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Before she can continue her pro-alpha spiel, I cut her off. “No, thank you, Vee.” I shake my head, my thick blond hair falling across my face.
Sawyer, who wisely stayed quiet during Violet’s rant about alphas, finally breaks her silence, rustling her newspaper and setting it down on the counter. “You know?—”
“Uh-uh,” I interject, slapping the counter and making them both cackle at me. “No, you don’t get to talk. You found a pack by accident. Keep your happily knotted ass over there.”
“Have you ever had your ass knotted?” Sawyer asks, nearly sending Violet into hysterics. Seriously, she’s cackling like a hyena over there.
Do hyenas even cackle?
Doesn’t matter. “If I wanted an alpha,” I start, nervously wiping down the counter for the twentieth time, “I wouldn’t have fought for my freedom from a pack.”
“And look at you,” Violet chimes in, dropping her feet to the floor and resting her chin in her hand. “You’re miserable.”
“You need to get laid,” Sawyer suggests, unfolding her paper and pushing her glasses up. “You’re getting cranky.”
“I am not cranky,” I protest, tossing the rag into the bin beside the door to the back of the bakery.
Thursdays always look the same here, and while I usually love it, today, my two closest friends are on my case about finding a pack. Why? Oh, just this pesky little thing called a heat.
“You’re in denial,” Sayer adds, scrunching up her nose. “And you stink.”
“It’s rude to tell people they stink,” I retort, then casually sniff my armpits. After all, if your bestie says you stink, then the odds are pretty high that you actually do.
I only catch the faint scent of brown sugar on myself, thanks to the scent dampeners I sprayed on before leaving this morning. Working in a bakery is strategic for me—it lets me blend in, in more ways than one.
I glance up just in time to catch Violet giving me a knowing side-eye. Her dark gaze pierces through me, fully aware of my little sniff test. She shakes her head, her coiled ringlets bouncing around as she leans back.
“You’re in PHS,” she declares sassily.
“Preheat syndrome,” Sawyer adds absentmindedly before slamming the newspaper on the table and growling at it. “Canyou believe these old men are still fighting omega rights? How can they even debate basic rights?”
“Not everyone sees it as fundamental to, I don’t know, have choices,” I mutter, leaning over the counter and resting my head in my hands. Thursdays are the slowest days, and I fail miserably at stifling a yawn.
The argument is always the same. Should omegas—and now gammas—have rights? Gammas, like Violet and Sawyer, don’t enter heat until they find a scent match. Sawyer found hers, but Violet is still looking, and she accepted the sanctuary’s stance on scent matching. For her, it is beneficial if she wants a pack.
As for me? I’m an omega who will go into heat with or without a pack, and there’s a limit to how many pills and potions I can take before my hormones revolt and thrust me into a full-blown heat.
“Well, you’re the one who made waves,” Sawyer reminds me. “Ms. No Pack, preferring to live in peace with her cats.”
“You say it like it’s a bad thing,” I pout, my eyes drifting toward one of Violet’s freshly made chocolate croissants. “That’s definitely lunch material,” I muse, mostly to myself.
“No one is saying it’s a bad thing,” Violet assures me, though her tone lacks conviction.
“I would never,” Sawyer chimes in, pushing her glasses up. “But we are in unfamiliar territory. You can’t just ask a random pack to help you through a heat. They might bite and bond you.”
I wrinkle my nose at her, a snarky retort ready on my lips, but we’re interrupted by the bell jingling over the door, bringing in a gust of cold winter air.
Violet springs into action. Her smile is as wide as a stadium announcer’s. “Hello!” She greets the newcomer with her usual exuberance. “Welcome to Knotty Things, where indulging in every craving is okay.”
Pushing off the counter, I face our new customer, and oh my. If I hadn’t been popping scent suppressants like they are candy, my signature brown sugar aroma would fill the air right now, but I’m an omega who keeps her cool—mostly.
The man is easily over six feet tall, clad in worn board shorts and sneakers. His white shirt, riddled with holes, barely contains the muscles beneath. Yep, my omega senses purr with pleasure.
However, it’s his piercing blue eyes that truly grab me. They seem to see right through me, and he looks... irritated. “You’re an omega, and they may as well be,” he sneers, speaking more to me than Sawyer and Violet.
“Was it the scent or curves that gave it away?” I retort. Despite the scent dampeners, I know I’m throwing out some sweet sugar vibes. I didn’t fight for my independence from the council and argue that we could survive without a pack just to let some alpha waltz in here with his judgments.
His frown deepens, his glare shifting between the three of us. What an absolute jerk.
