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“You forgot my ice cream,” she whines back.
They both tense, trade a glance, and suddenly they’re sprinting down the aisle, chased by the soft sound of their omega’s laughter.
I should relax now that the big dudes are gone, taking their dominance to the dairy section, but to me, omegas are the scariest.
The sweeter they smile, the faster they go for your throat.
“I wasn’t looking at your mates.” I duck behind my cart, hoping she’ll leave me alone.
“Of course not.” Her smile fades. “You just looked a little lost, and I thought… You are omega?”
“Not awakened,” I answer. Even if this conversation is too personal for a grocery store chat, I want to make it super clear I’m not a threat.
Not to her or anyone else.
“Got it. But you’re shopping for your pack?” She gestures at my overflowing cart.
“Yeah.”
“How many?”
“Five.”
“Wow. I have my hands full with three.” The way her thoughts move to her mates has her smiling brightly again, her perfume bursting in a cloud that smells like fruity breakfast cereal.
I cringe.
I can’t imagine my “mates” causing joy. I also can’t imagine them racing to grab my favorite kind of ice cream, or even caring to know that it’s almond cake—the limited-edition flavor I’ve only had twice in my life thanks to OCC parties.
It makes me feel sad. Lost.
Not that I want that life.
“Well, the rule for alphas is to make three times more than you think you need.” The woman points to a box of marble cake from the most expensive brand. “But don’t stress. They’re your mates. They’ll love anything if you’re the one making it.”
Right. That I can imagine.
Hunter and Finn might humor me, Finn probably making some excuse to feed me. Atlas would rumble disapproval, Jett would try to burn me up with hate-powered eyebeams, and Orion would finally snap, just straight up pile-driving my face into the cake and suffocating me in frosting.
Death by buttercream.
“Oh. Well. Have a good day.” The woman hurries away with her cart, finally picking up on the leave-me-alone vibe that I work so hard to cultivate.
Steering down the rows, I make sure to pick up foods filled with the nutrients that omegas need. Every time I toss something in for Orion, I swear I scent the tang of fresh-pressed cider. I don’t understand how an omega can draw me so hard.
I know that he shouldn’t, but that doesn’t change the facts.
There’s only one solution to my problem: I need so much fucking ice cream.
The pack’s black card burns a hole in my bra. One teensy pint added to the bill won’t send them knocking on my door.
I’m standing in front of the freezer case with greedy eyes locked on the gold-lidded container of almond cake ice cream when a growl rattles every one of my vertebrae on its way to the pit of my stomach.
Atlas tears down the aisle, bigger than I remember, and madder too. A shit-smug Craig skips behind him.
“Why is it impossible to get in touch with you?” Atlas growls.
“Craig knew where to find me.” I glance at the beta, but he gazes at Atlas like he’s worshipping the sun god.
