Page 44 of A Murderous Omega

Emile gathered me into his arms. “And we’re never letting you go.”

Three days later, I stood in a garden behind a Victorian mansion in the suburbs, sipping champagne and making small talk with Emile’s fathers’ academic colleagues.

“The sociology of deviant behavior,” the omega beside me was saying,“is a fascinating field. Do you have any interest in social sciences, dear?”

“I’m more hands-on with my work,” I said pleasantly.

“What field are you in?”

“Consulting. Conflict resolution.” Technically, I’d told the truth. I did resolve conflicts. Permanently.

Emile appeared at my elbow with fresh champagne. “How are you doing?”

“Your father’s colleague has been telling me about her research on pack dynamics. It’s interesting.”

He relaxed slightly, as if he’d been worried about me, and I rolled my eyes. I’d been doing this for years—blending in, being charming, hiding in plain sight. Did he really think I’d forgotten how?

His father, Michel, found us a few minutes later. He was tall and elegant, with deep umber skin, silver hair, and laugh lines around his eyes. “Lark! I’ve been hoping to steal you for a conversation. Philippe is around somewhere— Et voilà, there he is!”

Emile’s other father appeared, shorter and rounder, with warm brown skin and an infectious smile. “The famous Lark! Viens, viens, viens. Sit and tell us everything.”

We settled at a small table in the corner of the garden. Philippe immediately launched into enthusiastic questions about my work and where I grew up. He told stories of Emile going to school in France, then immigrating so his parents could take up research positions in the States.

Michel asked more probing questions about my thoughts on omega rights and registration reform.

“The system failed you,” he said. “Presenting without family support, no access to resources—the Institute should have protected you.”

“The Institute has systemic issues,” I agreed carefully.

“That’s putting it mildly.” Philippe shook his head. “The corruption, the trafficking networks they enable, it’s unconscionable.”

I glanced at Emile, who gave a small nod. His parents knew—not everything, but enough.

“Someone should do something about it,” I said lightly.

Michel’s eyes glinted. “Indeed they should.”

An elderly omega approached our table. “Michel, Philippe! And you must be Emile’s omega. How wonderful! When are you planning to have kids?”

The question hung in the air.

“We’re not,” I said simply. “I’m infertile.”

Her face fell. “Oh, I’m so sorry⁠—”

“I’m not.” I kept my voice gentle but firm. “It’s not a tragedy.”

“But surely you must want⁠—”

“What I want is to build a life with my pack,” I said. “Children aren’t part of that plan. And that’s okay.”

Philippe raised his glass. “Well said. Not every omega needs to follow the same path.”

“Speaking of paths,” a familiar voice said behind me, “I’m stealing Lark for a moment.”

Conor’s mother steered me away from the table, toward the roses at the far end of the garden.

“You’re handling them beautifully,” she said once we were alone.