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Ophelia snorts, "Right, like I don't have a right to ask that question as many times as I'd like. You kidnapped me, dumbass. You tried to force a bond with me. That's not even touching what you did to my sister."
"I loved your sister!"
"You barely knew my sister, and I don't care what you say about how she died, she'd not have been racing down a mountain to get away from your pack if it wasn't for you. I hold you responsible for her death! For the hurt you caused her, the pain!"
His face contorts in rage, opening his mouth to shout or bark; you can feel the dominant alpha energy pressing against us, intense and sticky and violent. But then, miraculously, he drops his head in his hands. Shoulders shaking, he begins sobbing. I've never seen an alpha cry before, certainly not like this.
I watch Ophelia's reaction, and it's… sorrowful. She feels bad for him. Despite everything he did, she's still compassionate and kind. But she continues to sneer, likely angry that she feels anything toward him but disgust.
My mind wanders to my conversation with my mother earlier, how the packs she's chosen for me are the respectable ones. But here we are. Jackson Olcene, before his stint in prison, was well respected, had the right pedigree, the right amount of money, and a good name. And then Ophelia, who, at dinner parties, high-society still gossip about, calling her South Loop trash. Yet she is, without a doubt, the bigger person.
"Jackson," Ophelia snaps, unsympathetic. He's stopped crying, just keeps fidgeting in his chair, running his hands over his shaved head. She doesn't tell him she forgives him, but her tone softens. "I came because I need information."
I'm surprised when Jackson doesn't hesitate, lifting his chin in response.
"You said… Last year, you said something about how you could get into the heat clinics if you had the right connections. I need to know what those connections are."
"Why?" He spits angrily. "So you can slap more charges on me?"
"Dude, you act like you don't deserve to be in here. Look, I'm just trying to find out how alphas are getting in."
He presses his lips together and looks up, around the building, anywhere but facing us, two omegas oppressed by men like him.
"Jackson, you know it's not right. I thought South Loop was the most dangerous, but there are a few clinics, some close to High Hills, where we've found a ton of unreported incidents of omegas being taken advantage of during their heat. We're shutting them down; we're getting better security. But unless we plug the leak, whoever's getting names like yours on the approved list will keep doing it. We need to know," she begs.
An alpha or a pack—though oftentimes it's lone alphas who are still looking for their pack or those who remained unbonded—can choose to sign up on a pre-approved list to assist with omegas during their heat at heat clinics. I've used them myself. The names are vetted, with background and health checks, and the omega will approve the list before their heat begins. For alphas to sneak their names onto this list is not only dangerous, it's assault.
This is the big splash Ophelia's been making lately. She unapologetically shouts these injustices from the rooftops. Sometimes, the Daily Rag uses unkind names, like my mother would, to describe her; other times, they champion her. It's all about public opinion.
"Jackson… you fucking owe me. What would Alma want? What would she say, what would she think, if you choose not to tell me?"
Jackson grumbles under his breath, and they argue for a few more minutes, but using Alma's name seems to have worked because he finally snaps, "Okay, fine! You win! Ugh… Look, you didn't hear this from me, got it?"
She narrows her eyes but agrees. "Got it."
Jackson nods. "Stevens. Kenneth Stevens."
Lead drops into my gut. I must not have heard that right.
Ophelia gasps, leaning closer. "The mayor?"
He nods again like he didn't drop this massive bomb. Ophelia glances nervously at me before turning back to him. They talk more about the details, how it works, who else the mayor has on the take. I think they say goodbye. I'm not sure. All I hear is a high-pitched ringing sound and pressure—heavy, closing in, and I can't see straight. I can't get out of my head.
I feel stuck, like an ocean swirls around my ears, and nothing else penetrates. Ophelia guides me away, and I follow woodenly down the hall. We step out into the late afternoon sun.
"Are you okay?" She asks.
I nod, but I'm not. I can't believe he's involved.
Except, I can. I can believe it, because he tried to purchase me. My unease gives way to anger, and for the first time, I don't care what face I'm making. I am mad.
I want to storm city hall, and maybe I'd do just that after I dropped off Ophelia if she didn't freeze and whine, "Oh shit."
I follow her gaze, and there, parked beside my BMW, is her mate Enzo, standing like a statue beside a black SUV.
She mumbles beside me, "Okay, it's just him. I don't sense my other mates. Shit, how did he find out?" She looks at me helplessly.
I shrug because it's Enzo. Who knows how he knows? She approaches him cautiously, but then stands a little taller and folds her arms as we approach. She doesn't look very menacing at five feet, but no one would dare tell her so.
