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Chapter Seventy-Four
Toshi
It’s typical that I’ve been given a task, just like this morning, when I woke up between my Alpha and Omega mates. I can’t really complain too much about that, especially considering Echo fingered me until he found the spot that can make me come, while Spencer dove under the covers to deep-throat my cock. Sexiest way to wake up ever.
It’s the task allocation afterward that left a vaguely bitter taste in my mouth.
I’m almost always the one who has to go out and do stuff.
The curse of being the most normal out of all of us.
Betas were made for the short straw.
We’re not rare enough to be protected like Omegas, and we’re not powerful protectors like Alphas.
So, if we choose to become part of a pack it’s inevitable that we end up as the ones who have to do the mundane tasks that make up a ridiculously large percentage of everyone’s lives.
I’m the coffee run guy.
I’m the surveillance team.
It’s fucking boring and being sent away knowing Echo and Spencer are going to have some fun without me while I’m out doing the grunt work makes it even worse.
Now, here I am, getting a breakfast order for the mates I haven’t claimed while they’re probably going in for day two, round one without me.
After placing the order, I step back from the counter and lean against the wall of the confined space in the takeout joint. There are a couple of middle-aged women in waiting for their order, and one of them whispers to the other after glancing at me.
Damn. I left my jacket collar down when I left Leanne’s place.
They shoot me disapproving looks that I ignore.
My face is probably turning red.
I have older relatives who would probably feel the same way if they knew.
It’s not that I’m ashamed to tell them, or to walk around the city with my marks on display.
It’s just that there are a lot of people who don’t understand packs, and I’d rather not have to think about those people and their awful, ignorant, prejudiced viewpoints.
Walking around with visible marks makes me a target.
That fucking sucks. These old bitches whispering and shaking their heads fucking suck.
I’m grateful when they leave, but I turn my collar up once they do, because I don’t want to run into more of that muttery bullshit outside.
My order is called, and I move forward to pick up the bag.
The girl behind the counter passes me something with it, a sympathetic smile on her lips.
“It works,” she tells me.
I look at the packet. It’s a skin-tone-matching cover-up cream.
I glance back at her. It must really work. Her neck is fully exposed, and I can’t see a hint of a mark.
“Thanks,” I murmur, giving her a smile.
I’m not going to use it, but it was nice of her to give me it.
