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One
LILAH
With five deadbolts and a chain locking my door, it should be clear that I’m avoiding all things omega. Bra off, spicy Cheetos, and a TBR pile like whoa, I’m set for the perfect Friday night.
But Trainer Marc keeps knocking like I haven’t spent the past minute plugging my ears. “Lilah Darling! You will not blow off another dance team practice.”
“I’m not on the dance team!” I call through the thin wood, wishing I could reinforce it with steel bars.
“Yes, you are,” Marc growls, trying to channel some alpha, but he’s just as beta as every other power-tripping ass of a trainer at the Omega Cultivation Center I’m so unlucky to call home.
“Not since I was like seven years old, Marc.”
“Lilah,” his growl deepens in a threat I’ve heard a hundred times.
A threat I know he’ll deliver on.
My heart picks up, reminding me that it’s a terrible idea to talk back to trainers, but at least when Marc punishes me, he’ll follow OCC rules.
No blood or disfigurement.
Maybe he’ll cane my ass, send me to solitary, or reduce my rations again, but even if he serves up a beating, it’ll be a joy compared to what Rachel and the others’ll do if I show up for that practice.
They won’t follow the rules.
Anything’s fair game when we’re competing for the same alphas.
I keep telling them I don’t want to compete.
I’m happy alone, locked in my dorm with books, blankets, and a stolen streaming subscription. I’m not after their packs or their futures because I’m just another sad ward of the OCC, and no decent pack is ever going to make me an offer. No decent pack will ever have the kind of cash it’s going to take to repay my almost twenty years of room, board, and training fees.
Plus the massive wad that the Center paid to buy me from my mom.
What kind of packs does Rachel think we’re competing for?
When I used to go to socials, the only alphas who ever gave me a glance were from the shadiest, nastiest packs—the kind who saw a little omega girl with no parents and no real guardian as the perfect opportunity to go buck wild with zero consequences.
I would love to not compete.
To hide in my room forever and let all the other omegas steal the spotlight and affection they so desperately desire.
But Marc keeps knocking and knocking. “Rachel rolled her ankle. Evgenia needs a soloist for tomorrow’s showcase.”
Soloist? I jump, tipping over the precious Cheetos that I only snagged because someone punched the wrong button on the vending machine.
“You have ten minutes.” Marc rattles the doorknob. “Be dressed and in the studio, or I’ll have your locks drilled and your Wi-Fi access revoked.”
I’m willing to go without food.
I’m even willing to go without locks thanks to the toothbrush shiv under my pillow.
What I’m not willing to go without?
Fucking Wi-Fi.
Is he a demon?
I tug my hair, but there’s no time to waste. I have to run, even knowing the hell I’ll catch for showing my face at the studio.
