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“This is already better than—I think this one is about ribbon, buying ribbon, and wearing ribbon.” He looked up, and I grinned at him. “Shoot me now.”

I waggled my eyebrows at him.

“Go on. Please.”

I began telling him that as an omega, I was raised to be an expert in all things domestic. I would be the person who created a home for my alpha, who would help him navigate society and aid in all design choices inside and out, from picking out place settings to landscaping. It was my place, as an omega, to complement him in all ways. I wanted nothing but that… And then the laws changed.

Lupines had always been broken up into marked classes. Alphas at the top, then betas and gammas, and on the bottom—literally—were omegas. It was odd, because we were the ones everyone vied for, who everyone wanted, in all ways, sexually and everything else⁠—

“Sexually?”

“How did I know that would be the part that would interest you?” I replied drolly.

“Sorry, sorry. Keep going.”

But omegas were also discarded and killed. Omegas made up the largest category of wolves who were found murdered. Omegas could be cast out by those they were mated to if their alpha wanted a new one or found their true mate. They could be thrown onto the streets by their families if their upkeep became too much. There was also the clause that stated that they could be auctioned off to the highest bidder at any time. It was barbaric, and that wasn’t even considering what could happen even to a bonded omega.

“That is seriously fucked up.” Bing reached out and patted me on the back.

“Now you have to get another pair of gloves.”

“Crap,” he muttered before walking over to the shelf where they were kept. “Go on.”

Also, an alpha could make their omega house entertainment for visiting guests if he or she so desired. Putting their omega into heat and letting business associates have them in exchange for financial gain was, sadly, a common occurrence. These were all things that had gone through my head as I prepared to step out into the world as an omega looking for a bonding.

“I wouldn’t have done it if I were you,” he said firmly. “Fuck that.”

“Thank you. Shall I continue?”

“Yes, please.”

At the first gathering I attended, one that members of the jarl, the upper echelon of lupine families, were expected to attend, where alphas went to find suitable omegas, I met Dr. Edmund Crittenden. He was an anthropologist, worked at the Field Museum, and taught salvage ethnography at the University of Chicago as well.

“What is salvage whatever?”

“It’s basically recording a culture before it’s extinct so it can be studied.”

“That sounds like a snore fest.”

I raised an eyebrow.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m shutting up.”

I thought then, and it was ridiculous to say now, that because I’d met him in such an organic way, not in front of others, but quietly, in an out-of-the-way alcove, and because he knew my new—at that time—friend Linden, that it was meant to be.

I blamed my mother and her endless stories about my father, their courtship, and their love, for turning me into the kind of person who saw every meeting as a chance to find one’s soulmate. They were, without question, the epitome of mated bliss, and had been from first glance. He actually saw her across a crowded room and immediately walked over. It was ridiculous, over-the-top stuff that was also, in their case, utterly true. They were absolute relationship goals. I’d been nowhere near that lucky, starting with the academic alpha.

The issue with Critt, as Edmund liked to be called, was that he actually needed and wanted a partner. Someone equal to him in all areas. In theory that was utterly divine, but what that truly meant was someone whose brain was as big as his was, and more importantly, who shared his love of anthropology. And as much as he said he thought of omegas as equal to alphas, when push came to shove, I wasn’t what he wanted. The good news was, with Linden as his fairy godfather, making changes to his diet, his wardrobe, and his home, Critt had discovered that a colleague of his was actually his perfect match. They were serious together; they drank wine and coffee and discussed literature and exchanged thoughts on the nature of man and God.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” Bing shuddered. “You totally dodged a bullet.”

“Deep conversations are a gift,” I argued.

“No, binge-watching Netflix and eating pizza is a gift,” he assured me. “This is why I hate wine. You’re better off with me bringing beer tonight.”

“Stop.”

“Your buddy Linden, he totally helped you out. You should buy him a car or something.”