remember this isn’t ballet, I need to be able to dance in several inches. Leaving them on, after climbing up, I walk towards the center of the stage. I reach out, the cold of the brass pole surprising me. It’s clean. No fingerprints. The reminder that this is a safe space for omegas, where we can feel in control, and that I voluntarily chose to be here, boosts my confidence.
Closing my eyes, I listen to the music, letting my hips move with the beats. I’ve never danced with a pole, but I cling to the metal bravely, with my eyes closed. My nerves still vibrate beneath my skin, but it's a sister to the excitement I feel, less angsty.
Swinging around like a maypole, getting a feel for the texture, I awkwardly incorporate dance moves, surprised my body has the muscle memory of the ballet I practiced for hours when I was young. Modifying a pirouette, my ankle locks around the back of the pole, and, gripping the metal with the back of my arm, I dip low, letting gravity swing me around.
It’s slow, probably slower than the other dancers, so I try to pick up the pace to dance to the music. It’s different from ballet, so different. But I can feel it. I can feel the music, and I feel strong. I dance faster, and I let the memory come back to me, filtered through the erotic movements and sounds. It’s messy and a little awkward, but the more I move around, the more confident I become.
I barely notice when the song bleeds into the next, then the next. Before I know it, my hands burn with the hint of a callus, and I’ve never had one before, not on my hands. But I’m sweating, and I’m smiling, and when I finally open my eyes, I’d nearly forgotten all about my troubles, and it’s a jarring slap of reality.
I’m dancing on stage at Queenie’s strip club in South Loop, because I’m engaged to be married to a pack I barely know, and everything rushes back.
I let go of the pole, nearly stumbling back a few steps. The music still pounds while my enthusiasm dims. Finding the steps on the far corner of the stage, I descend, finding Roxy leaning against the wall at the hallway entrance, smiling.
It’s big and happy, full of genuine elation, and makes me smile right back, letting my reality face-slap take a back seat. Her warmth is infectious as she embraces me in another hug. I do love hugs.
"I didn’t wanna bother you, but I caught the last song. Imogen, you were amazing up there! I can’t believe you’ve never danced with a pole. I think with some training, you could be phenomenal. How did it feel?"
I look down at my hands, red and sore from gripping the pole, biceps a little shaky from the exercise. "It felt incredible," I admit, my eyes watering with joy that I actually did something that made me feel good, ignoring the thought of my mother finding out about this, and how angry she would be.
Roxy and I take a seat at the bar, and, oblivious to my inner turmoil, she dives right into a schedule. A few mornings this week she’ll help me practice my moves, incorporating more of the pole, and to design my set.
The more we talk, the more it becomes a reality.
"Okay, what’s wrong?" She asks.
"Nothing, just…"
"You know you don’t have to do this, right? If you need something, if there’s something that you haven’t told us, if you need to hide away, we’ll help you get where you need to go. Dancing isn’t your only option."
"No, no, it’s nothing like that. I just don’t know what I’m thinking. If anyone found out I was doing this and it got back to my parents, they would…" Threaten to disown me. Again. It’s a theme in our house.
Roxy’s sympathetic; she furrows her brow, squeezing my arm in support. Then, her face lights up, and she snaps her fingers. "Wait, I might have just the thing." Spinning on her heel, she disappears down the hallway, returning a few minutes later. "This was in one of our costume lockers."
She hands me a mask and a set of wings. Both covered in black feathers, like those of a fallen angel, each piece iridescent and layered in shimmering black. Covering most of the face, wrapping around the side of the head but leaving the mouth unobscured, the mask is utterly beautiful.
I can see it. On stage, hidden yet not. Dancing, free and independent.
"I can really do this," I whisper, tears threatening to spill.
"You’re goddamn right, you can," Roxy cheers.
I can’t believe I’m doing this. My hands shake, and all my nerves from this morning transform from apprehension to pure, unadulterated excitement. Before I can dwell, Roxy plows through, like she was made for business.
I’m instructed to wear the mask and wings while practicing to get used to the weight of wearing them on stage, and she gives me the names of a few shops that sell lingerie, costumes, and other items I might want to dance in. Knowing my face will be covered gives me the last confidence boost I needed, and I’m already bouncing through ideas in my head of things I can wear on stage that would go beautifully with the feathered angel wings and mask.
"And you’re cool wearing scent-block? I noticed you already are." Roxy continues with the basic new-employee rundown.
"Yes, of course. I don’t wear it often, but I have pills from the OFA if I need them."
"Ooh, lucky duck, those are the good ones. They last like a week, too. If you run out or are in a jam, Ophelia always carries extras, and there’s usually spares in the office. Dr. Rubens from the OFA—"
"I’ve met him."
She nods, "He’s a decent guy. Anyway, he’s been visiting local clinics in South Loop, working with the doctors, making sure we omegas get the prescriptions we need, so you can always go there, too." I appreciate that she doesn’t comment on my obvious connection to the OFA. Being an OFA graduate, I’m aware I’m out of place, not only at Queenie’s, but also in South Loop.
"It’s a well-known secret that omegas work here, but without any scents, no one can tell who's who, and we employ a lot of betas, so that helps. Still, it should go without saying, if you ever have trouble with a customer, grab literally any employee and they’ll descend like locusts. We protect our own. Being Dante’s club, no one really messes around here, especially with the dancers, so you should be good, but best to be prepared."
It hadn’t even occurred to me I should worry about being pawed or grabbed at, but now I sure am. I say weakly, "Okay, no problem."
"Okay. Yay! I’m so excited for you. Well, everyone will be here soon, it’s almost opening time." She walks behind the bar to pour herself another glass of water, then unzips her velour top, revealing a hot pink bustier covered in sequins. Then she cracks her neck side to side, some kind of pre-game ritual, warming herself up for the night ahead.
We say goodbye and I walk back to my car, still parked at C-Block, and climb in, then drive home to the Hills. On the way, I think about how different my life would be if I chose this. I could just be here. I could leave all the trappings of high-society behind and be all the happier for it. But my family would never forgive me.