Page 32 of Wild Omega

She catches my eye, sweeps me with a critical look, and nods. I salute her with two fingers before heading to the champagne table.

A hand drops on my shoulder, and I nearly levitate.

“Sorry, Rickon, I didn’t mean to startle you,” Mr Yun, the director, apologizes as he steps around me into view.

I press my fingers to my thumping chest, glad I didn’t spill my drink. “Well, I appreciate the free heart health check,” I quip, and he smirks.

“Good work out there.” He sighs as he looks over the crowded room. “I may live and breathe filming, but I always feel a sense of relief when it’s over.”

“That’s probably because the executive producers stop breathing down your neck about production costs.”

He chuckles and lifts his glass in a toast. “You’re good, Rickon. Keep your chin up. I’m sure an alpha like you will get the chance to work unhampered eventually.”

A pleasant heat runs through my veins, not only at being acknowledged, but recognized as an alpha. I suppose I deserve a little of the omega nonsense thanks to my taste for makeup and avoidance of the gym, but it bothers me the world thinks I need to earn my genetic-given status as an alpha by bulking up and growling. Just the same as it bothers me that omegas have to put up with shit talking and being taken advantage of simply because of the way they’re born.

Being recognized for who I am is worth more than any compliment. I thank the director and, feeling a little shy, change the subject by asking, “What’s your next project?”

“Working title isOmega’s Race. It’s a racehorse movie, or rather one about a jockey.” He blows out through his lips. “Not settled on a female lead, though. It needs something unique.”

I nod, recalling Lyra looking at the script. She turned it down, though, because of the amount of horse riding involved. I sip my champagne. “Well, knowing you, you’ll find the perfect person soon enough.” After a few more minutes of chat, we say our farewells and drift in different directions.

I skip the hors d’oeuvres, knowing the gluten will give me a bellyache later, and take a turn around the room, congratulating all the crew members and commiserating with the other managers. Donna Feraski sweeps in, looking stunning in the silver fishtail I wanted, reminding me all over again that Lyra hasn’t paid me for the designer dress I did purchase.

I glance around, hoping I don’t run into Hannah Sorentito. I rarely avoid problems like this, but I just couldn’t work myself up to emailing her about the fuss Lyra made. But the designer won’t be happy to see the actress not wearing her preview gown.

I swipe another glass off a passing tray.

When I step out onto a balcony to clear my head after my third champagne, I find I’m not alone. Bradley Jacks, Entertainment Discord’s man-of-the-year, leans against a pillar as if he’s waiting for someone.

“Oh, sorry,” I murmur, putting my hand on the French door handle to leave.

“Stay, Rickon.”

I flinch, wondering if something’s wrong. “Do you need something? Is Lyra here?”

He chuckles, a deep sound that’s thicker than Callisto’s laugh. “None of the above. Do you think it’s impossible for me to call your name for any other reason?”

I cock my head, taking a few seconds to think. “Yeah, pretty much.”

He grins, flashing white teeth in the shadows. “Come over here. The view’s nice.”

I lean my elbows on the cold railing and look out over the rows of golden streetlamps. At this end of town, they have delicate metal scrolling around the light fixtures. Useless, but artistic.

“So pretty,” he murmurs, closer than I expected, and I flinch as he rests his hand on the lacing down my back. Was he not talking about the view? “What is this? It’s amazing.”

I glance down at the elegant embroidery embedded in the front. “It’s called a corset vest. Not quite one or the other.”

“Well, you look stunning in it.”

My brain buzzes with a little static, thanks to the third glass of alcohol. “Thanks.”

Bradley’s chest presses into my arm. “That cinched waist . . . does things to a man.”

He brushes his knuckles down my back, and my brain finally catches up to the situation. One of the world’s most dashing actors is hitting on me. I should be thrilled and honored, so why does my stomach turn instead?

I turn to glance at him. “Look, ah, Mr Jacks—”

“Call me Brad.” He steps in closer, trapping me against the railing, and then his hand settles around my narrow waist.

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