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My bag drops to the arm of the couch, andI toe off my shoes before heading over to the kitchen.
Across the counter, a tiny cake box waits.
This morning, I lit the candle, whispered a wish to the quiet, blew it out -
And ate a third of the cake with a fork straight from the box like a civilized gremlin.
No surprises. No obligations.
No alpha lurking in my kitchen, expecting me to cook him breakfast and clap like a trained seal because he figured out how to work a washing machine.
God, thethought.
They just… They wanteverything.
Omegas are expected to bond young, be marked early, and start nesting like it’s a divine calling - throw pillows, folded towels, the works. The moment we present, the expectations bloom like cursed flowers.
I’ve been collecting my suppressants from the same underground dealer for years now. The lights flicker. There’s always at least one guy in the corner who might be a taxidermist. But it’s quiet, discreet, and mostly safe.
And it’s where I first heard the whispers.
Stories passed in low voices behind the counter, half-believed and half-myth.
Omegas bonded to more than one alpha.
Rare ones. Pack-bonded.Fated.The kind who don’t belong to one - they belong to many.
I’ve never seen one with my own eyes, never met anyone who could confirm it was real, but the rumors persist anyway, like old songs no one remembers how to stop singing.
Still, I’ve seen what being bonded usually looks like.
It’s some shiny collar dressed up as devotion, and an alpha who thinks making toast is a contribution while you iron his shirts and fantasize about screaming into the sink.
Yeah -no thanks.
This life I’m living might not be glamorous, but it’smine.
The city lets me be invisible.
My friends don’t ask questions I can’t answer.
I walk home in the golden hour, eat cake with my fingers, and no one breathes down my neck about it.
And best of all, I wake up every morning without a pheromone-heavy man-child expecting a parade because he loaded two plates into the dishwasher.
Freedom looks a little different for everyone.
Tonight, it looks like a slinky dress, a camera bag, and just enough eyeliner to convince people I belong in the room.
*
I slip on my dress and smooth my palms over the fabric.
It's black. Sleek enough to pass, stretchy enough to survive.
Professional, but forgettable; practically screamingplease don't notice me unless I’m pointing a camera at your face.
I've styled my hair into soft copper waves that fall down my back with just enough mess to feel deliberate.
