Chapter One

 

Mira

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I jolt awake to the electronic bell of my phone alarm, the sound sending a spike of adrenaline through my exhausted body. My hand trembles as I reach for it, knocking over the nearly empty bottle of water beside my mattress where I sleep on the floor. The screen illuminates the darkness—9.00 p.m. I’m late before I’ve even rolled out of bed. If I don’t move, I won’t get to my cleaning job, and I can’t afford to give Stacey any reason to fire me.

“No, no, no...” My voice comes out as a raspy whisper in the cold air.

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The phone, a beat-up model with a screen protector that's more crack than protection, was Stacey's requirement when she hired me at Squeaky Clean Cleaning Service. Not charity, she’d said when I told her I didn’t own a phone. Just insurance that she can reach me anytime, anywhere. My very own digital collar. I’m not in a position to knock back any shifts she might throw my way, no matter how exhausted I am.

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My bones are filled with lead as I force myself to move. Three hours of sleep after a ten-hour shift at Jerry's Diner has left me more exhausted than when I collapsed onto the mattress. My muscles spasm in protest, a deep ache that never really goes away anymore. The suppressants don't help either. They make everything hurt worse.

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Still, the pain is better than the alternative.

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The incessant cold bites at my exposed skin as I roll off my pathetic excuse for a nest. My T-shirt, worn thin enough to see through in places, might as well be tissue paper. The blankets, three mismatched throws from Goodwill that scratch against my skin, provide little warmth. They smell wrong too, like dust and other people's lives, nothing like the soft, clean scents a proper nest should have.

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Not that I’d know from personal experience.

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I've seen pictures in magazines of omega nests in wealthy pack homes. Plush duvets, memory foam mattresses, silk pillows in calming colors. Everything designed to soothe and comfort. Sometimes, in my weakest moments, I imagine what it would be like to sink into something so soft, to be warm and safe and...

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“Stop it!” I dig my nails into my palms until the pain drives away the dangerous thoughts. Those fancy nests come with a fancy price. Freedom. Dignity. An entire existence reduced to being a glorified breeding machine for whatever pack pays the highest price. One bite is all it takes to belong to a pack of alphas who view you as nothing more than a convenient hole and an incubator.

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I stifle a shiver, this time not from the cold. Living in this apartment is better than that life. The training at Haven did pay off. I know what I’ll absolutely do anything to avoid.

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My tiny apartment matches my nest, bare and broken. The walls sweat with condensation, feeding the black mold that spreads across the ceiling. My possessions fit in a single cardboard box—three sets of uniforms, some underwear, a plate, two forks, a spoon, basic toiletries. The mini-fridge hums erratically in the corner, its empty shelves a reminder of my growling stomach.

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I check it anyway, hoping I somehow missed something. Nothing but a half-empty bottle of ketchup and some expired coffee creamer. If Mac had been cooking at the diner today, I'd have a container of leftover meatloaf or soup. He always makes sure we waitresses eat. But Andy was on shift. that beta bastard probably jerks off to the thought of women starving.

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Hunger pangs are constant and familiar, like the ache in my muscles and the ingrained fatigue. Better than being owned. Better than being “protected” by a pack that would use my biology against me. The government can spew all the propaganda they want about omegas needing guidance and protection for their own good.

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There’s no way I can unknow the truth.

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My uniform still smells like bleach and toilet cleaner from yesterday, but I pull it on anyway. The fabric is stiff with dried sweat, but it'll soften as I work.

I brush my teeth at the kitchen sink, the tap's weak stream barely enough to rinse. The communal bathroom down the hall will have to wait. No time for a shower when I'm already running late but when I reach for my suppressants, my heart stops. One lonely pill rattles in the plastic bottle in a sound that sends ice through my veins.

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Fuck.

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Fuck.

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I need to see Marcus tonight; somehow scrape together enough cash for another bottle. The thought of being late to work makes my stomach clench, but going into heat would be so much worse. My only heat—the one I would have been bought for—still haunts my nightmares. Five days of burning agony, of my body betraying me, of unending lust overriding my mind.

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 I'd rather die than go through that again.

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Pinnacle Therapeutics, those corporate vultures, have their claws in every aspect of omega “care.” They're the only legal manufacturer of suppressants, setting astronomical prices because they can. Because the government lets them. The legislation enrages me. Only alphas can legally purchase suppressants, as if we omegas are too stupid to manage our own medication. We need an alpha's “permission” to control our bodies, our biology, when they do nothing to control theirs. The rage devolves into helplessness. 

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Here I am, forced to buy black market pills at triple the price. But what choice do I have? One slip of my carefully constructed facade and it's over. I'll be registered, tagged, and sold to the highest bidding pack before I can even scream.

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And then I’ll be screaming for the rest of my life.

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I catch a glimpse of myself in the cracked mirror—pale skin, dark circles under my eyes, cheekbones too sharp from so many missed meals. I put hunger from my mind and pray to any gods listening that Mac is back at work tomorrow. I shrug on my coat, a threadbare thing from a church donation box that's more holes than warmth, and double-check the three locks on my door. Not that they'd stop anyone determined to get in, but the illusion of security is better than nothing.

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The sharp tang of urine mingles with stale cigarette smoke and cheap beer in the hallway. I bury my nose in my coat and inhale my own sweat, hating that my omega senses are so acute. Behind paper-thin walls, life plays out in a cacophony of misery: a couple screaming about missing rent money, the thud of something heavy hitting a wall, a hungry baby wailing three doors down. The flickering fluorescent light casts sickly shadows across walls where the paint peels away in leprous patches, revealing decades of darker stains underneath.

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But these are beta problems, beta fights. They might get drunk, throw punches, or scream until sunrise, but there's no underlying threat of biological compulsion. No alpha pheromones turning the air thick with dominance and control. Not one of them can bark and order and hijack my body over my own will. I'll take the devil I know over the one that could destroy me with a single bite.

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My feet find the familiar path down the stairs, avoiding the spots that creak and the metal strips that have worked loose. Three flights down, each floor marked by graffiti and the occasional needle. The elevator stands as a metal coffin, doors permanently ajar, cables long since stripped for scrap. I hug the shadows out of habit. No, out of survival.

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Two years on the run teaches you things. How to walk silently. How to keep your head down while still tracking every movement in your peripheral vision. How to become forgettable… not too fast, not too slow, nothing to make you memorable.

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Every passing car could be Omega Services. Every friendly face could be hunting the bounty on unregistered omegas, when families too poor to pay the exorbitant fees of The Haven Institute choose to hide their children instead of giving them up. So, I stick to darkness, to back alleys and side streets, making myself small, making myself nothing. Because nothing is exactly what I need to be to survive another day away from Haven.

I pause in the shadow of a dumpster, pressing my fist against my mouth to stifle the sob that threatens to escape. Even thinking the name of that place makes my scars ache… the ones visible on my skin and the deeper ones carved into my soul.

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Emma's ragged pants are a ghost in my ear, Leah's blood-matted hair etched like a vision in my brain. We were all desperate as we crashed through the dark, unending forest that surrounded Haven. The forest shadows had been our allies until they weren't, until the baying of dogs turned our hopes to ash. We'd stared at each other one last time, three frightened omegas with nothing left to lose, before splitting up. Our last desperate gamble that it would be harder to catch a single omega than a trio, especially since the dogs were trained to hunt our scent.

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I swallow back the tiny, broken sob that breaks free. Emma. Leah. My sisters in everything but blood. Two years of not knowing if they made it, if they're alive, claimed, or buried in unmarked graves. I hope they were lucky enough to find a way out like I did.

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I remember the bite of metal through the tarp, the way my muscles screamed for hours as I held perfectly still in that truck bed. The freezing wind over my body after my swim across the lake had numbed everything except the fear.

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But I'd made it.

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I'd survived.

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Shaking off the memories, I hurry down the familiar alley, keeping to the deepest shadows. The streetlight at the entrance flickers and dies, typical timing for this neighborhood. My eyes scan the darkness, looking for Marcus's familiar silhouette. For a moment, panic rises in my throat. He must be here, he has to be… until a shadow detaches from the back wall, moving with deliberate slowness.

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My hand tightens around the pathetic wad of cash in my pocket.. Without Marcus's pills, I'm as good as dead. Or worse… claimed.

Marcus melts out of the shadows, his ratty leather jacket creaking with each movement. The smell of cheap cigarettes and cheaper cologne makes my nose twitch, and I fight the urge to step back. Show weakness to someone like Marcus, and they'll use it against you every time.

“Anyone follow you?” he asks, eyes darting past my shoulder into the darkness.

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“How stupid do you think I am?” I snap, though my heart hammers so hard I'm sure he can hear it. “I wouldn't lead anyone here.” The words taste bitter in my mouth. We both understand this dance. I pretend I have choices, and he pretends he's doing me a favor.

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He shrugs, the dismissive gesture meant to remind me of my place in this transaction. We both know he'd sell me out in a heartbeat if the price was right. The only thing keeping my secret safe is that he makes more money from my desperate monthly visits than he would from a one-time betrayal. For now.

“I need more pills.” I hate the way my voice sounds, desperate, needy, everything an omega's supposed to be. Everything I've spent two years fighting against.

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The bottle he pulls from his pocket makes my stomach drop through the floor. White plastic instead of the usual orange, with no pharmaceutical markings. When he shakes it, the rattle is too hollow, too light. My mouth dries as he unscrews the cap, showing me the contents. Five pills. Five fucking pills that look slightly different from my usual ones. Slightly off-white, slightly larger. But beggars can't be choosers, and I'm definitely begging.

“That's it?” My voice cracks, betraying me. “Where's the rest?”

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“Police are cracking down.” He picks at his teeth with a dirty nail, enjoying my distress. “Take it or leave it.”

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“Five days’ worth isn’t enough,” I say.

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“Come back in a week. I should have more then,” he says.

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A week! Between the one pill I have and the five in the bottle, I’ll still be short. These pills should be taken every day. I’m just going to have to try and get through. Hopefully I’ll be able to pull one or two days without a pill, and… it will be all right.

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I’ve taken suppressants for years, and there’ll be a build-up in my system, and it will be enough, and... I should be able to get through…

It will be all right.

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I will be all right…

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I pull out my carefully counted bills. A week's worth of tips, half my cleaning wages. Every dollar earned on aching feet and empty stomach. He looks at the money and laughs, an ugly sound that echoes off the alley walls.

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“Full price,” he says, pulling the bottle back slightly. “Same as usual.”

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“For five pills?” The alley walls seem to close in, and I taste copper when I bite the inside of my cheek. “That's not even a week's worth!”

“Market prices, sweetheart.” His grin shows tobacco-stained teeth, and his eyes gleam with satisfaction. “Supply and demand. Basic economics. Or didn't they teach you that at whatever facility you ran from?”

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He can’t know I ran from The Haven Institute. I could have come from any of the facilities across the country for all he knows. It’s not like I share conversation when I’m forced to meet him. This isn’t a social visit.

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I want to scream. Punch his smug beta face. I want to tell him exactly what they taught us at Haven. How to be perfect little omega whores, how to submit, how to break. Instead, I pull out the rest of my money, the entire roll that was supposed to last the month. Rent money, food money, survival money. All of it goes into his greasy palm.

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He counts it slowly, making me wait, making every second of my desperation grow more. Each bill he fingers is another meal I won't eat, another night shivering. Finally, he hands over the bottle.

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“Pleasure doing business with you.” He sneers, spitting out the last word. “Omega.”

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The slur slaps me, but I'm already backing away, clutching my overpriced lifeline. Five measly pills. Five days to figure out how the hell I’m going to pay for more. Five chances to remain free before my biology betrays me.

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I slip back into the shadows, leaving Marcus to his victory. The bottle is impossibly light as I slip it into my pocket, each step carrying me closer to the edge of a cliff I've been avoiding for two years.

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Five pills. Gods help me.

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