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Putting my bra back on feels like the worst kind of surrender.
I whip on baggy pants and an oversized shirt, barely able to move around the tiny cupboard of a room that only has space for my bed and the built-in desk/closet/shelf unit.
I can’t remember living anywhere else, although I try on a daily basis. All I have left of the before-time is the memory of a hard-eyed woman who looks like the face I see in the cracked mirror.
My mom had rosebud lips like mine, but hers were always pressed together in annoyance. We have the same tiny build, the same light brown hair, and the same grey eyes.
So much the same, and yet she still sold me off the second my blood tests came back omega.
I tie my hair into a messy pony and rush to the studio. I have to sprint to make it to the dance building before Marc delivers on his stupid threat. I cut across the perfectly green lawn, sprinting past spas, salons, gyms, and teaching buildings.
Everything a budding omega needs.
But nothing this omega wants.
Panting, I bust into the dance team’s practice room just before my ten minutes are up.
“Ah. Miss Lilah. So nice of you to join.” Trainer Evgenia, smug ballerina bitch she is, offers me an emaciated smile.
Nodding, I slink to the back of the room, wanting to go unseen.
No way is that happening.
Sitting at the front with her ankle propped on a silk pillow, Rachel glares like she already has my blood under her fingernails. Resentment sharpens her scent until it’s wedged in my sinuses like a serrated blade.
Beckah, Jovie, and the rest of Rachel’s clique whisper in their huddle, not even pretending to stretch while they’re so busy party-planning my funeral.
“Not back there. Come to the front where you belong.” Trainer Evgenia grabs my elbow while I’m distracted. She pulls me dead center in the front row, giving me the perfect view of the mirror and the dance team’s firing squad glares.
My shoulders hunch. This is so not ending well.
Evgenia does a little clap. “Now, my doves. Let’s run through the routine for our star. She’ll only need to watch it once.”
The room’s resentment level ratchets up until I’m choking on sour barbs of omega rage.
I want to strangle past Lilah, who thought showing off was the answer to our problems. If I proved I was the best, I’d be snapped up by the good alphas and escape the OCC to be pampered as some pack’s princess.
I saw it happen to other girls. Why not me?
I was eight when I learned that answer hard.
Darlings are literal OCC property. The rules that keep the other omegas safe do not apply to us because instead of us paying to be here, the OCC pays for us to attend.
Other omegas have backers. Supporters. Families. They have eyes looking out for them, ready to speak up when alphas cross lines that shouldn’t be crossed. They have resources, money, and extra tutors. They form friendships and alliances, little omega cliques that never include me.
All I’ve ever had is hard work.
Even when I was young, Evgenia wasn’t one to take bribes. I busted my ass and fairly won the lead in the junior dance showcase.
I busted my ass all over the OCC, taking top rank in class after class, earning the trainers’ recognition in academics, etiquette, combat…
Noelle was the first omega to remind me of my place.
Just before the showcase, she and five other faceless mean girls from the teen section cornered me, kicked the shit out of me, and left me tied up in a closet.
A janitor found me three days later.
Since then, I’ve never come first in anything. I never show off, always blending at the back, never ever outshining the current queen bee and her court.
