11. Olive
Iwake up shivering. My spine aches from sleeping with the seat tilted back. The cheap fleece blanket covering my legs offers no protection against the March temperatures. The cold bites through my denim jeans and the oversized gray sweater.
My breath puffs like white smoke.
I sit up and rub the stiff muscles in my neck. Every joint in my body screams in protest. The cramped space leaves no room to stretch my legs.
My stomach twists with a vicious, demanding cramp. I ignore the hunger. Wasting money on breakfast ranks low on my priority list.
I grab my phone off the dashboard holder. The screen glows in the dark. Four in the morning.
I survived my first night as a homeless stray, but the cold proves this setup lacks long-term viability. I need a place to stretch out, somewhere warm.
An idea sparks in my tired brain.
My storage unit.
The landlord forced me to lock my entire life inside a metal box three days ago.
I shoved my mattress into that locker. My blankets are packed inside.
The corrugated metal walls block the wind, and nobody checks the individual lockers.
Sleeping on a real mattress inside a dark box beats freezing to death in a cramped sedan.
I jam the key into the ignition and twist. The engine sputters. It turns over with a sluggish groan before roaring to life. I blast the heater on max, holding my numb hands over the vents to catch the lukewarm air.
I throw the car into drive and pull out of the deserted strip mall.
The city streets look like a ghost town. I navigate the familiar route toward the industrial park on the edge of town.
Pulling up to the storage facility, my tires crunch over the gravel shoulder. I kill the headlights and let the engine idle.
I stare through the windshield. My chest caves in.
A chain-link fence surrounds the property. Bright floodlights illuminate every inch of the asphalt driveways between the orange metal buildings. A guard shack stands right next to the electronic gate.
A security guard wearing a thick winter coat walks the perimeter. He holds a flashlight, sweeping the beam over the rows of locked doors. A German Shepherd walks on a short leash right next to him.
I fucking forgot that the facility advertises round-the-clock security and canine patrols on their website. They enforce strict protocols.
I drop my forehead against the cold plastic of the steering wheel. Sneaking past a guard and a trained dog ranks as an impossible task. Punching my access code into the keypad alerts the booth. They track every entry and exit. They monitor the cameras.
The storage unit plan crumbles to ash.
I sit in the idling car. Exhaustion settles deep in my bones. I lack any safe haven. I lack a warm bed. The relentless string of failures breaks my spirit, leaving a hollow, aching void in my chest.
I grab my phone again. The screen illuminates my face.
A notification from Chloe waits on the lock screen. She left three voicemails and sent ten text messages since I fled her house yesterday morning.
I unlock the device and open our chat thread.
Chloe: Ollie, please call me. Where did you go? Did Rick say something to upset you? Your bags are gone. Please tell me you're safe.
Reading her desperate pleas twists a knot of guilt in my gut. I love my sister. Keeping her in the dark feels wrong, but lying to protect her marriage feels worse. She deserves the ugly truth.
I tap the text box. My thumbs hover over the keyboard.
I start typing. I refuse to sugarcoat a single detail. I craft a long, raw message detailing the exact events in her kitchen. I type out the disgusting things Rick said about my Omega status. I explain his twisted fetish. I describe his sick grin and the way he tried to trap me against the counter.
I type out the details of the attack. I tell her about smashing the coffee mug into his face to escape.
My fingers shake as I hit the spacebar. I finish the message with a brutal conclusion.
Olive
I will never step foot inside your house again. He is a predator. Keep him away from the kids. I'm safe. I have my car. Don't look for me. I need to figure this out on my own.
I stare at the block of text. The green send button mocks me.
Hitting that button nukes her entire life. It destroys her marriage. It shatters her illusion of a happy suburban family.
But withholding the truth leaves a predator sleeping in the room next to my nieces.
I take a ragged breath and press send.
The message swooshes to the top of the screen with a quiet popping sound. Delivered.
I drop the phone onto the passenger seat like it burns my skin.
I throw the car into reverse and back away from the storage facility.
I speed down the dark industrial road, stewing in a chaotic mix of intense anxiety and profound relief.
The truth is out in the open, but this freezing car remains my only home.
I sit in a leather booth in the back corner of an independent coffee shop. The aroma of roasted espresso beans and fresh pastries tortures my empty stomach. I ignore the display case of muffins and croissants.
I sip from a paper cup of cheap peppermint tea. The hot water warms my throat. The barista gave me a skeptical side-eye when I ordered the cheapest item on the menu and unpacked my entire life onto this table.
My laptop hums in front of me. The charging cable stretches across the scuffed floorboards to a wall outlet.
My banking app stays open in a separate browser tab. The numbers stare back at me with a mocking glare. I possess a tiny sliver of cash. Surviving this nightmare requires ruthless logic.
My brain crunches the numbers for the hundredth time.
A cheap motel on the outskirts of the city costs sixty bucks a night. Four nights eats up two hundred and forty dollars. That money represents a chunk of a security deposit for a new apartment.
A motel guarantees a hot shower, a locked door, and a warm bed. It guarantees temporary comfort.
But temporary comfort leads to long-term homelessness. Draining my savings on a cheap mattress leaves me trapped in my car forever once the funds run dry. Keeping the cash locked in my bank account remains my only path to a real roof.
I close the banking tab. The practical Beta mindset keeps me grounded. I refuse to blow my escape fund on a luxury.
I open the medical job board.
My fingers fly across the keyboard. I upload my resume to every open position in a fifty-mile radius.
I apply for remote triage positions. I apply for telehealth counseling roles.
I apply for basic data entry gigs at medical billing companies.
I aim for anything keeping me far away from the chaotic liability of a hospital floor.
The inbox tab refreshes. A new email drops into the list.
I click the bold text.
Dear Ms. Blanchard, thank you for your application.
Unfortunately, your recent medical registration status disqualifies you from this specific patient-facing role.
Our insurance provider requires bonded status for all Omega applicants to waive heat-liability claims. We wish you the best of luck in your job search.
I slam my fist against the table. The paper cup rattles. A few drops of hot tea spill onto the scuffed wood.
The rejection emails flood my inbox. The healthcare system runs on liability and risk management. The state requires medical registration for all Omegas. The background check flags my new status the second they pull my file.
They view an unbonded Omega as a walking lawsuit. They think an unmedicated heat spike will cause a disaster on the clock.
A bonded Omega gets a free pass. A bonded Omega has a pack to regulate their hormones and sign the liability waivers. The system forces Omegas like me to seek a pack just to secure a damn paycheck.
I wipe the spilled tea off the table with a cheap paper napkin.
The suffocating weight of this new reality crushes my chest. I spent four years in college earning my degree. I worked brutal shifts to build a flawless resume. I dedicated my entire adult life to helping sick kids.
A glitch in my DNA erased all of it.
I stare at the glowing screen. Another rejection email pops into the inbox. The corporate phrasing changes, but the core message remains identical. The healthcare world considers me a walking liability.
Faking my designation crosses my mind. Forging a Beta medical chart sounds like the perfect solution to get my career back.
But I lack the first clue on how to pull that off.
Presenting three days ago leaves me blind to the underground tricks.
I have no Omega friends to ask for advice.
Navigating this new world alone leaves me stranded.
My jaw clenches until my teeth ache.
I think about Victor. I picture his arrogant, icy stare.
I remember him standing in that hallway, whining about the smell of bleach and treating Sam like a burden.
I picture Finn looking at me like a piece of meat to drag back to his den.
I remember Lawrence offering me a soundproof cage in their mansion.
They triggered this nightmare. They woke up the dormant hormones and sent my life into a downward spiral.
I refuse to surrender. I refuse to crawl back to their mansion and beg for a bonding mark just to appease a medical board. I will scrub toilets for minimum wage if it keeps me free from their control.
I delete the rejection emails. I click on the next page of job listings.
I filter the search. I look for late-night janitorial shifts in empty office buildings.
I search for overnight stocking positions at local warehouses.
Working a cash register puts me right back in the public eye, surrounded by unmated Alphas and potential heat triggers.
Surviving means hiding in the dark until I figure out a permanent plan.
The barista walks past my booth, wiping down the empty tables. She glares at my empty tea cup and my laptop cord. She wants me out of her section.
I ignore her. I keep typing. I plan to sit in this booth and use their free internet until they drag me out the front door. The grind demands every ounce of my focus, and I refuse to let a little side-eye break my resolve.
The neon sign of the 24-hour grocery store buzzes in the dark.
I park my sedan under a flickering streetlamp in the far corner of the lot. The glow provides enough visibility to deter creeps, but the distance keeps me hidden from the main flow of shoppers.
I kill the engine.
Reaching over, I push the master lock button. All four doors secure with a satisfying thud.
The temperature outside hovers near freezing. The cold seeps through the glass windows and turns the cabin into an icebox. I leave my thick winter coat on and pull the cheap fleece blanket up to my chin.
I curl into a tight ball on the backseat. I rest my head against a bundled-up sweater.
My stomach growls, a hollow and relentless ache. I ate a stale protein bar for dinner. Exhaustion drags at my eyelids, but my brain refuses to shut down. The stress of the rejections and the freezing air keeps my nerves on a razor's edge.
A low, persistent throb begins deep in my pelvis. A strange flush washes over my skin, clashing with the freezing air in the car. I kick the fleece blanket off my legs.
My breathing turns jagged. I pant into the dark cabin.
The suppressants wage a losing battle in my bloodstream. The drugs mask the main fever, but the stress and the cold trigger a hormonal spike. My biology ignores my practical mindset. It stages a full rebellion.
A thick flood of slick coats my underwear. The wetness seeps through the cotton and dampens the seams of my jeans.
"No." I whisper the word, gripping the fabric of my coat. "Not now."
My skin turns hypersensitive. The rough denim rubbing against my thighs feels like sandpaper. The tag on the back of my shirt burns against my neck. Every shift of my body sends a jolt of raw, agonizing electricity straight to my swollen clit.
I writhe on the backseat and squeeze my thighs together, chasing the friction.
The phantom scents invade the freezing car.
My nose catches the crisp ozone of a thunderstorm. The rich depth of citrus mixes with the spicy bite of crushed black pepper. The aroma of the custom pack blend fills my lungs, drowning out the smell of stale coffee and cold plastic.
My mind conjures Finn.
I picture his massive shoulders and his messy auburn hair. I imagine his large hands gripping my hips. I crave the weight of his chest pressing me down into the backseat. My body begs for his thick knot to stretch me open and fill the desperate void throbbing inside my core.
Tears prick the corners of my eyes.
I hate this. I hate feeling like a hostage to my anatomy. I hate wanting the exact men who destroyed my career.
I shove my hand down my pants. My icy fingers slide past the denim and dive past the soaked cotton of my underwear.
A ragged moan tears from my throat.
I mash my fingers against my slick, swollen clit. I rub the sensitive bundle of nerves with frantic, desperate speed. The friction sends a spike of pleasure through my hazy brain, but it lacks the ruthless pressure I crave.
My body rejects the solo attempt. It screams for an Alpha. It demands teeth scraping across my collarbone and raw force taking control.
I pump two fingers deep inside my dripping pussy. The slick makes a wet, obscene sound in the quiet car. I fuck my own hand, my hips bucking upward off the worn upholstery.
"Finn." I sob his name into the dark.
The humiliation burns my throat. I cry in pure frustration. I feel pathetic. I lie in the backseat of a freezing car in a grocery store parking lot.
Tension coils tight in my stomach. The pleasure builds, riding the edge of a climax. I grind my hand against my core, chasing the release to make the agonizing pressure stop.
A bright beam of light sweeps across the windshield.
I freeze. My hand stops moving. My heart drops into my stomach.
Twin headlights blind me through the frost-coated glass. A black Jeep idles directly behind my sedan, blocking me in. The rumble of a powerful engine vibrates through the asphalt.
Panic slices through the drug-like haze of my arousal.
I scramble into an upright position. I yank my hand out of my pants and scramble to zip my jeans. My chest heaves with terrified gasps.
The driver's side door of the Jeep swings open.
A towering silhouette steps onto the pavement. The glow of the streetlamp catches his auburn hair and the broad span of his shoulders. He wears a dark henley and boots.
Finn.
He stands in the freezing air, his eyes locked onto my beat-up car. His chest expands as he takes a deep breath.
He found me.