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“What are you going to do for me?” he asks.
Not stab you in the eye? That’s as much as I can promise.
“Never mind.” This is pointless, and even if I have to ask one of the alphas, I won’t beg a beta.
“Did I say you could go? Put away the groceries and don’t even think about stealing. I know everything that happens in this house.”
Craig saunters past me, smirking when I shrink away from him.
As if I’m afraid?
I just don’t want the stink of wet cardboard clinging to me.
This is why I hate betas.
They’re all smiles and pretty words when they’re sucking up to an alpha or a real omega.
Me? I see the ugly truth.
The kitchen tile is cool against my bandaged feet. Without Craig, the space is straight off someone’s vision board with huge glossy appliances and a floor-to-ceiling view of the gardens.
It would be gorgeous if not for the touches of frat boy.
The bag of salt and vinegar chips that Craig left to marinate adds to the rubble of open packages on the table and counters. Crumbs dust every surface, and dead moths pile under the fancy under-cabinet lighting.
I shudder.
Mess in your home is like nails on the chalkboard of an omega’s brain. It’s not even my home, and I have to take a few deep breaths to stop myself from hyperventilating.
Maybe it’s different for male omegas? There were never many at the OCC and they mostly kept the guys apart from the female side of campus.
We tend to react…explosively to each other. Full-on clawing, biting, hair-pulling embarrassment.
I should ignore Craig’s order and scamper back downstairs, but since he told me to put stuff away…
No one will mind if I clean a little. I’ll have nightmares of ants biting my ass if I don’t deal with this slobbery.
I toss the petrified remains of chips and snack cakes into the trash and quickly stash Craig’s “groceries,” which is code for chips, cookies, and instant noodles. When I put away the one almost fruit—a jug of orange juice—I gag when I open the fridge.
It’s a graveyard of sauces and takeout containers that time forgot.
I jam in the juice and fall back against the door.
Nightmare city.
I’m starting to get curious about Orion. I guess an omega who can tolerate Craig is an omega who knows how to tolerate all kinds of shit.
For now, I put everything in the cupboards, remembering which ones have the food, just in case I need to sneak a meal of cheese puffs.
It’s fine for me—I’m trying to screw with my hormones. Any other omega would shrivel up if all their meals came out of plastic bags.
I’m using wadded paper towels to herd moth corpses without touching them when I catch the sound of soft footfalls.
“Craig?” asks a male voice as silky and sweet as unicorn fur. “What did I tell you about—”
The footsteps die in the doorway.
I tense like a tarantula rears between my shoulder blades, fangs poised to strike.
