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I consider not taking it, but the puffier skirt will make it easier to hide my knives. “Grand.”
“And for your makeup—”
“No. Thanks for the dress, but no."
She tries to wheedle me, but I skip away and duck in a bathroom to change.
I hate how perfect the dress is.
The drape of the satiny, navy fabric is lingerie for my throat, sparking with silver and gold embroidery. With the puffy petticoat, you’d believe I have hips.
I aspire to have hips.
I look less emaciated after all the hospital meals, IV drips, and fudge treats, but my full-time address is still in anxiety city, so I haven’t been keeping up with my meals.
One good thing about the OCC?
The catering is amazing.
So, even if tonight is a wreck, I can stuff myself with bacon-wrapped dates and lava cakes.
When I pin my long, brown hair into a soft updo, leaving my neck long and bare, I look textbook omega on the prowl even if I feel more omega-upset-stomach.
The cocktail’s held at the on-campus lounge. I’ve seen it decorated for luaus, under the sea, and magic shows.
Tonight’s theme is casual elegance.
A red carpet leads to the doors, and it’s roped off so that every alpha who arrives in a sleek supercar gets ushered inside like an old money tycoon.
Alpha packs enter in dark suits, and their dominance gut-punches me even though I’m far from the action, hiding behind a hedge.
The omegas enter in small, giggly groups, looking like designer cream puffs.
All bright and smiley.
Meanwhile, I crouch in the landscaping, pretending I don’t taste stomach acid at the thought of walking in there all alone.
I don’t belong.
But I don’t have a choice.
In a second, I’ll go.
I promise.
When it’s been more than five minutes since the last late arrival, and I’m officially half an hour behind schedule, I finally brush the wood chips from my skirt and walk the red carpet.
A red-headed beta in a uniform vest greets me with a happy smile. “Good evening. Can I check you— Oh.” Her customer service voice chokes. She pinches her nose. “Miss. I have some de-scenter here if you—”
“I’m allergic.” I wave off her spray bottle, but before I can step back, I catch the chemical tang of my nightmares.
Slosh, slosh, gasp.
My mind goes dark, spots fuzzing my vision.
I can’t.
My skin still needs prescription salve, and even if I were fully healed, pretty sure I’d black out from one spritz.
