Chapter 14 #2
"You already said that."
"It bears repeating."
Tank cuts through our bickering with the kind of direct authority that comes from years of military training and a general lack of patience for bullshit. "Why are you so grumpy today?"
I don't answer. I just walk to the table and drop into the empty chair with more force than necessary, slumping into the seat like I'm trying to become one with the furniture. Maybe if I sit here long enough, the universe will take pity on me and solve all my problems.
Ha. As if the universe has ever done anything but make my life more complicated.
Tank and Elias exchange a look—that silent communication they do when they've decided I'm being difficult and need to be managed. I hate that look. I especially hate that look when I'm already in a terrible mood and don't have the energy to defend myself against their combined scrutiny.
"Julian." Tank's voice is stern. The voice he used to use on new recruits. The voice that says I'm not asking, I'm ordering.
"C'est des conneries," I mutter under my breath. "Tout ca pour une putain d'Oméga que je n'ai pas."
Movement in my peripheral vision makes me look up.
Rosemarie is walking toward me with a plate—piled high with food I definitely said I didn't want—and there's something in her expression.
Curiosity. Understanding. Like she caught what I said even though I deliberately switched to French specifically so no one would understand me.
Can she speak French? Does she understand—
She sets the plate down in front of me without comment, but her eyes flicker to mine for just a moment. There's something knowing in that look. Something that suggests she understood more than I wanted her to.
Great. Now she knows I'm not just grumpy—I'm pathetically single and bitter about it. That's definitely the impression I wanted to make.
"I'm about to lose my job," I say flatly, abandoning the attempt at privacy. "Or should I say jobs. Plural. All of them."
The table goes quiet.
Rosemarie sets the plate in front of me with careful precision, her brow furrowed. "Why?"
I glare up at her. "It's not your business."
She nods, accepting the dismissal without offense. "Fair enough." But then she tilts her head, studying me with an intelligence that makes me uncomfortable. "Though... you look a tad too sophisticated to lose your job unless someone else is trying to set you up."
Set me up. Not far from the truth, honestly. The entire industry is setting me up to fail just because I don't have an omega on my arm.
And here she is, an omega, seeing right through me. Noticing things about me that most people miss entirely. Just like she did at the gym, when she was spiraling and I was the one who noticed.
Elias snickers. "Glad we're not the only ones who think he's a workaholic, OCD, professional maniac."
"Go touch some grass," I shoot back.
"I do. Daily." Elias grins, unrepentant. "Unlike you, who loves to be indoors and away from the sun for the sake of avoiding a tan, I actually like to get my hands dirty."
"The sun is bad for your skin. There's science behind that."
"The sun is literally essential for human survival."
"So is hydration, and yet you drink Monster energy drinks like they're water."
I can see Rosemarie watching our exchange with barely concealed amusement, and something about that makes me both annoyed and pleased. Annoyed because I'm being made fun of. Pleased because she's smiling, and it transforms her entire face into something radiant.
"Boys." Tank's voice cuts through our argument like a knife through butter. "Focus." He turns those dark eyes on me—the ones that always make me feel like he's seeing straight through whatever bullshit I'm trying to hide. "Why would your jobs—since you clearly do multiple talent gigs—be at risk?"
I stare down at the plate in front of me.
The pancakes are golden brown, perfectly fluffy, exactly the kind of comfort food I need but can't seem to accept.
The bacon is crispy without being burnt.
The eggs are scrambled to perfection, and there's a small pile of fresh fruit arranged artfully on the side.
It looks amazing. It smells amazing. And I can't bring myself to eat any of it because my stomach is too knotted with anxiety to accept food.
I stab at the pancakes with my fork instead, watching the tines pierce the fluffy surface without actually bringing anything to my mouth.
"No Omega," I mutter. "No more gigs."
The words hang in the air like a death sentence.
No Omega, no more gigs. Five words that summarize everything wrong with this industry. Everything wrong with a society that thinks the only way an Alpha can prove he's stable is by having someone on his arm.
Tank's expression doesn't change—it rarely does—but I can see the tension that enters his shoulders.
Elias's grin fades, replaced by something serious.
Even Sasha, who's been quietly watching from his spot near the refrigerator, seems to sense the shift in mood.
He lets out a soft whine and rests his massive head on his paws.
Rosemarie returns from the kitchen with a mug in her hands. She sets it in front of me, and I look down at—
"I asked for black."
She nods, completely unbothered by my irritation.
"You did. But if you've had a long night—or morning, by the look of it—having straight black coffee is going to wire you up even more.
This is more soothing. If you need a nap later, it'll actually help you sleep instead of keeping you awake staring at the ceiling and spiraling. "
Spiraling. She used that word deliberately. She remembers the gym. She remembers that I helped her when she was spiraling.
I stare at the drink in front of me. It's clearly some kind of latte or cappuccino—beautifully made, with foam art on top that looks like a small flower. Delicate petals rendered in milk foam, so precise it almost seems a shame to disturb it. Completely not what I asked for.
"It's a lavender honey oat milk latte," she explains, apparently taking my silence as an invitation to continue.
"The lavender promotes relaxation without being sedating.
The honey adds a natural sweetness that won't spike your blood sugar.
The oat milk is easier on the stomach than dairy, especially if you haven't eaten properly.
" She pauses. "Which, based on how loudly your stomach was growling, I'm guessing you haven't. "
Is she a barista? A nutritionist? A witch who can read minds through coffee orders?
She rattled off that ingredient list like she teaches a class on it. Like she's done this a thousand times. Like coffee is her language and she's been fluent since birth.
I arch an eyebrow but lift the mug anyway, because I'm too tired to argue and too curious not to try it.
The first sip is... unexpected. Warm and floral and subtly sweet, with none of the bitterness I usually associate with coffee.
The lavender is gentle rather than overwhelming.
The honey rounds out the edges. The oat milk gives it a smoothness that doesn't coat my tongue the way dairy would.
I frown—because I refuse to give her the satisfaction of admitting it's good—and take another sip. Then another.
It's good. It's really, genuinely, annoyingly good. Far better than I was expecting. Far better than anything I could have made myself. Far better than most of the overpriced drinks I've paid fifteen dollars for at boutique coffee shops in the city.
"Do you like it?" she asks, and there's something hopeful in her voice that makes my chest do something complicated.
"No."
Elias snickers. "He likes it. He's just being a dick."
"I'm not—"
"You're absolutely being a dick," Tank confirms. "You always get grumpy when something tastes better than you expected and you don't want to admit it."
"I hate both of you."
"You love us."
"Those things aren't mutually exclusive."
Tank steers the conversation back to the matter at hand with his typical efficiency. "So you're saying that because our pack doesn't have an Omega, they're going to fire you?"
All eyes turn to me. Even Rosemarie, who's been hovering near the counter with an expression I can't quite read.
I sigh, the fight draining out of me. There's no point in hiding it. They're my pack. They deserve to know what's happening.
"Yes," I say. "Industry standard for high-profile campaigns.
Unbonded Alphas over thirty-five are considered.
.. unstable. A liability. They think we're one bad day away from going feral, I guess.
" I take another sip of the coffee that I definitely don't like.
"It wouldn't be a big deal if one of the biggest opportunities of my career wasn't hanging in the balance. "
"Which opportunity?" Elias asks, and the teasing is gone from his voice now. This is my packmate. My brother in everything but blood. The man who's been by my side through every success and failure of the last ten years.
"The Valentine's photoshoot." I set the mug down, suddenly unable to hold it. "Dolce & Gabbana. They approached me—not my agency, not through normal channels. They came to me directly because they wanted my specific aesthetic for their Valentine's campaign."
I pause, gathering the words that have been sitting like lead in my chest all morning.
"Do you know how rare that is? To have a brand like Dolce & Gabbana seek you out personally?
To have them say they want you, specifically, because no one else can capture what they're looking for?
" I laugh, bitter and hollow. "I've been waiting for this moment for fifteen years.
And now it's slipping through my fingers because of something completely outside my control. "
"And if I can't secure an Omega in the next seventy-two hours, I lose the contract. I lose the Dolce shoot. I lose my slot for New York Fashion Week—which is in three weeks. I lose everything I've been building toward for the last decade."
Silence.
Heavy, uncomfortable silence.
I can feel Rosemarie's eyes on me—curious, assessing, maybe even sympathetic.
But I don't look at her. I can't. Because if I look at her, I'm going to think about the fact that she's an unmated omega standing in this kitchen, and my brain is going to start doing calculations that are completely inappropriate given the circumstances.
Elias's expression has gone tight, the way it does when he's trying not to show how much something is affecting him. Tank is unreadable as always, but I can see the way his hands have curled into fists on the table—the same hands that have pulled me out of more bad situations than I can count.
They know what this means. They know how long I've worked for this. How many sacrifices I've made. How many relationships I've let fall apart because I was too focused on my career to give them the attention they deserved.
They also know what this means for them. Because my income isn't just about me. It's about the pack. It's about the investments we've made together, the plans we've built, the future we've been working toward as a unit.
And now it's all going to disappear because I don't have an Omega.
Because we don't have an Omega. Because no omega has ever looked at our pack and seen something worth claiming.
We're "Late Alphas." Defective, by society's standards.
Too old to still be unbonded. Too selective, too demanding, too discerning.
There's always a reason we're given for why we're alone.
Never mind that we've been waiting for the right person.
Never mind that we didn't want to settle for something that would make everyone miserable in the long run.
The silence stretches for what feels like an eternity. One minute. Two. Three.
I can feel Rosemarie watching us. Watching the way Tank and Elias are struggling to process this news.
Watching the way I've retreated into myself, stabbing at food I can't bring myself to eat.
She's probably thinking about how to make a graceful exit.
How to extract herself from what has become a very uncomfortable and personal situation that she never asked to be part of.
I wouldn't blame her for wanting to leave. This isn't her problem. We're not her pack. She has no obligation to sit here and listen to a man she barely knows cry about his dying career.
And then a quiet voice breaks the silence.
"If..."
I look up. Rosemarie is standing near the counter, hands clasped in front of her, looking smaller than she did a moment ago.
The confident omega who bickered with me about her nickname and ignored my coffee order and smirked at my growling stomach—that woman seems to have retreated, replaced by someone quieter.
More uncertain.
But not gone. Not completely.
Because beneath the hesitation, I can see something else. Steel. Determination. The same quiet strength I noticed at the gym when she was fighting her way back from the edge of panic.
She takes a breath.
Squares her shoulders. And when she speaks again, her voice is steadier. More certain. Like she's made a decision and she's not going to back down from it.
Tank, Elias, and I all go still.
The kitchen falls so quiet I can hear my own heartbeat thundering in my ears. Sasha lifts his head, amber eyes fixed on Rosemarie like he understood exactly what she just said.
"If I volunteer to be your Omega until Valentine's Day... would that work?"