Chapter 17
Paperwork And Petty Omegas
~ROSEMARIE~
The Oakridge Hollow Pack Registration Office smells like old paper, stale coffee, and bureaucratic despair.
How romantic.
Nothing says 'new beginning' quite like filling out forms under fluorescent lighting while sitting on a chair that's probably seen more awkward pack registrations than a wedding chapel in Vegas.
I'm sitting in one of the uncomfortable plastic chairs that line the waiting area, a thick stack of paperwork spread across my lap.
The contract is dense—pages and pages of legal jargon and official stamps and lines that need initials.
But I've read through it twice now, making sure every clause is exactly what Tank said it would be.
Temporary Pack Omega Status. Protection under the Late Alphas pack designation. Pending review until Valentine's Day, at which point both parties can choose to terminate or extend the arrangement.
Everything looks legit. No hidden clauses. No sneaky language that could trap me in something I didn't agree to. Just a straightforward temporary arrangement that gives me legal protection from anyone trying to claim me without my consent.
It's almost suspicious, how fair it is. I've read enough contracts in my life—courtesy of my family's endless attempts to marry me off—to know that there's usually something buried in the fine print.
Some clause that benefits one party at the expense of the other.
But this one is... clean. Balanced. Like someone actually thought about what would be fair for everyone involved.
I nod, flipping to the final page where all four signatures need to go. "This all checks out."
Elias is hovering over my shoulder, reading along with me despite the fact that he's already seen these documents.
His scent—woodsmoke and pine needles and that underlying warmth that reminds me of campfires—mingles with the stale air of the office, making the sterile environment feel slightly more bearable.
"Your middle name is Kaitlyn?" he asks, pointing at the line where my full legal name is printed in stark black letters. Rosemarie Kaitlyn Carlisle.
I laugh, surprised that he noticed. "Yeah. From my grandmother."
"That's sweet." He grins, settling into the plastic chair beside me. It creaks ominously under his weight—clearly not designed for broad-shouldered Alpha firefighters. "Family name?"
"She was the only one who actually treated me like a person," I admit, my voice softening.
"My grandparents obviously meant well. They tried to protect me from the worst of the family politics.
But..." I sigh, staring down at my name on the contract.
"The politics of this whole Omega nonsense is rather boggling. "
Boggling. That's putting it mildly. The entire system is designed to treat Omegas like commodities. Like we're products to be bought and sold rather than people with our own dreams and desires.
"Sometimes I wish I were an Alpha," I continue, running my finger along the edge of the paper. "Like my brothers. I probably wouldn't be dealing with any of this if I'd presented differently."
Elias is quiet for a moment, his expression thoughtful. "Being an Alpha has its own challenges," he says finally. "Different ones, but still... challenges."
"Like what?"
He gestures at the paperwork in my hands.
"Like Julian. The age bias is real. An Alpha hits thirty-five without an Omega, and suddenly the entire world assumes there's something wrong with him.
That he's defective or unstable or dangerous.
" There's an edge to his voice now—protective anger on behalf of his packmate.
"Julian is one of the most brilliant, driven people I've ever met.
He's turned down Omegas who only saw dollar signs.
He's been selective, not defective. But that doesn't matter to the contracts and the clients and the industry standards. "
He's right. I hate that he's right, but he is. The system is broken for everyone—just in different ways.
"That's bullshit," I say flatly.
Elias blinks, clearly surprised by my bluntness. Then he laughs—that warm, genuine sound that seems to be his default setting. "Yeah. Yeah, it really is."
He takes the papers from me, flipping to the section where his signature needs to go.
His handwriting is surprisingly neat for someone with such large hands—compact and precise, nothing like the chicken scratch I would have expected from a firefighter who probably spends more time hauling hoses than holding pens.
"Tank and Julian already signed their portions back at the house," he explains as he initials the bottom of each page. "Julian was in the middle of some kind of trade war—something about short positions and market volatility—so he couldn't come. And Tank wanted to do some 'research.'"
He says the word research with air quotes, which makes me suspicious.
"Research?"
Elias's grin turns slightly sheepish. "Which truthfully means he wants to seek out the fuckers who thought it was fun to try to corner you at the mixer.
He's got contacts. Old military buddies, private investigators, that sort of thing.
If anyone can find out who sent those bounty hunters and why, it's Tank. "
He's investigating my ex-pack. He's using military connections to track down people who threatened me.
I should probably be concerned about that—about how quickly these strangers have inserted themselves into my problems. Instead, I feel a warmth spreading through my chest that has nothing to do with the stuffy air in the office.
When was the last time someone cared enough to protect me? When was the last time someone looked at my problems and said 'I'll handle this' instead of 'that's your problem to deal with'?
"He thinks you're far more fascinating than you give yourself credit for, you know," Elias adds, not looking up from the paperwork. "His words, not mine. Well, okay, also mine. You're pretty fascinating."
I feel heat creep up my neck. "I'm really not."
"You made Julian speechless three times in one morning. That's a new record." He grins at me. "Previous record was twice, and that was when Tank accidentally set the kitchen on fire trying to make pancakes."
"Tank set the kitchen on fire?"
"He's excellent at many things. Cooking is not one of them." Elias finishes signing and sets the pen down. "Which is why we're all very excited that you apparently are. Julian practically had a religious experience over that lavender honey latte."
They're excited about my cooking. They're excited about my coffee. They want me at their table for breakfast. They think I'm fascinating.
I don't know how to process any of this. I've spent so long being invisible—being useful without being seen—that having people actually notice me feels foreign. Uncomfortable. Like wearing shoes that don't quite fit. Like waiting for the other shoe to drop.
I agree with his assessment of Julian's situation, though, changing the subject before I have to think too hard about why their attention makes me feel warm instead of wary.
"It's unfair that he was put in this position despite his talent.
He shouldn't have to prove he has an Omega just to keep working. "
Elias nods, his expression souring slightly.
"That's what society wants, right? Loveless packs pumping babies out like they won't grow into adults—Alphas and Omegas who will repeat the cycle because they think everything is transactional.
" He shakes his head. "It's all about optics.
About fitting into the boxes they've created.
Nobody cares if you're actually happy as long as you look like you should be. "
"Spoken like someone who's dealt with that personally," I say softly.
He's quiet for a moment, his gaze dropping to the paperwork in his hands.
Then: "My parents had an arranged bonding.
They despised each other for twenty years before my mother finally left.
Growing up in that house..." He trails off, shrugging like it doesn't matter even though I can see in his eyes that it does.
"Let's just say I understand why you ran.
Why you'd choose uncertainty over a gilded cage. "
Oh.
The playful, sunshine-bright firefighter carries his own shadows. His own reasons for being selective about pack bonds and Omegas and what constitutes real love versus contractual obligation.
Before I can respond, Elias's gaze drops to my outfit, and his entire demeanor shifts. The heaviness lifts, replaced by barely contained amusement.
"Why am I just now noticing you're in Tank's clothes?"
I look down at myself. I'm wearing a pair of Tank's sweatpants—gray, soft from multiple washes—and one of his hoodies.
Both are enormous on me. The pants are cinched as tight as the drawstring will allow, and they're still threatening to slide off my hips.
The hoodie hangs past my thighs, the sleeves covering my hands completely.
I grin, spreading my arms wide. "Don't you love my baggy pants?"
Elias bursts out laughing. "Girl, they're literally hanging from the drawstring because they're gigantic. You look like you're playing dress-up in your dad's closet."
"These were the smallest ones!" I protest, even though I'm laughing too. "Tank's other pants were even bigger. I tried like three pairs before giving up."
"Yeah, these are actually his smaller pair," Elias confirms, still chuckling. "From before he started to bulk up. Now he prioritizes leg day, so he's well proportioned in the..." He pauses, gesturing vaguely at his own lower body. "Measurement department. Versus bulk chest and chicken stick legs."
I giggle—actually giggle, like a teenager—at the mental image. "Chicken stick legs?"