Page 6 of Beautifully Scarred Omega

He’s right.

I hadn’t even thought about that. I’d been so focused on what I wanted that I hadn’t considered the consequences of slipping up.

If I fell apart during an extraction, someone could die because of me.

The fight drains out of me all at once.

“Fine,” I say quietly. “I’ll go to the shelter.”

Griffin’s expression softens, just slightly, and I catch a flicker of relief he doesn’t quite hide. “We’ll stay in touch.” He turns to leave, then pauses. “Take care of yourself, Sophie.”

I pick up my bag and walk out without looking back. The anger inside my chest is a living thing, bright and vicious. Whatever comes next, I know one thing for sure. I didn’t survive that basement for nothing.

CHAPTER 3

Sophie

Six Months Later

The bass from the club pulses through my chest three buildings away.

I try to keep to the shadows as I approach, one hand trailing along the brick wall of the alley, the other wrapped around the knife in my leather jacket pocket. The suppressants I’ve been taking mute my scent, but they don’t erase it completely. Anyone who gets close enough can still clock me as an omega.

It’s a goddamn liability, is what it is. One that I’m still learning to work around.

I’ve been watching this place for a month. It caters to wealthy alphas with very specific tastes. The staff is impeccably dressed, the décor is understated, and on the surface it looks completely legit.

But I found them through the forums.

The online spaces where alphas think they’re anonymous, where they trade tips about which clubs serve special drinks that make omegas more compliant and more willing.

They don’t even bother hiding it.

The first time I read those posts, I threw up.

But within minutes, I started planning.

Tonight’s my third visit. I can’t risk the front entrance anymore—the bouncer’s seen my face too many times—so I circle around to the service alley and scale the back wall. My arms burn with the effort, but six months of hard training have made me stronger. My body, once weak and soft, has become a weapon I built purposefully, every muscle earned.

I drop down on the other side and land in a crouch. The staff entrance is twenty feet ahead, propped open for the kitchen workers who come out here to smoke.

I slip inside.

The kitchen is chaos with shouting and the clatter of plates, but no one glances twice at another body moving through the mayhem. I grab a server’s apron from a hook by the door, tie it around my waist, and walk into the main room.

The club is dark, lit by dim amber lights that cast everyone in shades of gold and shadow. A band plays something jazzy and slow on a small stage. Even from here, I can tell that every alpha in the room is rich as fuck—tailored suits, expensive watches, and that air of casual arrogance, as if everyone else should be so grateful for their presence. It makes my blood boil just thinking about it.

I find a spot along the wall, near enough to the bar to see everything, and do my best to look like I belong.

The first thing I look for is the bottles. Who brings them to the tables, who handles them before they arrive, whether anything changes hands between the bar and the floor. I watch for ten minutes before I notice the pattern—certain tables get their bottles from the bar directly, while others come from the back room.

The second thing I look for is the omegas.

There are a handful of omegas scattered through the room. I watch them too, looking for anything that seems off.

I keep watching. Twenty minutes pass. My eye keeps drifting back to a woman in a pink dress, seated at a booth with an alpha twice her age. She’s young, early twenties if I had to guess, and something about her has been nagging at me since I walked in. By the time I figure out what it is, she’s already on her second drink and her eyes have gone glassy.

The alpha can’t keep his hands off her, touching her arm and the small of her back. He tops off her glass from the bottle on the table, leaning in too close while she sways in her seat.