Chapter 8
Imogen
I'm not sure how much longer I can endure. This behavior is so far beyond what is considered appropriate, I'm completely lost as to where I went wrong. Has working at a strip club lowered my sense of impropriety? Was it not being able to do anything after meeting my scent-matches?
Mother: Imogen, I know you won’t shirk your responsibilities, but I still need you to confirm you will be at dinner tonight. This is extremely important.
My gloved finger taps the table next to my buzzing phone like a nervous tic. Bringing the opposite hand to my face, I take a deep inhale, marveling at the erotic mulled wine and cinnamon scent of Iggy Dante. It’s perverse. I feel terrible that I've stolen his gloves.
I tried to convince myself I’m not nesting, but the moment I saw him up close and breathed in his essence, my mind went into primitive omega mode. I forced myself to walk away but immediately marched into his office just so I could be alone with the sensation of scenting him, meeting him. And when I saw his motorcycle gloves, just sitting there, carelessly tossed on the table beside his jacket… I wasn’t even nervous about taking them. I figured getting caught could even solve a problem or two.
Before leaving, I sat on the leather couch in the office, staring at them, thinking about the size of each finger and all the wicked things he could do with them. Eventually, I dragged myself away and pretended the leather fingerless gloves on my hands were a part of my costume, despite how large they were.
In a rush to save myself from further embarrassment, I hurried to the break room, changed out of my costume, grabbed my bag, and began the brisk walk toward C-Block. Each step home rubbed my thighs together, the sensation between my legs an empty, unanswered ache, begging for Iggy to touch me. For once, since this whole thing started, I was grateful I didn’t have a scent because I went home and used every toy I had, and all that remained was Iggy's scent on my gloved fingers while I touched myself.
If they could just scent me, they could take control, and the decision of what to do would be out of my hands. They’d have me, or they wouldn’t, and I could stop stressing and obsessing over the decision, the fear of rejection. The worry that they'd see me as another Emily.
Mother: Answer me, Imogen. This is important.
Right. The other obstacle in my life. My engagement. I’d agreed to marry Stevens Pack, but there’s no way I could entertain being intimate with anyone but my scent-matches, now that I’ve found them. Even if that means I’m alone and sexually unsatisfied for the rest of my life, because Dante could still reject me. Either way, I can't marry Stevens, but I have no idea how to break the news.
Imogen: I’ll be there.
Not a second passes, I barely set the phone down before she’s responding.
Mother: Be early. We need to make you presentable.
I stare at the screen in frustration. If there was one single thing I walked away from the OFA with, it’s knowing how to be presentable, and she knows that.
I drop the phone on the table, bring both hands to my face, and breathe in Iggy's scent one last time before reluctantly taking the gloves off. They’re losing their potency, but the impact, the deep burgundy, spicy scent warms my body, calming my mind.
With great care, I set them on the bedside table, then rifle through my bags, pulling out a high-neck, sophisticated white pencil dress. The dress fits a little more snugly than usual, but I have been eating more to make up for the calories needed for dancing. Hopefully my mother won't notice. Slipping my simple diamond earrings and thin white gold necklace on, I tuck my feet into a pair of tan suede heels and head out of the apartment.
Finding my BMW on the first street corner past C-Block, I begin the long drive toward High Hills. Bypassing downtown, I pull onto the highway. The further I get from South Loop, the more nervous I feel. The less safe.
That doesn’t make any sense. Surely I should find comfort in the protection of round-the-clock security, clean streets, and gated communities.
Maybe it’s because I'm driving further from my mates. It’s also the first time I’ve left South Loop in weeks. My new routine of going into Queenie’s to practice, feeling alive and free on stage, hitting up the local bodegas for pastries I'd never have allowed myself before all this exercise, even walking around old man Waylon, who lounges on the street corner, hat upside down looking for change, always up for casual chit chat, all of it has been growing on me, and I'd nearly forgotten… that wasn't my life. This was all supposed to be temporary.
But it's the realest thing I've ever had in my entire life, and I don't want to let it go. I don't care how that sounds, that pole-dancing half-naked is the hill I die on. I love it. I love Queenie's, and that has nothing to do with my scent-matches.
It's a place I've started to think of as home.
I haven’t had the courage to go completely topless on stage yet, but no one’s said a thing or made me feel ashamed for not being ready. If anything, I’ve received nothing but praise from my new coworkers that the mask and wings only add an air of mystery to my set.
I’m a working girl, and I love it. But here I am, leaving the tiny apartment on the admittedly dirty streets of South Loop, heading to dinner with my betrothed pack—with whom, I wouldn’t have to work a day in my life, and I know I’d only receive the best, of everything—and I couldn’t feel more miserable, or lost.
I pull up to the gate and type in the passcode, winding my car down the long, landscaped yard, complete with water features and statues pretending to be some ancient Italian estate. We’re not even Italian.
My mother would have a fit if I left my car in the roundabout, so I pull further onto the property, past the massive pillars elevating her garden veranda, parking in the garage beside their collection of over-priced vehicles. I climb out but stand there and stare across the garage, more like a hangar, at the expanse of gratuitous wealth and can’t help but feel a little sting in my heart.
I am doing this to help my family, but I can't help but think, if they are in such financial trouble, couldn't they sell a car or two? How deep in the hole are they?
Staring at the two Lamborghinis, Bowen’s electric Hummer, Mother's Audi, I know it’ll only get worse when I step inside the house.
I've had a taste of living on the other side of the tracks, so to speak, and the pitfalls are nothing like I’d have expected. I can now see so much more clearly how wasteful my parents have been. With their money, with themselves. With me. They’ve forced me into an impossible situation, all so they could have this… more cars. A bigger house.
"Imogen, honey, is that you?"
Spinning on my heel, I find Bowen watching me from the door. His smile is tight, and though it’s only been a couple of weeks, his graying hair seems more prominent. He looks tired.
"I saw you pull in. Come inside, dear, your mother wished to speak with you before Stevens arrives."
"Of course," I offer my practiced smile, folding my hands in front of me and follow him through the courtyard and a side door opposite the garage. We weave our way through the house, past rooms filled to the brim with various decor, art, and books meant to give off a certain image. All I see is more stuff.
We find my mother, Regina, in a harried state, yelling at poor Gerald, their cook.
"I said crisped, not burnt! These leaves are too dark!"
Gerald grits his teeth in response. "You asked for crispy Brussels sprouts. Any less, and they’d be soggy. I’d be happy to do them again if—"
"Yes, excellent idea," she cuts him off. "Do it again. Dinner is to be served promptly at seven, so there’s still time. That’s a good dear," she gives him a pinched smile, which makes her look like she’s sucked on a lemon. I know that look well.
I debate announcing my presence. Taking attention off Gerald is the kind thing to do, even if the chaotic wrath of her nerves will turn on me. But I’d only be delaying the inevitable.
"Mother, you know Gerald is a wonderful cook, and whatever he serves will be spectacular." My mother whips her attention to me, and I catch Gerald’s relief when his shoulders drop and he gets back to work. I suspect my mother's been here, complaining and nitpicking, for a while now.
"Imogen. You’re late."
"I’m not la—"
"Come, we need to fix your hair." She grabs me roughly by the wrist and only relents when I follow without protest. We spot my other father, Jeffrey, before ascending the staircase off of the foyer.
"Hi, Dad," I lean in to greet him, but he pulls away with a hiss, and that's when I notice his arm cradled into his midsection. "Oh, my goodness! What’s happened? How did you—"
"It’s nothing to worry about, dear. Lovely to see you. Go with your mother."
"But… what's happened to your wrist?"
"Just a little sprain. I injured it at the gym, on the treadmill. Don’t fuss, darling, I’m just clumsy in my older years. It’ll heal in no time. Be a good girl and go with your mother to get ready."
He dismisses me, joining Bowen in the hall before they both disappear into their shared office. My other two fathers, David and Hale, travel often for work, so I won’t see them tonight.
"Imogen!" My mother snaps, when I realize I’ve been staring down the hallway after my fathers. I follow her up the stairs, down the hall, and into my bedroom. As usual, she lets herself in. You’d think I was a naughty school girl the way she treats me, not a twenty-three-year-old woman who's never stepped out of line in her life.
At least, not before I became an exotic dancer, but my mother doesn’t need to know that.
"What happened to Jeffrey's arm?" I ask as soon as we’re behind closed doors.
She ushers me into the en suite bathroom without responding, rifling through the drawers of the vanity. Pulling out a brush, I notice her shaking hands but don’t comment as she tugs the pins out and begins brushing my hair.
I let her have control, noting the distance in her eyes. Her mind is a million miles away from her task, but when she starts over-brushing, strands ripping from my skull, I place my hands over hers, gently tugging the hairbrush away.
"I think that’s good," I say gently.
She stares at my over-brushed hair a moment before nodding, finding some shining oil, rubbing it into her hands, then running it through my long stands. This seems to bring her back to the present, and once she’s calmed, I pull away and look into the mirror, attempting to fix the mess she made.
It doesn’t take long, twisting and repinning my hair back. As I raise my arms above my head to reach the back, she scrunches her brow disapprovingly, squeezing my bicep, her glare so different from Roxy's proud smile a couple of weeks ago.
"Imogen… you're looking a little… muscular," she spits out distastefully. My lips part, and I try to come up with an excuse, but I'm not even sure what to say. I've always been thin, the OFA diet pushed me hard at school and even harder at home. But since I've been in South Loop, I've been… filling in a bit. I'd hoped my mother wouldn't notice, but of course, I'm a product to her, one she's cultivated to perfection, and she can tell when it's not quite the same.
"Saul made a comment about the lipstick. I know you always wear red, but they think it sends the wrong message. You’ll be photographed more now, you want to make sure you’re fitting into their image."
I look up at her reflection standing in the mirror beside me, blotting tissues in one hand.
I love red lipstick. I love the way it looks. It’s bold and empowering.
Sensing my hesitation, she sighs, exasperated, as though my petulance knows no bounds. I’ve always tried to be perfect for her. Whatever she needs from me, I do it. I didn’t even start wearing red lipstick until she suggested it when I was sixteen, thinking it would set a certain tone about the way I looked, making me look just a little bit older—not too old, of course. I ended up loving it and it became something of a signature of mine.
Hesitantly, I take the wipes and scrub the lipstick off. Reflection Imogen is a puppet—an imposter—she stares blankly into the mirror, lips now clean of color. She applies a nude balm, and she dismisses the longing in her bright blue eyes for something more. Pretender Imogen, faking her smile. She looks perfect.
I don’t realize what my mother is doing, fussing at my nape, until the long strands of a robin’s egg blue satin ribbon come up around the sides of my head, behind my ears, and she ties it in a bow at the top of my head.
I feel sick, looking at my reflection. "Mother, this is infantile. I look like a teenager."
"Nonsense," she waves me off. "You look perfect."
I don't want to be perfect. I don't want to look like a prepubescent doll for their pleasure, it's sickening. I don't want Stevens, and their perfect image for the cameras. I want Dante. I want their gritty, exciting lives. I want their wild inhibitions and protection. I want their love.
"What if I found my scent-match?" I blurt out.
Alarmed, my mother freezes beside me. I tear my gaze away from the mirror and stare directly into hers. Unnerved by the sudden strength in my voice, she straightens her shoulders and leaves the bathroom.
I follow, and while she fluffs the pillows on my bed, she says, "I suppose that depends on who they are."
Right. Do they have money? Power? Political standing? The ability to save my family from themselves?
"Mom…"
She snaps her head toward me. She told me to stop calling her mom when I was a preteen. It’s Mother, or Regina. She asked me to stop calling my fathers Dad, and instead by their first names, though that was easier since there are four of them.
"Imogen, you promised me," she implores, dropping the pillow and clasping my hands in hers, dragging me down to a seat beside her.
"I know, Mother. But what if—"
"Did you? Meet your scent match?"
I pull my hands away and resist the urge to slump my shoulders. I desperately want to tell her the truth. Yes, I met them. Two of them, anyway.
I've seen Red briefly, but I didn't have the courage to introduce myself. Instead, I hid behind the velvet curtains when he popped in one night and watched him interact with everyone else. Red is the guy others want to be or be with, and the way he walks, with this unteachable swagger…
Dante Pack are nothing like I’d have expected, given their reputation. They're so caring, always checking in with everyone to make sure they feel safe, and have what they need. So attentive, so sexy and dangerous and vibrant with life.
My mother's fingertips touch my cheek and I realize I’m smiling, thinking of them. She can tell the difference, and a genuine smile means trouble.
"Imogen, your father didn’t fall at the gym."
"What?" I rear back.
"These collectors, we owe them a lot of money, and they are getting impatient. Your father struck a deal with Stevens Pack. You check all their boxes. You’re submissive, well-bred, beautiful. They have promised to pay our debts. Do you want to see your other fathers get hurt? Or worse? They could come after me. Or you."
"I don’t understand… what… how… how could they let it get this bad? Are we in danger?"
"Yes, Imogen, that’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. Honestly, I thought you learned the art of subtly back in school. Perhaps we need to make an appointment with Madam Fletcher before the wedding. You’ll be hosting the upper echelon of society; your mates will expect you to keep your ears open. Have you forgotten how to read between the lines?"
"Play dumb, you mean?" I come to a stand.
She waves her hand dismissively. "Look, we’re getting off track here. The point is, you have a duty to this family, and you’ve already promised to fulfill it. Are you backing out now? Do we need to tell the debt collectors we can’t pay?"
I search her face, her posture, for the same fear she held when she first mentioned their debt and her expectations of me to help. I think it’s still there. Buried, maybe, beneath a layer of irritation I didn’t just automatically say yes, Mother, like I always do.
I wish I could say I wasn’t always a pushover, but it’s defined me my whole life. I always wanted to be good. To be praised, to be cherished. I’m just now realizing maybe I’ve been searching so hard and waited so long to settle down with the right pack because the praise and the love I received from my family was always conditional. I've been waiting all this time to fill all these empty spaces inside me with real love because I've never known it before. I never wanted to settle for less than what could fill me up completely. How had I not noticed this before?
I miss my alphas, and they’re not even mine.
"Yes, Mother," I whisper because there’s nothing else to say. Even if her betrayal didn’t cut deep… even if I didn't feel the tendrils of disappointment and fear from this whole mess they’ve created, I’d never abandon them to get hurt or worse.
And besides, I may want Dante, but it's clear they aren’t interested in an omega. The girls gossip about it all the time. Even Roxy went out of her way to tell me about their fraternization policy, so I'd stay away from them.
As long as they never scent me, we'll be like two ships passing in the night. I won’t be like that girl, Emily, throwing myself at them in desperate hope that they’ll take pity on me and let me join their family.
Family… It means something different for everyone. I will always love my family, but I don’t really like them. And when the dust settles and I’m bonded to a pack, forcing myself to mate with them—because it’ll take nothing short of a miracle to make my body respond to anyone but Dante, the very idea of Stevens making me nauseous—I know, as of this moment, things will never be the same between my parents and me.
Standing tall, Mother pats down a flyaway from my hairline, nods once in approval, then leads the way downstairs. The doorbell rings as we descend, and it’s time to face my future.
"Oh, and one more thing," she pauses just before we join the growing alpha male voices. "Keep the news of the collectors and your father's injury to yourself. As far as anyone's concerned, he slipped on the treadmill at the gym." Then she cups my cheek patronizingly, giving it a squeeze, and on we go.