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I shrug, biting my cheek. “An omega has to do what an omega has to do.”
“I can’t wait to see what else you come up with.”
I pout. “You see this as a challenge?”
“Yep.” He pulls me closer. “Give me your best, little one.”
I growl. “I will show you my absolute best.”
“Sleep, Aria,” he purrs.
Well, if he insists.
15
ARIA
Preheats are like the premenstrual syndrome of the beta world—it’s a two-week hell before the raging bleed happens. I can’t really relate, though, because I’m an omega. I only bleed two weeks after a heat, which I suppose makes my entire definition moot.
Here’s the thing—it also makes a little sense. I become moody, crampy, and hungry for all the snacks, and I mean all the snacks—salty, sweet, and maybe salty and sweet.
It’s a problem.
I am starving.
Unfortunately, Quinn left by the time I woke up, and that was a whole day ago. I also did not go to judo last night because I’m avoiding Zane for now. I might show up tomorrow. Might.
The familiar routine of the salon feels comforting after the emotional rollercoaster of the past few days. I’m spinning in my chair, the cool leather a stark contrast to the warmth of Quinn’s embrace that still lingers in my memory. My stomach growls, reminding me of my current predicament. As I wait for my next client, I can’t help but wonder if I’ll ever find a balance between my secret and my growing connections with the pack.
“You’re making me dizzy,” my boss, also the best beta I’ve ever met aside from Cayenne and Ginger, says. She has latent omega genetics, and according to the scientists of the world, she just needs to come across the right alpha to trigger them.
Of course, she wants nothing to do with them, and I don’t actually blame her.
“Dia,” I coo, twirling around until her not so smiling face comes into view. She’s older than me by what I’ve theorized is about ten years. I don’t actually know, though, because she refuses to tell anyone her age. “You look radiant this afternoon.” She’s dressed in smart, high-waisted, flowy black pants and a matching crop top. She always looks amazing.
“What is your problem?” Her heels clack as she walks over to the register and plops down in the seat. Our receptionist is off today, so it’s up to us to man the phone.
She lifts it and sets it to the side, because we are about to get slammed.
It makes me giggle, but Claudia refuses to answer obnoxious people when we are busy. I don’t really blame her.
“I’m hungry, that’s all.” I spin back around again.
The bell above the door chimes, and Dia looks up. “And your next victim is here,” she announces in a singsong voice that makes me want to stab her with my scissors.
I don’t, because that’s homicide, and I know better than to allow my homicidal tendencies to come out of me while I’m holding shears…mostly.
I spin around, the familiar scent of hair products and the soft hum of blow dryers filling my senses. My eyes land on Dash, who’s standing at the door with a stupid smirk on his handsome face. The bell above the door chimes softly as it swings shut behind him, and I can’t help but notice how he stands out against the backdrop of pastel walls and gleaming mirrors.
“At least you’re wearing a shirt today.” I pop up and grab a cape. “I should have known it was you when the only thing in the book was ‘that guy.’”
“Couldn’t have you knowing it was me, now could I?” He winks, and my gosh, this guy makes my heart race.
Once again, I’m thankful for the little apothecary, the scent suppressors, and heat suppressants.
I wouldn’t survive this appointment otherwise. He probably smells delicious.
I already know Quinn is a possible scent match, so it isn’t too far-fetched if the rest of his pack is a scent match as well.
