Chapter 4
Ophelia - one week ago
"This was sitting outside your door," Melanie tosses the rolled-up full-color high-gloss magazine on my coffee table after barging in unannounced. "I don't know how you read this shit, it's worse than the Rag."
One glance at the front cover, though the image is distorted by the roll and tie of the magazine, my personal, shameful secret poses right there on the cover.
I pick it up and discreetly toss it on the kitchen counter, feigning disinterest. I am not in the mood to look at another picture of one of the Constantines at a club or lunch with some hot, wealthy, available omega or beta.
It's like a car crash. I can't look away even though every picture fills me with dread and sadness. Longing. Mel's noticed my recent obsession with collecting local magazines and newspapers but there's no way in hell she'd ever guess why.
Fortunately, I don't get time to sulk. She takes in the mess on my old scuffed coffee table, collapsing onto the couch beside me as I spread out all my pills. While I sort through and count, she comments, "It's been almost eight years. Maybe you should take a break."
Ignoring her advice, I counted how many weeks I had left on heat suppressants. The longer you're on them, the more intense your heat can be when you finally wean off, hence her concern. I learned that the hard way.
"I've got another three weeks supply for myself. I'll head over to Queenie's after I pick up my next shipment so I can distribute the rest, but my last supplier was short on birth control. Roxy's waiting on birth control, too. Think you could…?"
"Of course I will. It's ridiculous she has trouble getting a prescription. She has a pack, she's bonded…"
"We feeble minded omegas can't be trusted with autonomy," I joke, though my sarcasm tastes bitter. Truthfully, Roxy could get a prescription, but she'd have to jump through a few hoops, and sometimes it's just easier when you have a hook-up. "Anyway, it's not like I'm getting laid and need birth control myself, but better to be safe." No omega worth their salt assumes sex is entirely off the table, no matter how celibate one tries to be.
Melanie hums in agreement, chewing on a giant mouthful of salt and vinegar chips, the bag in her lap spilling crumbs everywhere. Not that my plaid, softly frayed couch is anything to write home about, but still, I give her a chastising nudge, and she grins, reminding me of her youngest. With her short bangs, freckled face, and mischievous personality, she could pass for much younger than her forty-something years.
I look back to the pile on the table. Though heat suppressants, scent-blockers, and birth control are not technically illegal for an unbonded omega to be on, it's rare for a doctor to prescribe them. Every single doctor I've been to since my designation was revealed gave me a condescending pat on the shoulder and encouraged me to join the OFA or bond with a pack if I wanted pills, reminding me that it was my duty, with the dwindling population of omegas, to bear children and would not write me a prescription.
Nowadays, it doesn't matter if you're an OFA graduate or not, bonded or not—if you live in South Loop, you have no access to decent health care.
Omegas at the OFA are given high-quality heat suppressants to encourage them to maintain their virginal status until a pack chooses them. If I didn't hate the organization for other reasons, that would surely do it.
So, omegas like me, who didn't want to get stuck in the system that perpetuated and infantilized our designation as simpering, fragile, flighty sex bots whose only purpose in life was procreation, we're stuck working the system, making trades and building contacts so we could all get what we needed.
Melanie, my friend, and next-door neighbor has two kids, and despite having her tubes tied, she has no issues getting birth control because she's a beta, so she gets them for me.
Heat suppressants—which help stave off heavy heats, though they don't keep them away entirely—are the hardest to get your hands on. Again, not strictly illegal, but highly controlled. Fortunately, I've got a supplier who works part-time at one of the heat clinics nearby, and I pick up a shipment once a month and make my rounds to all the omegas I know who are hiding in plain sight and in need.
Scent-blockers are the easiest to get your hands on. You can buy shitty ones over the counter, but people tend to avoid those because they have a super-sweet, almost chemical smell to them, which changes with each wearer since they're designed to mix up and confuse your designation. And they wear out after a day. I've never bothered with the more expensive scent-blockers, being fine passing as a fake beta with the over-the-counter cheap ones.
The nicer ones last almost a whole week, sometimes longer, and erase your scent entirely, changing your chemical pheromones from the inside. You could be in heat on those, and still be unscented. But they're harder to get, and I want to make sure the others have what they need before I dip into the stash. Most omegas at Queenie's prefer those, so I buy them when possible.
The drawers in my kitchen make me look like a back-alley pharmacist.
"How's Dante Pack doing these days, anyway?" Melanie asks, bouncing her eyebrows suggestively.
Despite being only three alphas, Red's pack practically runs South Loop, our neighborhood on the southernmost tip of the sprawling city of Arrow Cove, one of the largest cities in the country. The further south you go, the more destitute the neighborhood, a prime location for a pack like Dante to thrive.
The further north in Arrow Cove, the more wealthy, and sitting right at the tippy top is the city's crown jewel, the largest Omega Finishing Academy in the country. They likely have a few thousand unbonded residents, which is unheard of, knowing that less than ten percent of the population is omega.
People come to our fair city from all over the country to shop at the OFA for their perfect little omega.
"They're fine. Queenie's is thriving. I tried to get Red to let me dance on stage..."
Mel snorts, then laughs so big and boisterous that I'm actually a little offended. Trying and failing to sit straighter on my squishy couch, spilling more chips as she goes, she chuckles, "Babe. Babe. No. That's just…" She can't even complete her thought, she's laughing so hard.
"It wouldn't be that bad!"
"You remember when I tried to teach you to walk in heels for that catering gig we had to do at that fancy alpha's retirement party?"
I cringe, recalling the embarrassing scene. Typically, the catering staff wear black vests over white button-up dress shirts with flat black shoes. The uniform, simple and unobtrusive, is so the guests don't have to notice us or acknowledge that we're human beings. That particular event, the alpha wanted all the women working to dress like they were guests of the party, and while I wanted to say no, he offered to tip triple, and I couldn't afford to turn it down. Needless to say, I nearly broke an ankle while spilling an entire tray of champagne on myself, and the only reason I wasn't fired is because my dress became soaked, and the guests near the mishap were leering alphas, all too happy to watch me try and clean myself up.
"So?"
She snorts and flops back down. She gives me a look—the one where she thinks I'm being adorably naive. It's an exchange we have often.
"Okay, well, for once, Red's reaction was nicer than yours."
She shakes her head, diving her hand back into the chips.
"I just want more cash. I feel like I'm constantly swimming upstream," I huff and lean back, sounding as pathetic as I feel.
"Well… I kinda have a favor to ask that could help?"
I sit up straighter, wiggling my fingers in a come hither motion. "Anything. Hit me with it."
"So, there's a really big gig next Saturday, and I was supposed to work it, but Polly's got that play at school. At first, I couldn't turn down the money, so I said yes, but when Polly realized I might not come to her play, she cried for hours."
Mel looks away, dropping the bag of chips in her lap. I may complain about being poor, but I don't have two kids to support. Polly, her youngest, has been practicing for her role as a lobster in some Under the Sea production for weeks. Some late Sunday mornings, you can catch her running the halls between our apartments with her fake red cardboard claws, snapping her arms together dramatically, acting out with her cute little fake French accent.
But Mel needs money and can't afford to turn gigs down either. Because of seniority, she gets to snatch up events first, but once you say yes, it's up to you to find coverage if you can't make it. I'm sure it kills to turn down the money she desperately needs, but I imagine it feels even worse, hurting Polly's feelings.
"Of course, I can cover. I mean, obviously, I need the money. I'd love to."
"Well, that's not all. It's an OFA event."
"Oh." I never say yes to OFA events. Mel knows why, for the most part, and I've managed to avoid detection from the OFA since I was sixteen. It's not like it's illegal not to attend, but they're cult-like in their insistence that all omegas join.
I don't want to say yes; surely she can find someone else. I can't believe I'm turning down the money, but I tell Melanie I can't do it.
She's apologetic when she says, "I knew you wouldn't want to. I've literally asked everyone else to cover, either they can't do it, or they're already working. It's some huge gala, you know they usually throw two or three a year. I hate asking you."
At twenty-six, I’m well past the age of their graduates. I'm a legal adult, I've nothing to worry about the OFA trying to force me to join, even if the idea of having anything to do with them makes my skin feel like it's crawling with fire ants.
But she doesn't know the worst part.
I never told her—I never told anyone—about what happened on that bridge almost a year ago. And one pack that will surely show up to an OFA gala is my scent-match.
I rub my chest, the pain a real, live, beating thing, a sour kind of discomfort I've spent the last year ignoring. My not-mates, as I've grown used to calling them in my head, have been making headlines, as usual, as the most eligible bachelors in the city, photographed with stunning omegas draped over their arms all over the city.
I may have been a little drunk that night on the bridge, but Asher Constantine filled my senses. My mate. My alpha, my scent-match. He was so beautiful. Even in the dark, by the light of the moon, I could see how warm and sweet he'd be if we were together. In that instant, I had a flash, like a vision, or a memory never to pass, of him and I together, by a warm fire, while we made love and stared adoringly into each other's eyes, never wavering despite his needy thrusts.
But he was real, right there in front of me, wearing a tuxedo, appearing out of nowhere, like a knight in shining armor, there to rescue me—not that I needed it.
When I realized he thought I was going to jump—well, I was, but not because I was suicidal—I tried to reassure him that all was okay.
He's lucky I was drunk. If I was sober, I'd have run away the moment I scented him. I knew what that tuxedo meant, and though I didn't recognize him then, those high-society alphas are control freaks at best. Dangerous, dominant assholes at worst. His pack would likely have had me bonded, giving me no choice in the matter, and that's only if they chose to claim me publicly.
It didn't matter though. He barked at me to stop just as my confused, sad, drunk self was ready to tell him I was fine, and I lost my balance, falling awkwardly into the water below. It took me a while to swim out, shaking off his damned alpha bark.
By the time I made it to shore, I was dozens of yards downstream, outraged that he barked at me, tried to control me before we even exchanged names.
I found them. My scent-matched alphas. And they were a fucking high-society pack. Not just any high-society pack, but the high-society pack. They were so rich, they owned nearly a quarter of the buildings downtown, and their offices at Constantine Industries was the tallest skyscraper in the city.
Oh, and the best part? They were players. Their pictures, three of the four of them anyway, were all over the Arrow Cove Daily Rag, out on dates with every wealthy omega around.
The only thing they could possibly want with me was my ability to reproduce since, as their scent-match, we had the highest chances of easy conception and producing more little alpha and omega babies. Of course, other matches can get pregnant, but it can be difficult and may not result in the desired designation. Why that matters to anyone, I've no idea. Betas are awesome.
My heart broke a little each day that passed as more articles came out with pictures of them with different omegas on their arms.
I'd never be what they wanted. I was from South Loop—poor, uneducated, a hustler. I was on heat suppressants, birth control, and scent-blockers, and I wouldn't change any of that if I bonded. They'd only want me for my ability to reproduce. Asher, who barked at me, knew what I was to him; he scented me, and still… he moved on so easily.
Well, they'd never be what I wanted, either. Despite what my friends think, I'm not against being with a pack. And a scent-match of all things, there's no other perfect match out there. But after what they did to my family, I could never be with a pack associated with the OFA or with any of those wealthy jerks from the Hills.
The entire situation was doomed from the start.
I glance down at the pills that consume so much of my time and biology. Then, up at Mel staring off into space, probably thinking how to break little Polly's heart because Momma's gotta work. I can't do that to her, no matter how much the idea of potentially running into the Constantines or Madam Fletcher, the Director of the OFA, makes me want to vomit.
"I'll do it. Of course, I will," I offer with a lightness I don't feel.
She might hear the false bravado but is too desperate to point it out. "Are you sure? Oh man, thank you so, so much. I owe you big time. Seriously. And hey, on the plus side, the tips are always huge at the OFA events. You'd know that if you'd ever been to one."
"I said yes, don't push your luck."
She laughs, rubbing her hands on her jean-clad legs. "Well, I should get back. Kids will be home soon."
"Okay. Oh, and I'll make the drop on Friday. If you can get the pills before then, let me know. I'm going to make some deliveries tonight in the meantime."
"Sounds good. And thanks again. For the OFA gig Saturday. I know how much of an ask this is."
She really doesn't. "It's fine. Let me know when you've got the pills. Give Polly and Brian a kiss for me."
"I will. Please be careful out there," she winks, making her way out of my apartment.
We live in a dangerous area, but most everyone knows me by sight and knows I'm under the protection of the Dante Pack. I smell unidentifiable, like sickly-sweet plastic, my clothes are baggy, pepper spray at the ready. Armed with enough pills to hide a dozen omegas, I'm set to take on the night.