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I’m ashamed to admit the entire apartment is the size of my walk-in closet at home. It’s spartan, with only the bare necessities, though the nest, or bedroom, whichever its purpose, is clean and well stocked.
Not many others have stayed here; I can tell by the faint scent of other omegas, even in the small nest. Knowing it’s used doesn’t bother me; it’s no different from a heat clinic, where I usually ride out my heats.
I’ve shared my heats with courting packs in the past, too, but lately—and for the first time in my life—I’ve considered taking heat suppressants.
When I attended the OFA, the Omega Finishing Academy, it was our choice to experience the benefits of being an omega by staying off suppressants or taking them if we wanted. In the last couple of years, though, the teachers at the OFA began pushing the use of suppressants, implying packs prized virginity, and we may have a better chance of a favorable match if we waited. Saved ourselves were the words they used.
"You realize I’m no longer a virgin, right?" I’d asked my mother after she suggested I go on suppressants since it was the new trend to be pure, pretending that toxic language didn't imply I was somehow unclean.
I’d gone through several heats already and enjoyed every one. As someone skilled in keeping her emotions locked up, having a few days once or twice a year for my heat to let my inhibitions run wild was freeing on a molecular level, and I wasn’t giving that up for anything. Certainly not to feign virginity.
She’d replied, "Of course, but they don’t need to know that. Sweetheart, the alphas in this town have more options, with the OFA facility being so large. Girls who are younger than you, many of them untouched." I scoffed, knowing, behind the scenes, how often that lie was tossed around. An alpha in rut couldn’t tell the difference, an omega could say whatever they wanted.
It was one of the few times I’ve ever truly stood up to my mother and refused—to go on suppressants, or to lie about being a virgin, which is little more than a human construct that means nothing in a relationship beyond possession and control. If a courting pack holds value in virginity, I’ve no interest in them.
My mother wrung her hands nervously, after trying every angle to convince me to lie and take the pills. "You’re getting older, Imogen. And your body won’t stay so thin, young and supple forever. Best to do what the teachers suggest."
Those last days before my graduation never sat well with me. I honestly can’t say what I’d have chosen if I was still a technical virgin and more vulnerable to my mother and the OFA’s pressures, but I’m grateful I was old enough to have already made a choice.
I love having my heat, it’s a part of me. The OFA’s attempt to take that away from young omegas is unsettling. Having a heat is a huge part of who we are.
As it stands, I’m to-be-betrothed to a pack I don’t love, barely know, and while I’ve shared my heat with courting packs in the past, this feels different. They’re not technically courting me as my parents have already told them I’ve said yes. I’m sure I’ll come to love them in time, but when a pack marries, they often bond during their first heat together. Mating, with biting marks and a lifelong commitment between alpha and omega.
If I take suppressants now, I could buy myself some time. The idea of having their mating marks on my body makes my skin crawl, and that’s not exactly how I want to start a family.
Maybe I just need to warm up to the idea.
I need time to let go of my dream of finding my scent-match, my fated mates. I know how rare it is, but seeing Ophelia with her fated mates makes my heart ache in envy.
The first time I met the Stevens Pack was at an OFA event. They were among the first to introduce themselves to me before my parents. The bar shouldn’t be so low that it impressed me, but I admit, it made them stand out. It helped that we were scent-sympathetic, finding each other pleasing. I hadn’t expected how quickly things would fall into place after that.
Their pack came to our house for dinners, they had business meetings with my fathers. Our photograph was taken when we dined together downtown, showing up in the Daily Rag. I knew Stevens Pack were good people, the mayor, Kenneth, and his pack mates Saul, Devon, and Jonathan. Three alphas, one beta. They were all good-looking, like every other pack that tried to court me. They had money, status, power. They said all the right things, they looked the right way. They smiled at me. They smelled nice.
So why isn’t that enough?
Why was my first reaction at finding out I was to marry their perfectly suitable pack to run to Queenie’s?
I’m standing here in yesterday’s clothes, shaking like a leaf, staring in the mirror, wondering what in the heck I’m thinking, but that question—why—is what urges me forward. With one final deep breath, I slip on my red-soled heels and leave the apartment.
Construction dominates the lower levels, vibrating the walls as I navigate my way out of the building. Sully, Ophelia’s mate, has been renovating all the apartments over the last year, but everyone around seems nice and in good spirits, despite the noise. I can’t imagine how it looked before they began renovations; the lower levels, still mostly untouched, have stained yellow walls, chips in the plaster, broken spindles along the staircase. It’s a big transformation, from the top floors down.
Though I remember the way from yesterday, I pull my phone out and follow directions so I can get comfortable with the walk. At Ophelia’s suggestion, I’m wearing expensive scent-blockers, which completely erase my scent, so no one can tell my designation, and being tall for an omega, it’s easy to pass for a beta, boosting my confidence as I trudge through the unfamiliar neighborhood.
The streets are quiet, late in the day for morning commuters, too early for the night owls to emerge. Stepping around cracks in the sidewalk, litters of trash, clusters of needles, cigarette butts and remnants of other nefarious evening activities, despite the mess, the few random people I pass carry on happily. Parents clutching their kids hands crossing the street, shopkeepers in front of bodegas and mini-marts gossiping, everyone laughing and smiling.
It’s around a ten-minute walk to Queenie’s from C-Block. Approaching the familiar building, minus the bouncer and the lively throngs of people, I knock on the front door, a tall metal monstrosity that screams keep out in the harsh light of day. A hot pink neon sign in script, reading Queenie’s, hangs above the door; though now muted since they’re closed, I can see why it’s a beacon for omegas. It screams power and sex. And from what I’ve learned of the Dante Pack, safety. Three things omegas love.
I’m startled by the tall, muscular, bonded Alpha who answers the door. Wearing a loose, aged gray henley, his genial grin is reassuring and I straighten my shoulders, though my nerves return with a vengeance. This is real. I’m really standing here. He’s not judging me like the bouncer from the night before, although I’m wearing the same thing, including the self-deprecating smile.
Stepping back, holding the door open for me, he greets warmly, "You must be Imogen."
"Yes, that’s me. I have a meeting with Roxy?" I left my confidence somewhere in my closet back home, hidden in a stack of expensive high heels. But he doesn’t comment on my question, which should be a firm statement; he must see this kind of thing all the time. An omega who has no idea what they’re doing, attempting to find inner peace at a strip club.
The man smiles wide. Tan, with a big dimpled grin and thick biceps, he steps back, allowing me to walk past him. I enter the club with a vastly different experience from the night previous.
There’s no music, and although thick curtains and shuttered windows block the natural light from outside, the bright lights overhead manage a soft glow without the seediness you’d expect of a strip club in the daytime.
A lithe, smiling omega in a light pink velour tracksuit comes from around the bar and wraps me in a warm hug, much like Franky did. I love that these omegas all hug, and I return the embrace.
