I glance down at the flimsy nightgown I’ve been stuffed into—cheap lace, thin cotton, so sheer you can see the faint shadow of my belly button and outline of my nipples. It’s ridiculous. I look like a badly dressed ghost. Or someone’s idea of innocence, stretched too thin.
And the alphas are going to see me like this.
My mouth twitches into a smile again, but I pinch my arm—hard—trying to keep the laugh down. The sharp pain anchors me, barely.
Behind me in line, other omegas slump or stagger, blinking with the same dazed confusion. One of them is humming. Another is crying silently, her mascara smeared like bruises.
Betas move among us, cold-eyed and tense. Their hands hover near weapons or syringes—I can’t tell which. No one speaks to us. We’re not people right now. Just products.
Beyond the curtains, I hear them. The alphas. Invisible, monstrous, waiting.
Voices rise and fall, rough and eager—alphas shouting over one another, their voices sharp as broken glass.
“Six thousand!”
“Six-five!”
“Seven!”
“Seven-five!”
The announcer’s voice rides over the chaos, smooth and fake. I imagine that his mouth must be full of glittering teeth. I can’t make out his words—a stream of polished gibberish, rhythmic and fast, like a game show host on speed.
Crack.
The pound of a hammer makes my heart lurch. Somewhere out there, someone’s been sold. The crowd erupts in a low, feral sound. Not applause—something darker. A growl of victory.
Then hands are on me.
I try to resist, but my body won’t obey. My feet stumble forward, and someone shoves me from behind.
The curtain parts and light explodes in my face—blinding, white-hot, merciless. I flinch, but there's nowhere to go as the stage swallows me whole.
“Our next omega is a twenty-two-year-old blonde beauty,” the announcer begins, his voice rich and oily, like something slick poured over rotten meat. “Standing at five-foot-one, this omega may be small in stature, but there’s a quiet resilience in the way she carries herself.”
The crowd stirs—hungry murmurs rippling outward like a current. I can’t see faces, just a wall of darkness beyond the stage lights. Shapes shift. Figures lean forward. Glimmering eyes burn.
I try to take a step back, but my legs barely respond. My knees lock up and my balance tips. I blink, and the whole world wobbles like it’s made of paper.
The announcer’s voice rolls on, smooth and detached, as if he’s describing an antique vase or a racehorse. “Her hair is a cascade of soft, golden curls, falling just past the shoulders—sun-kissed and wind-tousled.”
My scalp prickles. It’s like he’s peeling me open with words. Every syllable strips me down further, exposing things he shouldn’t know. Things no one should.
“Framing a heart-shaped face,” he continues, glancing down at a card on the podium, “with fair skin that flushes easily—whether from exertion or...emotion.”
I look at him.
He doesn’t look back.
He just keeps reading.
Like I’m not even standing here.
Like I’m not real.
Then—
“Skyla.”
