Page 42 of Wild Omega

She goes by the name of Samantha and comes as a complete set with not two but three burly beta guards. “Have you seen this woman?” she asks, leaning over the front desk to flash my photo.

“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!” I hiss under my breath, spinning and diving back into the elevator. I slap the close button about three hundred times before those doors slide shut, leaving me leaning against the handrail on trembling legs. How the hell did she find me?

I clench my hands, and my gaze tracks down to the ID bracelet circling my wrist. Like a fucking numbskull, I left the Omega Center-issued jewelry on my arm, forgetting it’s embedded with a chip, or RFID, or some shit that identifies me for my meals back at the Center cafeteria.

“Seriously, Red?” I roll my eyes at myself in the reflection, pissed and scared in equal measure.

The voices clamor louder in my head, and I wince. Not now, boys.

While the elevator climbs, I rest my head against the mirrored surface and think. I can take the bracelet off, but if I leave it here, they’ll know I’ve simply slipped their net. No, I need to send them on a wild goose chase that gives me enough time to find a guardian prepared to vouch for me at Ommywood.

Right. I straighten. “We can do this, Red,” I mutter to myself as I scrub away the patch of mist left by my breath on the glass. I’m not ready to give up my freedom again just yet. “We were born to act.”

I drag the offending metal-link band off my arm and roll it between my fingers as I take the elevator back down to the third floor, then work my way through three flights of stairs, checking each stairwell before descending. On the ground floor, some kind of finance seminar runs in the ballroom, so I let myself in when a staff member pushes through the doors, carrying stacked plastic crates. Coffee aroma wraps itself into my nostrils, and I moan in the back of my throat.

While I help myself to a latte with sugar, I keep one ear peeled to the conversations around me as the meeting goers pack up while excitedly discussing the pros and cons of micro investing. Is that like putting your money in the microwave oven, or what?

Suddenly one guy pulls away from the closest cluster. “Shit, I’m going to miss my flight at this rate. Great to meet you all.” He shoulders a crossbody leather satchel and smooths down his skinny tie before waving.

“Excuse me,” I call as I lurch forward to grab his arm.

“Yes?”

“Oh.” I flap my hand side to side. “I’m so sorry. I thought you were someone else.”

He smiles, blue eyes lighting up. “I can be someone else for you for a night, if you want, pretty omega.”

Ew. I step back, resisting the urge to dump my drink in his face—would be a waste of a really good latte. “Sorry, I’m taken.” It’s the truth . . . I just haven’t actually met them yet. “Safe travels.”

The man shrugs and turns away, and I smile as he carries my bracelet in his bag to the airport. Nicely done, Red Hawk.

Instead of returning to the front entrance, I work my way through the room, snagging a lemon curd Danish and slipping through a staff access door that leads to a kitchen.

In another few minutes I’m breathing free air again, this time ladened with warm exhaust from the hotel’s air-conditioning system. Still sweet as sin to my palate. A happy whistle works through my lips as I get on a bus half a block away and ride for a few minutes until I see the Ommywood tower once more, speaking to me like a giant dickish calling card.

I ring the bell three times in excitement, making my fellow passengers glare at me, to which I offer them my middle finger. Politely, though, with an elegant little twist of my wrist. Queenly, if you prefer.

I stumble as I leap off the bus step and lope down the sidewalk, eyes fixed on cinema’s Pearly Gates as I weave between people. Too many people. Their scents clog my nose, and I gag when my stomach rebels. I pause to catch my breath, one hand on my stomach to will it into submission.

The building beside me catches my gaze, not because of its old-world architecture complete with carved statues on the roofline, but because of the nice little patch of manicured lawn held together by a retaining wall and curving double flights of steps. I tilt my head; I can only hope my vajayjay will look that perfectly manicured one day.

Someone crashes into my shoulder, spinning me around and breaking my focus. I stagger and look back the way I came.

A tall man walks toward me, chattering something into his phone, clad in a single-breasted suit with a darker gray satin vest underneath. I lift my chin and breathe in a scent so pure and full, like the woodlands fabric softener I tested back at the Omega Center, but better.

Cherry wood, to be precise.

A quiver runs through my body. The alpha looks up, as if sensing my presence, and the moment my eyes meet his black ones, one of the voices in my head goes completely silent.

My body moves without my permission, and I crash into him, climbing him in a heartbeat and sending us both sprawling toward the grassy lawn.

I dip my nose into his neck and my heart double beats. Better taste, just to be sure. My pussy gushes as I nibble the skin stretched over the pulse in his neck and I moan faintly as his alpha scent meets my taste buds. I’m tingling all over.

Fate has a funny sense of humor. The moment I decided to put my career first, she brought my scent match to me.

But mate or not, I’m tangled up with an alpha and my alarm response rises like a volcano about to blow. “Get off me.”

He blinks once and then smirks. “I would, darling, but you’re the one on top of me.”

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