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Quinn
Dying in suspense.
Daria
Think it. Feel it. Be it.
Quinn
Wow. That’s super inspiring.
Daria
Fuck you. You know what I mean. Stop worrying about not being badass and start thinking you are. You look great. Add some smoky eyes and pull your hair back into a sleek ponytail. Total domme vibes.
Yeah, I’m not a domme, but I get what she means.
Daria
Don’t forget, you’re an omega, Quinn. Omegas rule the world.
Quinn
Tell that to the suits on Wall Street.
Daria
Without us, there would be no suits. Don’t forget, the vagina holds all the power.
I snort and set the phone aside, studying myself in the mirror. She’s right. Not about omegas ruling the world—money rules the world—but she’s right about being an omega. I shouldn’t be cowering to Brady’s demands. I shouldn’t be afraid of Austin’s touch. And I shouldn’t let Dylan get to me.
I’m the omega.
They’re alphas who need a place to put their knot. And it’s about time I started reminding them of that.
Grabbing my makeup bag, I settle cross-legged in front of the mirror and get to work perfecting a smoldering smoky eye look that’ll make them weak in the knees, or at least, that’s what I’ll cling to as false bravado surges through my chest.
No more Ms. Nice Omega.
Twenty-Seven
QUINN
The fight is downtown at the convention center. When Dylan asked me to come, I didn’t realize there would be so many people. Alphas, betas, omegas, mated, unmated. All the scents mingle together, coating my scentless skin with a sheen ofother. I take shallow breaths as my pulse thunders.
I’m not usually nervous in crowds, but as I make my way toward the entrance, my stomach swims. More than a few alphas and the occasional beta leer in my direction. I blame the makeup. Or maybe the outfit. Either way, I contemplate leaving until I spot Austin and Brady waiting off to the side of the ticket office. I check them out as I head in their direction.
Austin’s dark-washed jeans and black T-shirt are simple, but he wears the outfit like it’s made of gold. His onyx hair matches the dark lines of his gray-scale tattoos, and his dimple is on full display as he and Brady talk about something. Brady ditched his suit, opting for a pair of jeans that hug his powerful legs and a Henley that’s practically molded to his form.
Someone shoulder checks me. “Watch where you’re standing, bitch.” The guy—who smells like wet tea leaves—glares at me over his shoulder.
Brady’s eyes cut like a razor to me, take in the shocked look on my face, and narrow on the asshole. He takes two steps and stops the guy with a hand to his chest. “The fuck did you just say to her?”
Austin is suddenly at the guy’s side, preventing his escape. “Apologize.”
“Dude, chill. She stepped in my path.”
“I don’t care what she did.” Brady grips the collar of the guy’s shirt. “You don’t get to call her a bitch.”
