Chapter Four
Kade
Theo stared at me, not saying a word. He took a deep breath. “What do you mean ‘our’ Omega?”
“Her scent, her torn grief-ridden face, her strength... I can feel it. She’s ours, Theo.”
“And when you say ours, you mean...”
“Our scent matched Omega.”
Theo’s eyes widened. “She can’t be. We’ve searched for our Omega for years, with no luck. You’re not going to find her singing on a street corner, Kade.”
I threw up my hands. “Why not? Maybe that’s why we didn’t find her, because she’s been hiding all this time.”
“But hiding from what?”
I shook my head. “I don’t know, but as soon as she realized I was an Alpha, she ran. She’s clearly scared.”
“Thus, the protection,” Theo said, thinking aloud. I nodded. “Okay, what does she look like?”
“Five-five, slim build, brown hair with red tones.
Green eyes. Early twenties. She'll smell like apple pie.” I smiled at that last detail, knowing she smelled like my favorite dessert.
“She was injured, favoring her left ankle.
And wearing multiple layers of clothing, all worn.
A men's gray peacoat, with missing buttons.”
“You got all that from a street performance.” It wasn't quite a question, but the inflection was there, subtle and sharp.
I turned then, and met his eyes directly. “I got all that from being observant. Can you handle this, or shall I wake Lucian?”
“Hell no, you know what he’s like if you wake him. He’s the grouchiest morning person I’ve ever known... and I live with you!”
My eyes rolled. He’s an idiot.
“Fine. I’ll go.”
“Don’t scare her!”
He laughed. “Me? I’m a pussycat, she’ll love me!” and with that, he was out of the door.
I stayed at the window until I heard the elevator chime his departure, then moved back to my desk. My hands were steadier now. Having a plan, having action in motion, that helped. I pulled my chair in and opened a fresh document, the template I used for performance contracts already loaded.
The cursor blinked in the empty space, waiting.
I started with the basics. Performance date, time, duration.
Two hours of live performance at the Spring Gala, with a brief intermission.
Simple enough. The fee I entered was triple what I'd normally offer for an unknown talent, but she needed it.
Needed resources, and I had them. The amount was exorbitant enough to be life-changing but not so excessive that it would seem suspicious.
Next, the preparation requirements. Rehearsal space provided on-site; access to vocal coaching if desired; wardrobe consultation available.
All optional, all phrased as benefits rather than demands.
‘The artist may utilize the provided rehearsal facilities at any time during the week prior to the performance.’ May, not must. Choice, not obligation.
I moved to the accommodations clause, and this was where I had to be careful.
‘Because of the preparation schedule and early call times, the Company will provide lodging in the executive building until the event, should the Artist find this arrangement convenient.’ This meant she'd be living five floors below my penthouse, where I could monitor her safety, where she'd be surrounded by the packs combined scents, and us in hers.
Medical coverage during the contract period. That one was legitimate—I'd seen her limp, seen the way she moved with practiced caution around that injured ankle. She needed proper care. ‘The Artist will have access to Company medical services for any health concerns during the contract period.’
I hoped in the six weeks until the gala that she’d learn to trust us, and realize who we are to her. But ultimately the choice of staying after the gala had to fall to her. She didn’t need control; she needed options.
I added clauses about creative control so she'd have full autonomy over song selection, performance style, and arrangement.
That was important. She needed to feel like this was her choice, her art, not something I was dictating.
Even though I'd be watching every rehearsal, monitoring every decision, making sure she was safe and cared for and exactly where I could see her.
Termination clause. This one made my jaw clench.
‘Either party may terminate this agreement with seventy-two hours' notice prior to the performance date.’ I hated typing it, despised the idea of giving her an escape route, but it had to be there.
Without it, the contract would look like a trap.
With it, she might believe she had power in this arrangement.
I reviewed the document from the beginning, reading each clause with the mindset of a frightened Omega who'd been hurt badly enough to choose the streets over a pack. Would she see a threat here? Would anything trigger her into running?
I made a few more adjustments, softening the language around rehearsal attendance. Added a clause about privacy, promising that her personal information would remain confidential. Changed ‘required to’ to ‘invited to’ in three different places.
By three in the morning, I had something that looked legitimate.
Professional. The contract that could change an unknown street performer's life, giving her a platform and resources, and a chance at something better.
The kind of contract that also placed her firmly within my territory, under my watch, close enough that I could ensure her safety every single day.
I printed two copies, the machine's quiet hum filling the office. While they printed, I found a leather portfolio in my desk drawer, dark brown and expensive, the kind of presentation that said this was serious business. I slid one copy inside, leaving the other on my desk for my records.
My signature went on both, black ink bold against the white paper. Kade Killion, CEO, Killion Records.
I closed the portfolio and set it in the center of my desk, where I'd see it first thing tomorrow.
Everything was in place. Theo would find her and report back on her situation.
I'd have the information I needed to approach her correctly, to make the offer in a way that wouldn't send her running.
And she'd accept, because the alternative was staying on those streets, singing for coins, living in whatever inadequate shelter she'd found.
She'd accept because I'd make it impossible for her to refuse.
I allowed myself a small smile, just a slight curve at the corner of my mouth. Control was reasserting itself. The plan was solid. This would work.
It had to.
The penthouse differed from my office. It was less sterile, more of a sanctuary.
I'd surprised my interior designer by requesting warm amber lighting, plush leather seating in deep cognac, and bookshelves of rich walnut that softened the floor-to-ceiling windows on three sides.
A handwoven Persian rug in burgundy and gold anchored the space, its intricate patterns drawing the eye downward from the suspended glass view of the city.
The room breathed comfort into every corner, a deliberate contradiction to my public persona, and exactly what I'd insisted on when I explained I needed a place where I could exhale.
I paced from the window to my bed and back again, a circuit I'd completed at least thirty times in the last hour. I should sleep, resting until I knew more about our Omega. But I couldn’t, not when I knew she was out there, alone and cold. I needed to know she was safe.
My phone sat on the nightstand, silent. Theo hadn't reported yet, and it was already past six in the morning. I checked it anyway, confirming what I already knew: nothing. I set it back down harder than necessary, the sound too loud in the quiet space.
The waiting was intolerable.
I moved to the bed, laid down, and turned to watch the sun rise over the city streets.
My eyelids were heavy. Too heavy to keep open, despite the obvious strain I was putting on them.
I watched the orange bleed into amber, the crimson into deep blue, as the darkness of the night disappeared and was replaced by the brightness of hope for a new day.
My phone buzzed, waking me from my slumber. I grabbed it before the sound had finished, and saw Theo's name on the screen, my heart leaping in my chest with hope.
“Tell me,” I said, while looking at the clock. It was half past ten in the morning. I’d had a few hours of sleep. It should be enough.
“I’ve found her. She's in the east-side encampment, Zone Seven.
Tent city, with about two hundred residents, mostly Omegas.
She's sharing space with an older Beta woman.” His voice was neutral, professional, but I heard the subtext.
Zone Seven was rough, dangerous, exactly the kind of place that made my protective instincts scream.
“I paid one of the residents for information. She told me she was in her tent, sleeping.”
“Right, anything else?”
“Yeah, she said her ankle injury is worse than she lets on. She'll need medical attention soon, or it'll cause permanent damage.”
My hand clenched around the phone. “Security situation?”
“Minimal. A few guards at the main entrance, but they're not exactly vigilant. Mostly, they're there to keep outsiders from causing trouble, not to protect the residents. It's a fire hazard waiting to happen. One spark and the whole place would go up.”
I closed my eyes, fighting down the urge to send a team there immediately, to extract her now, whether or not she wanted it. “Anything else?”
“Apparently, she sings for the camp sometimes. The other residents seem to respect her, or at least leave her alone. No obvious threats, but that place—” he paused, “It's not safe, Kade. You know that.”
“Did you get close enough to scent her?” I asked, wondering if these feelings were all in my head.
“No. I didn’t want to scare her away.”
I took a deep breath, sitting upright. “Okay. I’ll get changed and meet you down there.”
“Right boss,” he said sarcastically.
I rolled my eyes. “Idiot.”
He laughed and hung up.
I stood there holding the phone, processing the information, feeling my resolve harden into something unbreakable.
She was living in the homeless district.
A fire hazard with minimal security, injured and vulnerable, in exactly the kind of situation that could go catastrophically wrong in a hundred different ways.
I made another call, this time to my building manager.
“The guest bedroom—is it ready?”
“Yes, sir. It’s been cleaned and stocked as requested. I've assigned it a private access code as you instructed.”
“Good. And the car?”
“Standing by.”
“Have it ready in thirty minutes. I’ll be down then.”
“Yes, sir,” he said, and I could almost see him saluting me, taking the piss. I shook my head and hung up. What is it with everyone in this place? I swear they’re all out to get me.
Everything was ready. The contract, the accommodations, the transportation, the approach. All that remained was making contact, presenting the offer, and waiting for her to make the choice I'd engineered her into making.
I picked up the portfolio again and held it against my chest. Soon she'd be here, in this building, close enough that I could ensure her safety every moment.
Close enough that her apple pie scent would linger in the hallways, so that I'd know exactly where she was and whether she was okay.
Close enough that the protective instincts currently tearing at my control would have something concrete to focus on.
Then and only then, we would have six weeks to win her heart, or we’d lose her forever.