His eager smile makes my heart thump, and I wonder what surreal world I’ve just stumbled into. Am I really about to inviteDash Devereuxto my house? “Um, would Wednesday evening work? I finish my shift at the hotel at five, so we could meet up at six, if you’re free.”
“Perfect. Maybe I could pick up takeout to thank you for squeezing me in?” I nod, too overwhelmed to reply, and he flashes me the kind of smile that will be etched on my eyelids for days to come. “Great, then it's a date.”
A date with Dash Devereux?
If my life was a movie, I’m pretty sure every actress in the world would want to play me. Dash is the kind of famous that comes not just from celebrity, but from talent, dedication, and a natural charisma that’s impossible to resist. He’s an icon in his industry, a media darling, and one of the most sought-after omegas in the city. And he’s coming to my house to have takeout and hopefully more mind-blowing kisses.
Don’t get ahead of yourself, Kate.
That cautionary voice reminds me that it was justone kiss, but I still go through the week in a haze of anticipation. I replay every moment of how it felt to be in his arms, floating through my long shifts thinking about his scent, his skin, and the heated admiration in his eyes. Beingwantedfor a change is dangerously addictive, and when I’m lying in bed at night, I don’t even try to calm my racing heart. I might just be a temporary distraction to Dash, but any kind of connection with him is better than no connection at all.
It’s not lost on me that I’m touch starved. My only surviving family member is my mom, and she lives in Florida with an alpha I’ve never met. As an omega, she took my unbonding hard,and while she tries not to blame me for Lee leaving, she still sends me long letters instructing me in ways to win him back.
My old friendship circle is no better. Some simply froze me out, while others acted like the end of our relationship wasmyfault. After his very public bonding with Suzanna LaGrange, the invitations quickly dried up, and if our paths crossed in the street, my so-called friends acted like we were strangers.
I try to tell myself it’stheirloss, not mine, but seeing them live the high life on social media just makes my own struggle that much harder. Every day I feel like I’m inching that much closer to becoming invisible - except for those times when my status puts me under a spotlight, like in the case of the hideous Mrs. Olsen. Maybe I should beonce bitten, twice shy, but after so much rejection, it’s hard not to grab onto this feeling of being wanted with both hands.
Which means I’m going to enjoy every moment of my date on Wednesday night. Even though I don’t have the money to pamper myself, I give my hair a trim and squeeze in a quick trip to a budget drugstore. I can’t afford any of the brand name cosmetics, but I rummage through the discount bins until I find a lipstick, a bronzer, and a small bottle of perfume. It’s not the House of Omega one that Lee gave me for my last birthday, but it has a light, orange blossom fragrance that reminds me of my natural scent. It’s probably a wasted effort, but my vanity won’t let me pass it up.
On Wednesday, I almost fly through my shift at the hotel, and even Mrs. Gladstone’s evil eye can’t ruin my mood. It’s just after five when I arrive home, and I feel so giddy I force myself to stop in the kitchen and drink a glass of water. I feel a little guilty when I spy Lachlan’s information pack still sitting unopened on the kitchen counter, but I shake off the feeling as I hurry upstairs to change.
The irony of my life is that while I’m drowning in debt, I’m living in a very nice three-bedroom brownstone in an upscale part of Brooklyn. Lee and I happily sank all our savings – including the inheritance I got from my grandparents – into the house, knowing that it was a great investment. We’d planned to raise a family here, and once he got his promotion at work, I was going to start my own dressmaking business out of the remodeled basement. Of course, that dream was shattered beside Suzanna LaGrange’s pool, and all I’m left with is an impressive master bath and a dozen gutted rooms.
I’ve sold off all our fancy furniture, telling myself it’s better to eat than sit on a three-thousand-dollar sofa. Instead of all the expensive creams and gadgets that used to line our bathroom counter, I have my bargain buys from the drugstore and a tube of toothpaste squeezed down to the nub. With a sigh, I strip out of my uniform and put it in the hamper, then wind my hair up under a shower cap. When we were flush, I went to the hair salon every month and washed my hair when I felt like it, but now I scrimp on everything, including shampoo.
I also save money by keeping my showers short, but I can’t resist lingering a little longer than usual. As the hot water soaks into my skin, I can feel my muscles relaxing, and I scrub myself carefully with my descenter gel. As an unbonded, it’s a necessary expense, because no one wants to smell the trauma of a broken bond.Like rotting fruit, Mrs. Gladstone once told me, although it smells closer to old, bitter coffee to me.
When I’m done, I dry off and cover myself in the vanilla powder Dr. Green prescribed for me. I don’t have time to fuss with my hair, so I twist it into a knot and carefully apply the makeup I got from the drugstore. I add a squirt of the orange blossom perfume to my wrists and then head into my walk-in closet. The scent of cedarwood curls around me, and I swallow hard as I flick through my meager wardrobe. The designerdresses were one of the last things I sold off, and while I have the skills to replace them, I can’t afford the fabric or the time to do it.
I settle on a pair of linen trousers I got at a thrift store, and a pale gray shirt that matches my eyes. The last thing I do is cover my scent gland with a Band-Aid, wishing I had time to curl my hair. I usually leave my bond scar uncovered when I’m at home, but with my hair up, it’s impossible to hide. Dash might not care, but if there’s any chance we’re going to kiss again, I don’t want to discourage him with my past trauma.
I’m hurrying downstairs, wondering if I should open the last bottle of wine Lee left behind, when I hear a noise in the kitchen. Dread flushes through me, my feet stumbling on the last step. My limbs lock up, and I’m aware enough that this is fight or flight. My instincts scream to run back to my bedroom and bolt the door, but I’ve tried that before. And the alpha leaning on my kitchen counter showed me what a bad idea it was to act like prey around him.
I have to take a deep breath before I can find my voice. “What are you doing here, Mr. King?”
He ignores the question, jingling the keys he’s holding in his meaty fist.Mykeys, given to him by Lee when he hired King to remodel our house. I’ve tried to take them back, but that also didn’t end well.
“What’s this?” he demands, nudging the manila folder in front of him. My heart sinks even further when I realize he’s opened it, and Lachlan’s information pack is spread across the counter. I haven’t had time to read it yet, but I can tell from the look on his face that it’s probably quite descriptive.
“Nothing. I just grabbed it for a friend.”
“Unbonded don’t have friends.” He narrows his eyes, his scent swelling in the air like scorched meat. “You better not be thinking about peddling your ass, Kate. It’s not gonna happen, and it wouldn’t even begin to cover what you owe me, anyway.”
Stanley King might have sold Lee the dream of a fully renovated house, but so far all he’s done is tear up floors and strip back walls. According to the contract Lee signed, he won’t return to work until I’ve paid the next installment, which is ten thousand dollars I don’t have. But that is the least of my problems, since the contractor isn’t really motivated by money. He’s made it plain that all he cares about is holding my debt over my head.
“I just need a little more time,” I tell him, ignoring the papers scattered on the countertop. “I have a new commission at the store…”
“You know how to make this all go away,” he cuts me off, circling the counter and stalking towards me. He’s got broad shoulders and shiny, chestnut hair, but his eyes are cruel, and his musky scent turns my stomach. If he passed me in the street, I’d probably think he was attractive, but I’ve met the monster who lives under his polo shirts and smooth smiles. Sometimes he grabs me, determined to cover me in his scent, but tonight he seems to be taking a different approach, his hands landing heavily on my shoulders. He digs his fingers in, massaging my tense muscles while I try not to cringe away. “You could end it now, Kate. The long hours. The aching feet. The nights lying awake, worrying if you’re going to be tossed into the street.”
By you, I think angrily, but keep my mouth shut. Fighting with King never works out well for me, and I’m still hoping I can get rid of him before my date with Dash.
“You deserve better than your shitheel of an ex,” he goes on, his thumbs gripping the base of my neck. “And I’m right here, ready to give it to you. Why the hell are you pushing me away?”
It stuns me that this man has the empathy to understand my pain, but only sees it in the context of how he can use it against me. Like all predators, he’s good at sniffing out my weak spots and then twisting them to suit his needs.
“I’m just trying to stand on my own feet, Mr. King.”
His fingers dig in, hard enough to bruise, and a snarl darkens his face. “By fucking a pack of strangers? What’s this auction bullshit, hmm? I never thought you were a whore, Kate.”
