Page 34 of Reckless Consequences

The store’s layout reveals the same designation sorting I noticed outside. Alpha-targeted products placed at eye level—premium cuts of meat, high-protein snacks, energy drinks. Omega-focused items arranged in quieter, less trafficked aisles—comfort foods, nesting materials discreetly packaged, calming teas. Beta products occupying the middle ground—practical, affordable, accessible.

I notice designation dynamics happening around me. An Alpha and Omega couple shop together, the Alpha unconsciously positioning himself between his Omega and other shoppers, particularly the lone Alpha examining protein powder nearby. Two Beta women navigate the store with efficient cooperation, their movements synchronized. Most telling is how other shoppers subtly adjust their paths around me—my scent no longer registering as purely Beta but something undefined, creating momentary confusion.

A small electronics section yields an external hard drive and some basic equipment—not ideal, but better than nothing. I add it to the cart, calculating expenditures against our limited cash.

The store’s radio provides background noise until a news bulletin catches my attention:

“...health officials continue to monitor the Beta-specific illness spreading across the northeastern region. Citizens are advised to seek medical attention if experiencing symptoms. Sterling Pharmaceuticals announced promising breakthroughs in treatment options, with testing centers being established in major cities...”

My hands tighten on the shopping cart. Testing centers. Not for treatment—for identification. For transformation. For control.

“Awful, isn’t it?” The cashier—a middle-aged Beta woman according to her scent—gestures toward the radio as she begins scanning my items. “My sister in Boston said they’re lining up around the block at those Sterling testing centers.”

I force a neutral expression. “Have there been cases here?”

“Three last week,” she confirms, efficiently bagging groceries. “All Betas. One died. The others...” She hesitates. “They’re different somehow. Doctor says it’s just side effects from the illness, but my friend Martha swears her husband smells different since recovering. More... Alpha-like.”

A chill runs through me. “That must be strange for her to navigate the shift in their relationship dynamics.”

She studies me with unexpected intensity, nostrils flaring slightly as she catches my unusual scent. Her eyes flicker to where my scarf has shifted, partially revealing one of the claiming marks. “You’ve got a complicated pack situation, don’t you, honey?” Her voice drops lower. “Mixed designation bonds. Don’t see that much around here.”

The observation startles me—this small-town Beta with designation awareness sharp enough to identify my unusual status. “Something like that.”

“Strange is putting it mildly.” She glances around, then leans closer. “Between us, I think something doesn’t add up with those Sterling treatments. The symptoms and recovery rates don’t match their documentation. But what do I know? I’m just a small-town cashier who notices patterns.” She slips a small flyer into my bag, the movement casual enough to appear accidental. I glimpse enough to see it’s for a Beta support group.

Just a small-town cashier who’s noticed exactly what we’re fighting against, and who might be part of something larger. I pay with cash, adding extra for her insight. “Trust your instincts,” I tell her quietly. “And maybe avoid those testing centers.”

Her eyes sharpen with understanding. “You too, honey. Stay safe out there. And tell your pack to watch their backs. We’re all vulnerable now.”

Outside,I find Ryker loading supplies into the SUV’s back compartment—rope, tools, communication equipment, and items I probably shouldn’t identify too closely.

“Successful?” he asks as I approach.

“Yes and no.” I load the groceries while explaining what the cashier told me, showing him the flyer. “The transformation is happening faster than we thought. People are noticing. And there may be Beta resistance forming.”

His expression darkens severely. “Timeline might be accelerated. We should?—”

Whatever adjustment he was about to suggest is interrupted by my stomach growling loudly enough to halt conversation. Ryker’s serious expression cracks, a rare smile breaking through.

“When did you last eat?” he asks.

I try to remember. Before the heat. Before Finn’s booster. Before everything. “Not sure.”

Without another word, he guides me to a small diner across the street. The spontaneous deviation from efficiency is so unexpected I follow without protest.

Inside, the diner is straight from a Norman Rockwell painting—red vinyl booths, chrome fixtures, the scent of coffee and grilled butter permeating everything. Ryker chooses a booth with sight lines to both exits, eyes automatically mapping the room.

The designation dynamics here are subtle but equally present. The hostess—an Omega with calming pheromones—automatically seats different designations in patterns designed to minimize territorial conflict. Alphas occupy corner booths with clear sightlines. Betas fill the central tables, creating natural buffer zones between Alpha territories. Omegas are placed closer to the kitchen, where food scents can mask any unexpected heat symptoms.

What’s most interesting is how the staff interacts differently based on designation. The Alpha waitress approaches our table with direct efficiency, her movements economical as she assesses Ryker’s Alpha status and adjusts her posture accordingly—not submissive, but acknowledging the hierarchy. She catches my scent next, her brow furrowing slightly at the confusing designation signals before defaulting to Beta-appropriate interactions. The subtle dance happens in seconds, primal instincts guiding social interactions beneath conscious awareness.

“Order anything,” Ryker says as the waitress delivers menus, his tone carrying that subtle Alpha undercurrent that brooks no argument. “You’re eating a full meal. You need calories.”

“Are we really doing this? Stopping for lunch in the middle of apocalypse planning?”

“Even soldiers need to eat.” His hand finds mine across the table, the gesture surprisingly intimate. “And I promised you a date.”

“This is not a date,” I argue, but there’s no heat in it. “This is a tactical calorie acquisition.”

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