Chapter 8
Eight
VIOLET
T he moment I’m clocked out, I strip out of my work shirt, tossing it into my bag and pulling on a simple black cut off hoodie before anyone else comes back to the stockroom. I brush through my hair and adjust my necklace, twisting it around my fingers a few times as I stare at the packet sitting just under my purse.
Two weeks since the gala. Since I’ve seen Rylan and thought maybe matching wouldn’t be completely awful. Since I heard Jasper tell him to stay away from me. Since he said I’d be the worst thing to ever happen to him. That fucking fourteen days was absolutely brutal. And the culmination sits in my bag.
Don’t be a fucking coward, Violet.
Easier said than done tonight.
It was nearly impossible to focus on work the last few hours of my shift. Why the Council sent the woman here instead of the school is as baffling as it is frustrating. I was prepared to handle the questioning gazes and whispered interest on the campus. But here, at the Rowdy Seahorse where I’ve been both waitress and bartender for the last two years? Where no one knows me as Johnathan Fallon’s daughter? Hell, half of them hadn’t even noticed I was an Omega thanks to the scent blockers I wear religiously.
Getting caught making out in one of the music rooms at the community college in Seattle was less embarrassing than fielding the woman in between managing two ten-tops tonight.
I grab the packet along with my other things and head toward the front of the restaurant.
Most of the patrons are gone, but there’s still a few tables occupied, and about half of the bar is full, the various televisions turned on to a few different baseball games. Someone cheers as I walk by the bar.
“You good?” Marcus asks as I near the host stand. He’s clicking through something on the tablet while double checking the silverware is prepped. He glances up at me when I don’t immediately answer, his frown deep.
I nod, hoping he doesn’t expect a verbal response because there’s no way I can offer one right now. My heart is so far into my throat, I’m practically choking on it.
I fucking hate feeling like this.
“You’ll give me two weeks, right?” he asks after a minute.
I must look lost, because he points at the packet that feels as though it’s bright orange rather than the sedate white. “Imagine you won’t be working here now that you’re matched. Promise you’ll give me a full two weeks, yeah?”
Fuck me. I don’t even want to think about having to leave here. It’s not like it’s a glamorous job or anything. It’s just what it represents: freedom. My own path, uninhibited by my designation or my mother’s need for perfection or my father’s notoriety. Outside of the dorm, it’s the place where I can be me .
I remind myself of March, of the aftermath of that heat, and it helps temper the desperate rage rising in me.
“Yeah, of course,” I say. It’s dangerously close to watery. “Have a good night.”
I push open the door before he can say anything else, blinking furiously, keeping the tears back. I want to run to my car, but I force myself to take steady steps, emptying my mind as I take in the clear night around me. The warmth and safety of the small space envelops me the moment I have the door closed. My scent drowns the space, and I relax into it. Once I can breathe without feeling like my chest is shaking, I pull out my phone.
A single text from Faedra lights the screen.
Couple people got packets today. You get yours?
Yeah.
Oh no. You good?
Will be. Late night tonight.
See you tomorrow.
My movements are automatic, and I don’t realize where I’m headed until I’m passing the outskirts of LA proper. By the time I’ve pulled into the empty parking lot of Faedra and my’s favorite beach, the panic and nerves are gone, replaced by a strange numbness.
I stare at the packet. It sits on the passenger seat, unmarked, and for a moment I’m sitting on my bed, the official bloodwork of my designating as Omega sitting between me and Jasper.
Get yourself together .
With a sigh, I grab the packet and start down the cliffside, sticking to the staircase that tends to be least popular. Like most nights, the beach isn’t empty. There’s a couple walking the edge of the water and another sitting near the cliffs. A photographer stands knee deep in the water, their camera pointed toward the stars.
My hands tremble.
Everything I’ve been running from sits in a pile of paper on my lap. Every fight with my mom, every late night studying to graduate top of my class, every hitching breath when I thought I’d seen Jasper while shopping or walking or driving. Even every phone call with my dads and their careful words of comfort.
Blowing out a breath, I rip the seal of the envelope.
My phone lights up with an incoming call, Papa’s face on the screen. It’s like he can tell when I’m in distress.
“Hey, Papa,” I answer. This time, I don’t try to hide the watery feel of my voice, the tears that I want to cry but refuse. Not yet, anyway.
There’s a moment of quiet, and then the sounds of shuffling.
“That Vi?” Father’s voice is muffled, but Papa answers him. “Tell her I love her.”
“Love you, too,” I whisper. Papa passes on the message. There’s more shuffling. A door closes.
“Hi, darling,” Papa says. My chest aches. “Your answering tells me what I wanted to know.”
I let out a half-chuckle, and that’s full of tears, too.
“You open it?” he asks.
“Not yet.” I trace the broken seal of the envelope.
He doesn’t say anything, and I press the phone tighter to my ear like that will actually make me closer to him.
“I hate feeling like this,” I whisper.
He makes a noise in his throat, something between a hum and a grunt that has always been a sound of comfort. My chest tightens, but I ignore it.
“Darling, any pack will be lucky and honored to have you.” Papa’s voice drops into a low croon.
It’s embarrassing how much it soothes me. I’m twenty-two. Isn’t that old enough to not need this kind of comfort from your dad?
There’s the sound of a door closing, and Papa sighs. “Your mother is home.”
“I’ll call you after everything is confirmed,” I say.
He murmurs a quick, “Love you,” and then is gone.
I set my phone on the stairs beside me and run my hand along the open edge of the envelope again. Like pulling off a bandage. Or getting waxed. Quick count to three.
One.
Two.
I pull the packet before I can lose my nerve. Skipping the letter on top, I rifle through the papers until I find it: the photo of the pack. Even in the glow of the yellow streetlight, I recognize the golden hair.
My breath catches.
Matching with Violet is the absolute worst thing that can happen. Stay. Away. From. Her.
The memory is so fresh, it slices across my heart again. Tears blur the picture of them, Rylan’s black hair messier than at the gala and Jasper’s small smirk devious enough to make my knees weak even now. The third man is unfamiliar, his brown eyes conveying a dark and lethal countenance, though he’s dressed impeccably in a black button-up and slacks that suit his olive skin.
I grab the letter, part of me hoping against all odds they put the wrong picture in the packet.