Page 14 of Beautifully Scarred Omega

The elevator chimes at the penthouse level, because of course an alpha like Frederic Zimmer wouldn’t stay anywhere else. The doors open onto a private foyer with marble floors and a single door at the end of a short hallway.

Finn pulls a keycard from his pocket and unlocks the door, then moves aside to let me enter first. Gentlemanly again. Giving me space instead of crowding me.

I walk past him into the suite, and⁠—

Oh.

For a second, I forget to breathe.

Floor-to-ceiling windows wrap around the entire living space. The skyline glitters below us, a river of lights flowing between dark canyons of buildings, and above it all the sky is velvet black and scattered with stars.

The rest of the suite barely registers. Warm wood, a bar of cut crystal, a couch facing the windows.

I walk to the window and press my palm against the glass. The city pulses below me, alive and indifferent.

Finn comes to stand beside me.

“You lied,” I say quietly.

“Did I?”

“You said the view was nice.” I turn to look at him. “This is so much more than that.”

That smile again, soft and almost boyish. “I suppose I undersold it.”

I look back at the city, at the impossible expanse of light and shadow, and something bitter rises in my throat.

“Must be nice,” I hear myself say. “Being able to afford this.”

I keep my voice light, teasing, but the edge is there. I wonder if he can hear it.

He tilts his head slightly, considering the question rather than bristling at it. “Actually, I booked a standard room. I got lucky with an upgrade.” He shrugs, looking almost embarrassed. “Right place, right time. Or maybe they just wanted to get rid of me because I asked too many questions at check-in.”

There it is again. The humility. The self-deprecation. As if the wealth and the penthouse and the easy charm all just happened to him, rather than being things he cultivated to lure in his victims.

For some reason, it makes me angrier.

“Questions about what?” I ask, turning away from the window.

“The history of the building, mostly. It was a textile factory in the 1920s before the conversion.” He moves toward the bar, his back to me. “I have this habit of wanting to know the story of wherever I’m staying. Drives my packmates insane.”

“Packmates,” I say. “You mentioned them earlier. What are they like?”

He laughs quietly. “Max is intense, the kind of person you want in your corner when things go wrong. Ethan is the steady one, keeps us all grounded.” He turns back to me. “What about you? Anyone waiting for you at home?”

The question catches somewhere beneath my ribs.

Home.

For a second, the word brings up things I don’t want to see. My mother disappearing in the middle of the night. My stepfather selling me like livestock. The pack in Detroit who⁠—

No.

I shut that door before it can open.

“No,” I say, and my voice comes out steadier than I feel. “Just me.”

He doesn’t say anything for a moment. He just looks at me, and there is something in his eyes that looks a bit like pity, and it makes me hate him even more.