AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Since that unforgettable night at the club, I've been floating through each day, my legs still trembling with the lingering euphoria of post-orgasmic bliss. I only stayed with them that one night, moving back to my parent's home the next, because I could feel the intense connection between us growing stronger, and I was on the verge of abandoning everything and everyone else, ready to complete our bond.
It wasn't fair to keep them waiting, but they reluctantly agreed to give me space while I figured out my life.
Red invited me on a proper courting date, and even though I knew I should have declined to avoid being seen with him in public, I couldn't find the courage to turn him down. Every step, every decision I make feels precarious, like my tenuous grip on everything will come crashing down around me at any moment.
They've offered me their trust even though I'm still publicly engaged to another pack, and I feel unworthy of them. The weight of shame bears down, and I'm consumed by worry that when they find out that my parents, who dug themselves into such a deep financial hole, resorted to selling me for their own gain, they'll see me differently and think I'm just like them.
But they don't know, and they've placed their trust in me. Since Dante accepted me into their pack, they've been texting me all week, individually and in their group message, sometimes forgetting I was in it and sending Iggy random complaints because he was being too loud with a hammer at two o'clock in the morning or something like that. It made me laugh, getting a peek into their lives, and I want so badly to join them.
This afternoon, I have plans to meet Ophelia. She asked me to go to the prison with her since she didn't want to go alone and couldn't ask her mates. I was surprised she wanted to meet with one of the men who not only kidnapped her but also hurt her twin sister, Alma, many years ago. However, Ophelia has never asked me for anything, so I couldn't refuse.
Regrettably, just as I was about to leave for the day, my mother unexpectedly walked into my bedroom—unannounced, of course—and insisted on my attention for the morning.
I'm a terrible liar, and she would see through any excuse I gave her why I couldn't go shopping; I certainly didn't want her finding out about my actual plans, so I agreed to go. Besides, I was desperate for answers, so a shopping trip, however uncomfortable, could be helpful.
The memory of my father Bowen's anger still lingers, making me hesitate to mention the money again. But I reassure myself that he's probably just as afraid as I am, and his stress caused him to take it out on me.
Under the guise of wedding dress shopping, we browse through rows of taffeta and lace, sequins, and other gaudy, shiny dresses that make me feel more like a decorated birthday cake than a blushing bride.
My mother skillfully dodges my questions, just as I have been at skipping pre-wedding preparations.
"Mother," I call out, cracking the door to the dressing room, hoping to trap her in one place. "Mother, could you come help me, please?" I leave the dressing room door ajar and turn to face the mirror, pulling the strapless, sequined monstrosity up a little higher.
"Oh, Imogen," my mother gasps, sneaking in and closing the door behind her. With the layers of taffeta and frill at my skirt, it’s a tight fit.
"Could you zip me up, please?"
She pulls the base, giving it a tug, pausing when the zipper reaches my mid-back. "Imogen… what on earth have you been doing?"
I meet her eyes in the mirror. "What do you mean?"
The look she gives me has me feeling small. I swallow the distress because I know what she’s about to say. I watch her look at my body, the parts exposed, shaking her head in disappointment.
She gives the zipper another sharp tug, the material pulling taut against my spine, constricting my lungs. I hate this dress. I hate that look on her face, like I’m not enough. But I smile softly, prepared to take the verbal beating.
Squeezing my arm, she says, "Why are you suddenly so muscular? Even your back! Oh my god, look at your shoulders. They're huge!"
"I’ve been exercising. It’s healthy," I defend quietly, knowing what she sees. I have traps now. I didn't mean to get them, but I really loved doing the weight-lifting exercises that made my arms strong; one thing led to another… my neck no longer delicately slopes down. Instead, there's a small bulge at the tops of my shoulders that flexes when I lift my arms.
"It’s… masculine. Imogen," she pressed her hand to her forehead, closing her eyes briefly. "Men do not like muscular women. It’s grotesque."
"Mother—"
"I'm making an appointment with Madam Fletcher. This has gone on long enough. You need a new diet plan and—" she wrings her wrists, grimacing, taking in my body, "We need to do this fast. I am so disappointed in you. How many sizes have you gone up?" She spits, pulling the back of the dress closer to read the tag.
She shakes her head, unzips the dress, and frantically shoves it down, exposing me in a nude strapless bra and panties, the look on her face disgusted. I press my lips together and chance a look in the mirror. My legs have gotten thicker, my butt, too. My arms are a lot more defined but bigger, as well. I'm not waif-like; I've lost the fragile frame I left the OFA with.
How can I feel pride one minute, then disgust and shame looking at myself in the next? I like how strong I've been getting. I like my body.
But my mother's right; it's not the perfect omega image. I'm not perfect. I've never been perfect.
My cheeks feel hot and flush, but I swallow the pain, paint my face with a small smile, and downcast my eyes.
I've not been dancing as much these last two weeks since I quit, except for that one shift Roxy called me for, but I've still been keeping up with all the exercises. If anything, I've been working out more, stuck at home with nothing to do. I told Roxy to call me again, anytime, if she needed me, too ashamed to ask for my job back since I'd quit so unexpectedly and left her high and dry. She hasn't called, and I don't have the nerve to just show up.
My voice is thin and weak, but I steel my spine. "Mother… I don't want to meet with Madam Fletcher."
I am not ashamed of my new body. I love it. I love feeling strong. The mere thought of retreating into that confining cage I've slowly broken free from, the delicate, waif-like OFA omega, the submissive, softly spoken Imogen puppet who dresses like a child and says yes to whatever is asked of her, ignites a fear within me, like if I don't put a stop to it, I'll be surrendering a piece of my soul.
