Page 11 of Wild Omega

His brow furrows as he runs his finger down the page. “I don’t want theWaveQueen.I just want your heart.” Abram nods. “It works fine.” He rolls his eyes and pens in the change. “Lucky she didn’t ask for ‘boat’ or something just as bad.”

He brightens and flicks his pen out toward the short pier. “If we move them down the jetty a bit, we can put the name in the frame.” He leans back in his chair and cranes to one side. “That okay with you, Yun?”

The director rests his hip on the table beside me and cups a hand over his ear. Abram repeats his request, and they figure out the slight shot change. “Sure, let’s line it up. Sun’s getting ready to set.” Valencio Yun rests a hand on my shoulder and winks at me.

I balance the script on my tablet case and carefully write the change in as I walk back to the actors’ tent, dodging grips and dollies.

“Lyra, they’ve said you can useWaveQueeninstead of yacht.”

She shrugs one slender shoulder. “Good. Help me do these lines.”

I quote the lead male’s lines for the scene by memory as she rehearses her new piece. She gets it right and I nod. “They’re ready to shoot. Let’s go.” I pass over the hat she was wearing in the last scene and check her makeup, touching up her lipstick before we head over to the pier with lines of yachts bobbing gently on their ropes. Probably all belonging to the producers.

The private little dock bustles with activity as the huge film team runs through lighting and wind checks. This is the part I enjoy the most, watching the action. Lyra flirts with the male lead—who wouldn’t when he’s drop dead gorgeous? With his glossy black hair catching tints of red in the slanted light, he reminds me of Callisto.

Lyra catches me watching and frowns. “Rick, go get me stir fry from that nut-free place. I’m starving, and I want to eat right after we finish shooting.”

“It’s Rickon—” I swallow a groan and flash her a thumbs up. Why bother when she never uses my full name?

I can’t tell if she’s thoughtless or downright mean, denying me the fly-on-the-wall view of the filming. Guess I’ll have to see this scene in the final cut. I sigh and grab my backpack, checking my phone once more as I head through the dock’s car park. My heart leaps as I catch sight of Callisto’s name on my lock screen. My steps slow.

You free for a drink tonight? I’ll get out around midnight.

I shake my head. No idea how he can survive on five or six hours of sleep and still go to work fresh, but Callisto’s been a go-getter as long as I can remember. A smile tugs at my lips as I text him back, saying I’ll meet him at his favorite place and adding a meme from a movie with the famous lineI’ll be there.

Maybe I’ll pick up an extra serving of Lyra’s fake-satay stir fry, just to make sure Callisto’s eating something nourishing. I walk faster, stealing glances at the street signs to make sure I’m heading in the right direction. After I knock off, I’ll take a nap so I can function for our late-night meetup.

Someone wolf whistles and I tense, silently begging for them not to be calling at me. “Hey, pretty boy! You need some company?”

Bugger me! So much for that. “No thanks.”

Instead of taking the hint, the voice rings out again. “Sweet little thing like you shouldn’t be alone.”

I growl under my breath and swing around, looking for the louts who’ve nothing better to do than harass people minding their own business. Two brawny alphas lean against a boat shed, leering at me.

Bloody oath, I hate it. “I’m not an omega!” I yell. “And even if I was, why should I give you the time of day? Go get a life and stop bothering people.” I don’t bother growling, ’cause it’ll come out more like a kitten mewl, but I do posture up.

The one who called out eyes me over again. “Fuck me, is there an alpha hidden in that tiny body?” He snorts and elbows his companion. “Check it!”

I spin on my heel and stride away, taking a different route. New day, same stupid problem. A bunch of muscles and a hefty whiff of dominant musk wouldn’t go astray right now, but despite presenting as a biological alpha, puberty left me high and dry.

My reflection keeps pace beside me in the shopfront windows as I scurry up the street. Big lips, platinum bleached hair, blue eyes, and a soft jaw. And missing about two feet of height for alpha size. One of my friends likes to say I didn’t eat enough bread crusts in childhood to put hair on my chest. I scoff under my breath, still brimming with irritation. Crusts are a waste of jaw power and carbs, anyway. Not to mention gluten content.

Yeah, can’t blame anyone for mistaking me for an omega, really.

These days I bring it upon myself by leaning into my makeup fascination. Today I chose a beautiful magenta shade softening to rose past my lid folds. Back in school I used to hide what people considered my non-alpha interests, but when I realized my body would never catch up to the ideal, I decided to embrace what I love. Life’s too short and the world has too many color palettes to try out, and it helped that Callisto started telling people where they could shove their words if he heard them making fun of me. People listen to him.

I’ve made peace with how I look, but I do mourn not having the natural presence true alphas like Callisto achieve without even trying. Gives out afuck offwarning before people get close enough to open their grotty mouths.

Makes me wild to think omegas cop this shit all the time. I duck my head into the twilight breeze and jog the half mile to the specialty restaurant.

Electropop music plays in the background as I push through the heavy wooden door of The Stacks. The cold winter wind cuts off as the door slams shut behind me, locking me in the bar with the smog of alcohol fumes and body odor. A few patrons stare at the foam remnants in the bottom of big glasses as the waitstaff mop the far end of the room.

No amount of chill on my skin can stop the flush of warmth I get as I catch sight of Callisto’s broad shoulders fitting snugly into his designer suit. He sits at the bar, rocking his three-quarters-full beer glass from side to side on the base, one hand supporting his jaw. He’s so handsome and polished, it hurts my heart.

Some patrons watch me, their sluggish eyes brightening as they skim me up and down, so I hurry over to the bar, shaking off their appraising looks and clutching at my paper bag.

Not. An. Omega.

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