Page 1 of Power Shift

1

BRIAR

“Push it,omegas! Asses up and loose. Let me see those hips sway!”

I grunt and push back, struggling with my slick palms to keep a good hold on the stationary bike handles. Salty liquid drips down my forehead and into my eyes and mouth as I gasp in the hot air around me. It’s like I’m drowning on my own sweat. It’s only a matter of time before I start gargling.

My ears ring from the volume of the music blasting in the airless room, and I’m pretty positive that I could collapse at any given moment. Continuing to pump my legs isn’t really a reality at this point. They might very well just fall off.

“That’s it! Only thirty seconds longer. Keep your backs straight and pump!”

Thirty. Seconds.

Will I even make it ten?This class was a giant, massive mistake. I’ll be stuck at home for the next three weeks recovering now.

“Twenty seconds!

My lips are crusty, and the taste in my mouth is repulsive. There’s iron coating my throat regardless of how often I swallow. The constant sawing of air into my lungs has most likely stripped layers of flesh off, resulting in said iron.

“Ten seconds!”

Oh, fuck. I’m soaked. I’ve never been wetter in my entire life, and that’s saying something. Is there a puddle beneath me?

My left hand slips from its handle, and my right arm wobbles as I tilt slightly, off balance. The world darkens as I try to regain my hold and stabilize myself before I fall onto the wet floor.

“And time! You can slow to a cooldown.”

I don’t just slow to a cooldown. My legs stop pushing entirely as I collapse against the front of the bike. Any minute now, I’m sure I’ll pass out. At the rate my heart is pounding and my lungs are screaming for a break, I’m absolutely destroyed.

“They should call an ambulance for me. I’ve got mere seconds left,” I wheeze.

“It’s . . . not . . .thatbad.”

I don’t have the strength to turn to give my best friend the look I want to be giving, so I don’t bother. Instead, I keep my arms slung over the front of the bike and continue to gasp for breath like a fish tossed out of a fishbowl.

“You’re . . . dead to me,” I dig.

“You’ll feel good . . . tomorrow.”

I doubt that.

I’ve successfully been turning down the offers to join her at her spin class for months. If it weren’t for her nasty breakup last week, I’d have done it again. I couldn’t leave her on her own tonight, with how devastated she’s been. If I did, she probably would have spent another night at a club being reckless in an attempt to mask her hurt with a different alpha’s scent than the ones belonging to her dickwad ex and his pack of discount losers.

Clover has never been one to like using her scent-blocking perfume—claiming she hates the way it sticks to her skin—and while I agree with her, it’s just not safe to go completely without it. Ever since I found her doing exactly what I worried she would last weekend, I don’t trust that she won’t try it again, this time opting out of calling me midway through the night.

Not using scent blockers or at least a dampener in a situation like that isn’t something an omega should be doing often, especially when we’re out somewhere like a club and loose with alcohol. One second of wavering control is all it would take to risk turning a crowd of drunken alphas into beasts with one thing on their brain—finding whichever omega it is that’s spraying out their scent and rutting them into tomorrow.

It’s certainly not fair, but it’s the reality of living as an omega. The odds of anything happening like that are low but not impossible. To most people, it wouldn’t be a concern. But to someone like me, the type of woman who has a habit of thinking too much and worrying even more, anything is a possibility.

I prefer doing things that I already know how to and going places I know well. It makes everything simpler.

Clover and I both have strong scents. We have since we were teenagers. While hers is more of a decadent variation than my overall sweet one, we’ve both been drawing far too much attention to ourselves since we realized how easy it was to make a hormonal alpha growl at a simple walk-by. I never forget to wash my body with a scent-blocking wash or spritz myself before leaving my place.

“Hello? Earth to Briar,” she says, pushing my head up with a palm to my forehead. Her microbladed eyebrow is lifted as I peel open my eyes and meet her gaze. “You’re not actually supposed to die from a spin class.”

“Not dead. Just . . . dead.”

“Did you do the cooldown?”

---