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Chapter One
Trystan
Noonenoticedmestanding against the wall, exactly how I liked it. People scrambled in the street, dashing from place to place, too caught up in their own busy lives to lay their eyes on an unassuming stranger.
It helped, of course, that I had no scent. Omegas were like catnip to an alpha, and I had no intention of being wrapped up in the suffocating arms of an entitled oaf who saw me and my kind as nothing more than a genetically inclined hole to fuck. At least I was taller than the stereotypical omega. Combined with the lack of scent, I easily passed as a beta.
The drawback to my scentless lifestyle was that I now had no sense of smell. Something in the cheap knockoff pheromone suppressants I choked down each day muted my ability to scent those around me. No matter how intensely they extruded their pheromones, no one around me had more scent than a beta. Not the most effective survival technique in my line of work.
Thebeep-beepof an electronic lock from the nearby building entrance narrowed my focus on the crowds. Time to go.
Pushing off the wall, I swerved through the crowd with ease, navigating the currents of people until—
“Ow! Oh no!” a young woman in a baby blue jacket exclaimed as her bags fell to the ground, spilling her belongings across the pavement.
“I’m so sorry!” I dropped to my knees, grabbing various plastic bottles for her to shove back into a tote bag. “Here, let me help.”
The surrounding crowds didn’t seem bothered by our commotion. Like ants around a fallen leaf, the flow of people continued, caging us in a wall of moving bodies as we collected her things. Cleaning supplies littered the street, most of them used, but luckily the clean cloths were mostly wrapped up, safe from the dirt now coating our knees.
The girl huffed a breath, her cheeks tinged pink. “It’s okay, really. I should’ve been paying more attention.”
“Don’t worry about it, Abby.”
She paused to look at me, her brow furrowed. “How do you know my name?”
I held up a plastic card with a magnetic strip on the back, showing a picture of her smiling face with her name and the words ‘Squeaky Cleaners’ on the front. “Can’t have you losing this.”
“Oh! Thank you. Yeah, my boss would kill me if I lost this again.”
“Sounds like a real hardass. Got everything?”
Her eyes scanned over the ground as she hefted her bags onto her shoulders. “I think so. Sorry, again.”
“It’s all good, Abby. Take care now.”
I watched her rush away for a moment, making sure she was at least around the corner before I slipped into the alley beside the building I’d seen her exiting. Tossing off my backpack, I quicklypulled a familiar blue jacket out and over my t-shirt. Once paired with a matching baseball cap, Squeaky Cleaners’ newest employee was here and ready to get to work. And thanks to the new keycard I pulled out of my sleeve, I’d get inside the building no problem.
Sorry for the switch, Abby. I’ll try to return it once I’m done, though.
With Abby’s keycard clipped to my jacket, photo-side down, I grabbed my backpack and a bag of cleaning supplies I’d stashed earlier and headed across town to my real target. If I’d timed it right, the building’s concierge should be grabbing his lunch when I arrived. One less person to see my face.
My target’s neighbourhood was quieter than the city centre I’d started this job in. Sleek buildings brushed the skyline, surrounded by carefully trimmed green spaces that appeared frequently enough to break up the urban jungle. However, it was clear these spaces had only been designed for aesthetics. There weren’t any kids playing or couples taking a moment to simply be with each other. No, they were strategically placed to make surrounding businesses look like they cared for more than the money lining their pockets.
After all, how could you be living in a corporate hellscape when you can see a tree from the eighteenth floor?
Pulling out my phone, I double-checked the details from the client. Looked like this was the place. Tapping my stolen card against the reader beside the door, I buzzed into the empty foyer. No security in sight. Perfectly timed. My sneakers squeaked against the polished tile floor as I sauntered to the elevator. Confidence was key if anyone saw me, as was angling my headso the cap hid my face from the cameras. I hit the button to summon the elevator with the tip of my thumb, smudging it against the surface so it wouldn’t leave a clear print, then stepped on.
Light jingling music filled the small space, and pretty soon I was striding into the small penthouse foyer. Dodging one more camera with a subtle head turn, I beeped the keycard against the lock and bit my cheek to hold back a grin as the tiny light flicked to green. As I went inside and shut the door behind me, the lock clicking securely back into place, I dropped the bag of cleaning supplies to the floor. Wouldn’t be needing that part of the disguise anymore. This was almost too easy.
Considering the client told me my target liked to work from home most days, the penthouse seemed barely lived in. The hallway had a few pieces of art decorating the walls, ink landscapes, the frames dustless and polished. In the lounge, the two sofas looked brand new. Each cushion was fluffed to perfection, not a wrinkle in sight. Shelves were stacked with clothbound books, clearly a fan of the classics, and a vinyl record player was tucked in a corner.
This guy hired a cleaning service every week? I wasn’t sure he’d ever heard the word ‘clutter’. The dirtiest thing around was a large monstera plant on a side table near the window, and even that was dusted.
But I wasn’t here to criticise my target’s decorating skills. Though he could really use some statement pieces of colour to brighten up the place.
It didn’t take long to track down his home office. One good thing about penthouse jobs was the few rooms to hide things in. And this was the most likely place I’d find the book my client was paying me handsomely to collect.
I didn’t have a name for the client. Roman, my boss, handled the negotiations to give both of us privacy and protection.What I had was details on my target, Emerson Richter. Local prosecution lawyer and, judging from his penthouse, joyless drone. If I ever got caught on a job, Emerson was the last person I’d like to see in a courtroom. He had a reputation for finding important details in a case that made things much, much worse for the defendant.
