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But I quickly deduce we’re not dealing with the best and brightest alphas in the world here.
The one standing up on the platform with them is clearly having the worst two minutes of his life. When Irene arrived and immediately asked everyone gathered to close their eyes for a visualization exercise, he had the gall to laugh.
Which, as it turns out, was quite the mistake.
Now, he clutches a limp piece of fabric in his left hand and clears his throat. “I—well, uh?—”
Julian chuckles. “Show us again.” He cocks his head, coy. “Deeper this time, alpha.”
Christ.
I should have brought a flask.
I can already tell the alphas in this room fall into two categories. The ones like me, who know they fucked up and are here of their own begrudging will… and the ones who are here because someone is making them.
I have a feeling Stage Guy is in the second column.
The rest of the alphas in the front row cast each other furtive glances, sizing one another up and, at the same time, checking that no one is looking right at us.
I accidentally make eye contact with a guy three chairs down from mine. We both immediately fling our gazes away, but it’s too late.
Dear God.
Didn’t I run high school track with that guy?
Isn’t he a big-time broker, now? And he’s here?
Well, so am I, I guess.
A fresh round of shame worms its way into my guts as I shift, crossing my ankle over my knee, doing everything I can not to let my leg bounce with anxiety.
It’s a lot harder than it should be; then again, I’m in a room full of similarly aggravated alphas. My instincts tell me not to turn my back for even a moment.
What am I doing here?
I picture Remi, laughing, as Damon twirls her in their daily dance around the kitchen. Cassian stepping between her thighs and putting his forehead right on her shoulder—his supplication and trust, the effortless way she accepts him.
You’re here because your omega hates you. And you can’t take it anymore.
I really can’t. The last few days have been torturous, ever since she started sleeping with Cass and Damon. It was bad enough hearing her with my little brother every night. But now it’s both of them, and I had forgotten that Damon has absolutely no shame.
He’s fucked her in every hallway, on every surface of the kitchen, and seven different ways on the couch.
Yes. I know it was seven. Because I watched.
And, no, they didn’t know I was standing on the other side of the back door, peering through the window the entire time.
That’s the other fucking problem: in addition to being a panty thief, I’m becoming a bit of a voyeur. Always pausing for several beats too long outside her door before I bring in her coffee. Or standing around corners, listening to the way she gasps and sighs while the guys have their way with her.
Between her cold shoulder, my stockpile of panty-pocket-squares, and the vigorous way I’ve been masturbating, I’m surprised my dick hasn’t fallen off.
The alpha on stage looks like his has shriveled up altogether.
His eyes dart over the rest of us while we shift uncomfortably—all of us grateful we aren’t him and scared that we might be next. He lifts the article of clothing to his face, using it to channel his half-assed purr again.
Come on. I might not be an omega expert, but even I can purr better than that.
Irene doesn’t care much. She snaps at him, rolling her eyes while she waves him off. “That’s quite enough, I think. The rest of you? Take out your omegas’ clothing items.”
