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No way in hell am I flouncing around flashing my throat.
The scars would ruin my disguise.
After putting in contacts that scrape my eyelids with every blink, I copy my sister’s hard-ass look using the long-lost beauty skills that were drilled into me at the OCC.
Deep liner shaped to emphasize the trademark Redfang glint. Thick mascara. Sharp, contoured cheeks. Then a blonde ponytail with a cheap extension, secured high on my head.
After a final hit of venom-pink lipstick, I size up my latest disguise.
I’ve always worn a mask.
A girl sweet enough to be adopted.
Then a boy, helpful enough to be kept around.
At the OCC, I played a normal omega.
I would’ve had to play mate if my scent hadn’t morphed into a special ability.
Instead, I was captured, forced to play a gamma soldier and the long game, patiently bluffing my way to freedom.
None of my masks have ever been me, but why be myself?
Everyone hates the real me.
For being a weird beta, for being an omega, for being the wrong type of omega, and even for being the wrong type of gamma.
Whatever I am, everyone always wants me to be something else.
That’s why I love my masks.
Then it’s not really me being rejected again and again and again.
But this mask?
The face in the mirror shakes my heart.
In slinky black, with predator pink lips, I don’t feel like Serafina. I look like the Sol I wish I could’ve been.
A girl who never dulls her edge.
Confident. Wanted. A genuine gangster princess.
I twist to check my ass in the painted-on pants.
Shit.
I look good.
But it’s all a costume.
With stilettos half-a-size too small pinching my toes, and Serafina’s acid lemon perfume wafting from her clothes, there’s no forgetting who I am underneath.
The Sol who isn’t wanted.
The one who survives anyway.
As long as I bluff the same as ever, no one will spot the subtle differences between me and the real thing.
