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Smith
Remi, I won’t be home for dinner, unfortunately.
But I think you know what I want as a side for whatever you leave out.
Cassian
Can we focus?
Damon
On how amazing our omega is? Absolutely.
Cassian
On dinner. Chinese or Thai?
Remi
Smith doesn’t like Thai. And I already ordered Chinese.
It’s on its way :)
Damon
Marry me.
…
Did I make it weird?
I made it weird.
“Harder!”
I’ve never been in a room where every single person is simultaneously having the most humiliating experience of their life.
Until now.
“Is that all you’ve got, alpha?”
I suppose, technically, it isn’t every person. The two omegas at the front of the room certainly don’t seem fazed in the least.
In her crimson kaftan and matching turban, it’s impossible to tell how old Irene Underwood is. She moves like a cloud of perfume. Wafting from one side of the conference room’s platform to the other, filling the air with a powdery sort of scent each time she sweeps past my end of the front row.
Her male counterpart is every bit as attractive and age-ambiguous as she is. But Julian Channing stands to the back of the stage, his arms crossed loosely and a small smirk on his goateed face.
For twenty-some years, alphas, betas, and omegas have whispered about this rumored alpha-training.
Is it true some alphas really didn’t know how to care for their mates?
Do two omegas honestly run a whole class for it? Together?
And whose alphas are the ones that stand around the room, watching the other, much younger alphas’ every move?
I can’t tell. But every time any of us so much as flick an annoyed look at either of the elder omegas, threatening alpha auras creep from the corners of the room.
At first, I wondered what the older gentlemen were doing here. It would be monumentally stupid for any of us to disrespect Irene or Julian—they’re practically famous for what they do, and we all had to sign a mountain of paperwork just to apply for this exorbitant class.
