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“Hey! What’s going on down there?”
The alpha’s head shoots up, but he keeps his grip on me, snarling at the interruption.
“Get away from her!” the voice commands angrily.
I hear the sounds of feet on the stairs as someone races toward us.
“This is none of your business, beta,” growls the alpha.
“I think it is. That’s the newest Omega Girl.”
The feral alpha stiffens. “What?” he asks. “Hey, man. I didn’t mean nothing. She was out here alone. Thought she wanted it.”
“Let her go,” the man snarls.
The feral alpha drops his hold on me and steps away as if I’m on fire. I stagger a little, my knees weak from fear. Before I know what’s happening, I’m caught up in someone else’s arms. He’s tall—though he’s shorter than the feral alpha—and he smells a little like the outdoors… pleasant, but the scent is weak enough that he has to be a beta.
Too bad, I think as I bury my face in his chest. I have a feeling if there were more of his smell, I could really sink into it. He’s built like a runner, strong and hard but sleek, like he could cut through the air without trying.
I cuddle closer; it’s strange—he feels like home somehow.
“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” the feral alpha is saying to my new friend. “I didn’t know. She should have told me. Where were her guards? She was out here for the fucking picking.”
The man tenses at the alpha’s words, his arms tightening around me. “She’s under our protection,” he growls. “If you have a problem with that, you can take it up with the network.”
“No problem, no problem,” the feral says. He holds up his hands defensively and backs away before turning and racing off. I snuggle closer to my savior. His hand comes between us, and he touches me under the chin, turning my face up toward him.
“You’re Haven, right?” he says in a deep gravelly voice.
“Yes, um, hi. Nice to meet—”
“I’m Arlo. Camera man.” He pulls away and gestures for me to follow him up the stairs. It takes me a moment to catch myself. He looks back over his shoulder at me, his eyebrow arched. “You ok?”
I clear my throat before nodding and stepping onto the stairs. I reach for my suitcase, but Arlo steps back down and takes it before my hand can grip it. “Where are your guards?” he asks, his eyes scanning the street as if they might appear.
“I don’t have any.”
“Every omega has guards,” he says.
“Not me.” The truth is, I can’t afford them. I’m one of very few omegas in that situation.
Most omegas, for better or for worse, come from rich backgrounds. Scientists haven’t figured out why, but it seems like our dynamic mostly manifests when people feel comfortable, well-fed and protected.
Apparently my body didn’t get the memo.
Arlo’s eyes narrow when I don’t elaborate, but he turns and starts back up the stairs. He steps through the doorway ahead of me, placing my suitcase on the floor.
As I step over the threshold, my foot catches on the edge of the doorway—I’m not used to wearing heels—and I stumble forward. Arlo catches hold of my arms and pulls me against him for another moment. Now that we’re in the house, I can see his face more clearly. He has high cheekbones and an intense expression. His hair is long and pitch black, falling in waves over his shoulders. His eyes are sharp and glinting green. There’s something deeply haunted about him, but my heart beats just a little faster under his gaze.
I hear someone clear his throat from the shadows. I peer around Arlo, curious. We’re standing in the living room, and the lights in the room are dim, but I can make out a large figure sitting in an armchair, looking at me critically. “Haven, right?” he asks. The confidence and domination in his voice screams alpha.
I nod.
“We were just about to watch your new promo. Come in.”
I step further into the living room and the man clicks a remote. The tv screen on the wall lights up with the traditional block letters for the show: OMEGA GIRLS. Then a graphic neon sign blinks into focus underneath:After Dark.
The screen changes to a shot of the Golden Gate Bridge, sweeping across the iconic landmark while violins soar in the background. A voiceover begins to explain the history of the Dynamic Storm. It’s nothing new to me, of course, but I listen anyway, trying to ignore the way the man stares at me.
