Chapter 2 #2
The silence on the other end is thunderous. I can practically hear her blood pressure rising, can picture the vein throbbing in her temple, the way her perfectly manicured nails are probably digging crescents into her palm.
"How ungrateful can you possibly be?" she hisses.
"You have an amazing pack lined up. Amazing.
Damien Ashford comes from one of the most prestigious Alpha lines in the Northeast—his family's portfolio alone is worth more than some small countries.
Milo Vance's father owns half the shipping industry.
And Caden Mercer? His tech empire is valued at—"
"Oh, right." I cut her off, straightening up with my duffle bag clutched in white-knuckled fingers.
"So I guess you forgot how they treated me like shit.
Didn't respect me. Would rather treat me like a dog and fucking bullied me.
" My voice cracks on the last word, and I hate it—hate that they still have this power over me, hate that the memories can still draw blood. "None of that matters, does it?"
"Men bully women to express their love," Aunt Vivienne says, and she sounds so matter-of-fact about it that I want to throw my phone against the wall. "It's how they show affection. You're being dramatic."
Dramatic. I'm being dramatic. Sure. Totally. Let's just normalize emotional abuse as a love language because it makes arranged marriages more convenient.
"That's funny," I say, and my voice has gone cold now—that dangerous kind of calm that my brothers would recognize as the warning sign it is.
"Then why is the number one reason for deaths of omegas domestic violence that leads to manslaughter?
" I let the question hang there, sharp-edged and bloody. "Hmm. I wonder."
Aunt Vivienne sputters. Actually sputters, like the statistics are somehow a personal affront rather than a devastating reality that omegas face every single day.
I rise up fully, throwing the rest of my belongings into the duffle with zero regard for organization.
My phone is still on the tripod across the room, still broadcasting this family dysfunction to the empty gym, and I stalk toward it while shaking the wet strands of dark hair that have escaped my ponytail and plastered themselves to my face.
My reflection in the aged mirror catches my attention for a split second—flushed skin, determined jaw, hazel eyes burning with the kind of anger that keeps you warm when everything else has gone cold. The gold flecks in my irises seem brighter somehow, like embers waiting to ignite.
This is me. This is who I am. Not who they're trying to make me be.
I close my eyes and sigh, knowing my aunt is just going to go on and on if I let her. She's already launched into another tirade about duty and legacy and the Carlisle name, words washing over me like static noise.
"Let me make something abundantly clear," I interrupt, my voice cutting through her monologue like a blade.
"I have no intention of marrying them. Not Damien.
Not Milo. Not Caden. Not if they were the last pack on earth and the continuation of the human species depended on it.
" I grab my phone from the tripod, ending the recording that's been capturing this entire disaster.
"Why don't you find some other omega who's going to bow down to that bullshit? "
"Rosemarie—"
"It's the new year," I continue, talking over her. "So why don't we give this up? Hell, adopt an omega and you can make them the heir so I can be the useless bum you clearly already think I am. Problem solved. Everyone's happy."
"You can't just—"
I hang up.
The silence that follows is deafening—the absence of her voice leaving a vacuum that immediately fills with every emotion I've been holding back. My eyes close, lungs struggling to find their rhythm, fingers trembling where they grip my phone.
Don't. Don't fall apart. Not here. Not now.
The overwhelming sensation is back—that sinking, drowning feeling that clings to me like a second skin, desperate to drag me under.
It's like having a panic attack without the gasping for breath, the desperation silent and all the more suffocating for it.
My chest is tight, my throat closed, my whole body vibrating with the need to either scream or cry or both.
I hate this. I hate feeling this way. I hate that they can still reach through hundreds of miles and make me feel small. I hate that running away didn't fix anything—just postponed the inevitable.
Something presses against my back.
My eyes shoot open, survival instincts kicking in as I force my head up—
And freeze.
The eyes staring down at me are green. Not just green—they're the cool, precise shade of old money and older secrets, like jade polished smooth by generations of carefully contained emotion.
They bore into me with an intensity that makes my breath catch and a strange, inexplicable boredom that suggests I'm not nearly as interesting as I should be.
What the—
I blink. Once. Twice. Three times, like maybe that'll make the vision in front of me make more sense.
It doesn't.
The man standing behind me is... immaculate.
That's the only word that fits. He's tall—probably 6'2" based on how much I have to crane my neck—with a lean, tailored strength that speaks to discipline rather than brute force.
His dark blond hair is perfectly styled, not a single strand out of place despite the early hour, swept back from a face that could have been carved by Renaissance sculptors with a grudge against lesser mortals.
Sharp jawline. High cheekbones. Lips pressed into a thin line that suggests smiling might physically pain him.
Everything about him screams control—from the precise angle of his shoulders to the way he holds himself like he's constantly calculating the most efficient way to exist in any given space.
He's shirtless.
Why is he shirtless? Why am I noticing he's shirtless? Why is his chest that defined? Why does he have a dusting of dark blond hair trailing down his abs in a perfect line like a road map to bad decisions?
My brain, apparently, has decided to short-circuit instead of producing useful thoughts.
His scent hits me a second later—rich and layered, the kind of sophisticated fragrance that doesn't come in a bottle you can buy at a department store.
Patchouli and vanilla form the base, dark and intoxicating, layered with something spicy that might be cardamom or clove.
There's a hint of dark florals—iris, maybe?
—and beneath it all, the warm undertone of polished woods, like stepping into an old library filled with leather-bound books and secrets.
He smells like Tom Ford made an Alpha in a laboratory specifically designed to ruin my life.
The silence stretches between us—him staring at me with that unreadable expression, me blinking up at him like a confused owl in workout clothes. Finally, I manage to find my voice.
"What?" I ask, which is possibly the least eloquent thing I've ever said, but in my defense, my brain is still buffering.
He stares at me. Emotionless. Unblinking. Like I'm a particularly uninteresting puzzle he's already solved.
"You're in my way."
His voice matches the rest of him—cool, precise, every syllable delivered with the efficiency of someone who considers extra words a waste of valuable time. No inflection. No warmth. Just fact.
I stare at him.
Huh?
Blinking, I look around—really look—and realize that he's the one standing directly behind me. In what is very clearly the omega side of the gym—the section with the softer lighting and the smaller equipment and the distinct lack of Alpha musk permeating every surface.
I pout. It's not my most mature response, but it happens before I can stop it.
"Unless you're transgender," I say, "I'm confused as to why you're here. This is the omega section."
"It's 5 AM." He says it like that explains everything. "The gym becomes Alpha territory at 5. Remember?"
What?
My eyes slide slowly—dreading the confirmation—toward the digital clock on the wall.
5:02 AM.
Shit. The small-town gym's shared space policy. From midnight to 5 AM, the space is omega-designated. After 5 AM, Alphas can use any section. I've been standing here zoning out for over fifteen minutes, apparently lost in my post-phone-call emotional spiral.
I roll my eyes, even though he's technically correct—the most annoying kind of correct.
"Oh, right," I say, sarcasm dripping from every syllable. "My existence is taking up so much space for you. How ever will you survive?"
His expression doesn't change. Not even a flicker. It's like arguing with a very expensive statue.
I huff—a sound of pure frustration—and grab my duffle bag, ready to make my dramatic exit. But before I can take a step, his hand presses against my back.
I freeze.
It's not aggressive—not really. His palm rests between my shoulder blades, steady and warm, like he's... bracing me? Supporting me? The touch is clinical, impersonal, but something about it makes my omega sit up and take notice in a way that's profoundly unhelpful.
"What—" I start, turning to frown at him.
"You have low iron or something."
It's not a question. It's a statement—a diagnosis delivered with all the warmth of a medical textbook.
I blink. "No?"
He huffs—the first sound he's made that registers as anything close to human—and removes his hand. The absence of his touch leaves a strange coolness against my skin.
"Correct your balance next time," he says. "You were swaying."
I was swaying? Was I swaying? I didn't feel like I was swaying. Maybe I was swaying. The panic attack that wasn't quite a panic attack probably didn't help.
I open my mouth to respond—to say something clever or cutting or at least moderately intelligent—but he's already turning away.
And that's when I see his back.
Holy shit.