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Imogen
Roxy's been shooting me nervous glances all night. She knows the signs. Apparently, Cass sent her to check on me, but the moment she took me in, narrowed her eyes, and gave me a once over, she knew what was wrong.
My heat is here. Or, it’s coming. Fast.
I feel sick. I've never had an unsatisfied heat before, but I know that's what I'm in for, and I'm so scared and worried. I don't know what to do.
I've avoided Dante Pack for a few days. They seem to be ignoring me, too, and I tell myself this is for the best. Every day, the choices I've made for my family are harder to stand by, and seeing them makes everything hurt so much worse and so much more confusing, especially when they pretend I don't exist.
I'm so pathetic. They haven't flirted or sought me out, which only compounds the fact that we're simply biologically compatible. If they scented me, they'd want me. But they can't, so they don't. They have no interest in me as a person. I mean, why would they? They likely see just another omega stuck in the cogs of the system that oppresses us, and they're the heroes who help us out; I'm just another mouth to feed.
Iggy especially. If I walk into a room he's in, his dark eyes widen, his teeth grit, making the tattooed length of his neck flex, his shoulders somehow growing thicker and broader before he turns abruptly and leaves, his intense alpha energy a physical wake in his absence.
It hurts. It kills. But tonight, the rejection feels worse, that constant low hum of an ache in my veins from denying our match grows sharper with my oncoming heat.
I hadn't prepared for my heat to come early. As Kenneth mentioned, it wasn't due for another couple of months. But meeting and scenting my fated mates must have kicked it into gear.
I've been nesting, stealing things from the guys. I've been sneaking into their office, just to breathe them in, for two weeks. Every day it was getting worse, their scents hitting me harder, deeper. I've been walking around with drenched slick-wicks and have even had to change my dance routine a couple of times because I didn't feel comfortable opening my legs in high splits in a room full of unmated men.
Every day, my temperature spiked a little higher. Every night, I barely made it home with all the slick dripping out of me, barely making it through the door before I was on my toys, using my inflatable knot, shoving my face in Red's jacket, wearing Iggy's gloves.
I thought about giving them back just to recharge the scent. If only they could wear them again, and I could steal them back, but I was worried it would be too obvious that someone at work was stealing their things. And when you employ lots of omegas, there's not much mystery when alpha-scented clothing items go missing. Like that girl, Emily, who stole their clothes and nested, basically forced herself on them.
That's me. And I hate it. But oh my goodness, I don't know how to get through the day without their scent, and I can't stop myself.
A cramp hits my lower abdomen, sweat beading on my brow. Thankfully, my black mask and heavy black make-up obscure what is likely pure desperation in my eyes. I just need to get through this shift. I already warned Roxy I'd be out for a few days. She's worried about me, suggesting I go to a clinic nearby.
She promised it was safe, and I'd have fun, alleviate the pain, satisfy my omega, and be back at work like new by the end of the week.
I can't, though. Before my heat came on, I thought I could get by in a loveless marriage with Stevens, but if the last couple of days—if the ache in my belly from my heat—has taught me anything, it's that I'm out of my mind if I think I'll ever be able to be with anyone but Dante.
The very idea of another alpha touching me intimately is nauseating.
I don't know what to do. I'm panicking. I got through two dances, but they were sloppy and choppy and my heart wasn't in it. I couldn't spread my legs into a split on the pole without wanting to rub my clit against the hard brass metal. It took everything I had to walk off stage, pretending I wasn't a horny mess of need. And Roxy and I only just agreed I was ready for the later performances, getting better on stage. Now I'm worried I've ruined it.
Roxy keeps trying to send me home.
But once I go home, it'll start. The waiting. The waves of need. Of pain, if that need isn't satisfied by a knot. Specifically, Cass, Iggy, or Red's. The silent begging because I know they won't come for me.
Shaking my hands out, trying to cool the clammy heat on my skin, I lean against the bar. "Hey Zach, could you pour me some ice water?"
I took my wings off after my last dance, but I'm still just wearing scraps of black lace. My slick-wicks are soaked, and I've been slipping into the bathroom, cleaning the slick from between my legs every half hour. It's not ideal.
It's funny, really. I've become two different people. The real me, trying to emerge here at Queenie's Strip Club as a dancer, my heat coming on while I'm out in public. The other me, the perfect me, who would have already chosen from an approved list of alphas at my local heat clinic, with my overnight bag packed, all accouterment ready and organized. My life has taken such a turn.
I thought it would take me longer to get used to walking around half-naked. I still haven't gone completely topless. And the bottoms, apparently, can only come off for the very private dances in the back rooms, but Roxy won't even show me the rooms, let alone explain what goes on in them, aside from a few subtle hints, but that's fine by me.
She knows who I am, where I come from. I should be offended that she thinks the goings-on aren't suitable for my delicate ears, but I kind of appreciate the familiarity, someone treating me like maybe I'm too soft for this place. I'm not, and if I really believed that, it would make knowing Dante are my mates even more difficult because I worry they won't accept me. I don't belong in their world, no matter how much I'm starting to want it.
I can want to be a pampered princess, get a pat on the head, and called a good girl while getting spanked and rutted so hard it leaves bruises. I'm complex and have layers. I'm an onion.
Would Dante be too cautious with me, if we ever got together? I love having my heat, but I think I've always given the impression that I'm too fragile to like it rough. But I really like being tossed around. Sometimes, I kind of need it. That bite of pain. It makes me feel like I'm alive, like I'm not just a doll or a prop. A perfect OFA omega. I've got sharp edges, too.
Unfortunately, every pack I've ever shared my heat with, at a clinic or in courtship, is always very gentle. Precious Imogen just needs fluffy pillows, sweet words, and lots of kisses.
Real Imogen, behind the perfect smile, wants to get railed so hard she feels it in her stomach.
Oh dear, don't think about that, Imogen. I feel the slick pooling, and I nearly drop my head to the bar top to regain control of my body, though it's pointless.
