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He’s just a salty asshole.
But Simon is efficient, flicking on monitors and checking comms. The first images appear from shaky body cams. A few agents in plainclothes merge into a well-dressed crowd.
Then more cams fire online from dark alleys—the strike team in their gear, armed to kill an insurrection.
Hope they save the day and forget I exist.
Simon taps his mic. “Status check?”
I can’t make out the answers without moving closer. So not happening. Simon’s personality is as foul as the stale-fart undertones in his potato chip scent.
“All green,” he announces.
The cam views flicker.
I follow the strike team. They’re the ones who always need my help.
Led by Bridget and her action-hero mates, agents slip along corridors lit night-vision green. When the view opens on a too-familiar scene, my heart kicks against a strobe of memories.
An empty stage.
An underground auditorium.
An auction.
I don’t know if I’m seeing the present or the past.
I blink to clear the shadows.
The crowds, the chains, the shouted bids.
I clench to keep my pheromones from giving Simon nerve damage, trying to breathe through the nightmare anxiety that vibrates my lungs.
On the screen, the seats are empty.
The past stays in the past.
I’m not the one headed for the stage.
I wish I could be on the front line, using my ability for good and stopping anyone else from living my same trauma.
But right there is our problem.
If the SAS were good, my ankles wouldn’t be oozing pus.
I have to get my own shit in order before I can help anyone else.
Scooting back, determined to keep my head down, I accidentally jostle the van’s hatch.
“Don’t!” Simon mad-grabs the controller on his lanyard. “I’ll put you down.”
“Simon. Relax,” I soothe, trying to channel omega.
He’s a beta. Unmated.
Mr. Potato Ass should mash himself if I blink.
But my pheromones are never normal.
