Page 9 of Beautifully Scarred Omega

The knife slides home into the sheath on my inner thigh.

I shift my dress to the side, adjusting the holster until it sits flush against my skin, invisible beneath the red silk. The blade is ceramic so it won’t set off metal detectors, and sharp enough to slice through bone. I’ve used it exactly seven times in the past decade. Each time, the alpha had it coming.

I straighten up and study my reflection in the hotel mirror. It’s like looking at a stranger, a woman with my face who moves when I move but feels nothing like me. I watch her from somewhere behind my own eyes, a step removed, like she’s a tool I’ve created specifically for this job.

Red dress, low in the front, the back completely covered. The slit bares my good thigh, the one with fewer scars. It’s designed to draw attention exactly where I want it and away from everything I don’t. Stilettos that add four inches to my height and double as weapons if I aim for the right arteries. Nails painted dark cherry red. My hair falls past my shoulders in long, dark waves, back to its natural color. Softer. Prettier. Easier for alphas to underestimate. Dark makeup that makes my eyes look bigger and more vulnerable. Contact lenses that turn my green eyes a soft brown.

The costume of an omega looking for trouble.

I barely notice any of it anymore. After a decade of missions, getting dressed for a target feels as routine as brushing my teeth.

My fingers drift to my throat, pressing against the glands just below my jaw. They are slightly swollen and tender. I went off my military-grade suppressants two days ago, same as always, and my body is already responding to the absence. My true scent, rain and crushed rose petals, is starting to seep through the cracks.

On suppressants, I smell like coffee and steel, the kind of scent that makes alphas instinctively give me a wide berth.

Off suppressants, I smell like prey.

But I guess that’s the point.

Tonight’s mission is simple, the same template I’ve followed dozens of times. Lure the target to my room, where Declan has already set up cameras and microphones in every corner, flirt and smile and let him think he’s about to get lucky. Then, when his guard is down, inject him with the sedative hidden in my clutch.

They’re usually unconscious within seconds.

After that, I go through his phone and connect everything to my laptop, give Declan remote access. Nine times out of ten, what we find is enough to justify bringing the alpha back to Sentinel headquarters for a more thorough interrogation.

The tenth time, they’re clean, and I slip out before they wake up with nothing but a headache and a story about the omega who got away.

Tonight’s target is not going to be clean. I’m already sure of that.

My phone buzzes on the nightstand. I cross the room and pick it up, swiping to open the message.

The first image loads slowly—a man in profile, tall, wearing a suit in a shade of green so aggressive it’s almost offensive. I can’t make out his face clearly, just the general shape of him, broad shoulders and a confident posture.

Frederic Zimmer.

Just seeing the name makes me feel sick.

Zimmer is notoriously good at keeping his picture off the internet. Whatever Gary is sending me is the first anyone has managed in years.

I wait for the other images to load, but my reception is terrible and the progress bar crawls at a glacial pace. Another message pops up while I’m staring at the screen.

He just arrived at the gala. - Gary

Gary’s my handler tonight, reliable and thorough, though terrible at choosing rendezvous points. But nobody’s perfect.

I tap the images impatiently, like that will make them load faster. It doesn’t.

My mind drifts to Cindy.

She was seventeen years old, rescued last week from a penthouse downtown. She could barely walk when Nolan carried her out, couldn’t speak above a whisper, and flinched every time someone raised their voice.

She was so young, too young, with her whole future ahead of her.

Then she met Frederic Zimmer at a charity event, and everything went to shit.

The images still won’t load. I tap the screen again, harder.

Fuck it.