I squint through the low branches, the sinking sun flaring off the windshield. There’s movement ahead. Smoke. Canvas. Tents. People. I spot the edges of concrete barriers and a flash of white dress shirts in the fading light.
“That’s it.” Excitement fills me, and I press the gas.
A wide field opens on our right, packed with vehicles—SUVs, trucks, even a few modest sedans. Betas in black slacks and crisp white shirts guide cars into rows.
“This way!” A young beta waves, stepping into my path. I turn sharply and join the line.
We find a spot a good mile from the main camp. I throw the car in park, and Oli practically jumps out. I watch him take several deep breaths, before raking his nails through his shaggy hair. Clearly, my scent was getting to him as much as his was getting to me.
Good.
Stepping out of the car, I smooth down my dress shirt, then glance into the backseat. My briefcase sits next to the duffle bag Myrick packed for me. Nervous, I press the lock button three times on the key fob. I don’t want to leave the briefcase—it’s filled with cash—but I don't want to carry it around with me either.
Oli walks silently a few feet behind me as we weave between the cars, making our way through the makeshift parking lot.
The market looms ahead—massive velvet tents, a stage strung with harsh industrial lights, smoke curling from a central bonfire. It’s more polished than I expected.Concrete barriers. Portable floodlights hooked to generators. Dozens of security betas patrolling with stun batons.
Somewhere behind all this? The omegas.
“Hey!” Oli calls out to a beta in uniform up ahead. “I’m looking for work.” He rushes up next to me, keeping pace as we get closer. “Who’s in charge?”
“Um.” The young beta turns and points to the far west side of the market. “You can ask at the claiming desk.” He looks back at Oli, giving the alpha an apologetic smile. “But they don’t usually take on unknown alphas,” he warns. “They’re real picky.”
Oli shrugs, unaffected. “Thanks, man.”
This whole thing feels weird—Brock’s relationship with this guy, my brother’s willingness to give up his inheritance to give his “friend” a lift, even Oli trying to find a job at the Morder. All the employees here appear to be betas.
What’s this alpha really doing?
I glance at Oli, trying to get a better feel for him. He doesn’t look stoned, and he doesn’t have any marks or bruises on his arms or face. His shirt and jeans are clean, and his boots look expensive. They’re made of leather with a steel toe.
He looks like any twenty-something alpha with a gym habit and a cocky streak.
But still—I can’t help myself.
“Be honest,” I say. “Is this about money? Do you owe my brother something? Or are you trying to game the system for an omega?”
Oli frowns, confused. “What? Brock doesn’t owe me shit. And what do you mean, game the system?”
“It’s hard for broke alphas to find mates,” I say matter-of-factly. “Are you trying to get a job here so you can get close to the omegas? Maybe snatch one up for yourself?”
Rage flashes in Oli’s eyes, but to his credit, he doesn’t lash out. I can’t tell if it’s self-control or basic submission.
“I don’t mean to offend,” I say with a lazy lift in my voice. “I’m curious as to why you’d want to come here to find a job.” I give the market a sweeping look. “It’s a long way to travel for work.”
He huffs a bitter laugh. “Of course you don’t get it.” He steps closer. “Hard to understand how the world works when you were born with a silver fucking spoon up your ass.”
I meet his glare, unfazed.
“For people like me?” He jabs a thumb toward his chest. “If you don’t have a fancy education orfamilyconnections,” he bites out the word like it’s an insult, “then you’re stuck taking whatever shit job you can get. Thereareno angles. Just long hours, low pay, and fighting for scraps. This gig? Might be my best shot at something steady.”
I nod slowly. “So why not ask Brock to get you a better job? He’s got connections.”
Oli’s mouth twists. “Hehadconnections. He’s done with all that. That life nearly killed him.” He steps away again like he’s said something noble. Like that ends the conversation.
But it doesn’t.
“But whyhere?” I ask again. “What kind of alpha wants to work at the Morder?”
