Page 116 of Your Wild Omega

Hale points to the top corner of my whiteboard, to the number written inside a bold circle. Ninety-five. Rickon’s domesticviolence case was my last win, but I don’t recall writing it on the board. Hale must have updated the tally.

Strange, though, I can’t remember the last time I thought about my win streak. Or my ticket to firm partner.

“Huh.” I lock my hands behind my head and tilt the chair back. “I forgot about it.”

I didn’t mean to say that last bit out loud, but Hale hears and freezes, one hand stuck in his carry bag. “Seriously, who are you and what have you done with Callisto?”

I chuckle and shake my head. Who knows? “Time and tide wait for no man,” I quote softly.

He arches his brows. “Except Callisto Wren used to be an immoveable lighthouse, not a man.”

I snort. “Seems like you’re in a good mood today, giving me all the sass.”

He shakes his head, indicating he won’t talk about it, and fishes out a napkin. Hale’s a very private beta. “Don’t be hating,” he says. “It’s just strange seeing changes in you.” He’s halfway out the door before he calls over his shoulder, “Doesn’t mean it’s a bad thing, though.”

I unwrap my food, smiling. I think so too. Even old dogs can learn new tricks.

Just a pity it’s too little too late for me.

Juan welcomes me to my consultation appointment with a hug, stealing a few whiffs from my shoulder as we embrace. His shaved head shines under the parlor lamps and he runs tattooed fingers over his dome as he steps back.

“You look fine, alpha,” he declares.

I’d argue about him calling me Callisto instead of alpha, but I know it’s pointless. I didn’t win that debate in high school, so I doubt he’d give it up now. Juan’s designation isn’t clear, and while he’s never smelled like an omega, I’ve always felt a softness for him that omegas usually naturally trigger. Still, an omega could never work in an industry like this, let alone a rare male omega, so he must be some kind of recessive beta. Plus, I know for a fact he packs a mean punch. Or used to.

“You’re looking good yourself,” I say. “And I see a bit more art since we last met.” I tap my hands to show what I mean.

Juan holds up his tatted hands and wriggles his fingers, smiling. “SÌ. Who could resist filling blank canvas space?” He beckons me into the consultation room, where his books of past tattoos pile up on the table. “I want to hear everything, but we can catch up when you come in next. Now, tell me what you’re thinking. Every juicy detail.” He crooks his fingers in demand. “And take off your shirt.”

I grin as I strip off my jacket and unbutton my shirt.

Juan hums with approval as he takes my left arm in both hands and studies his handiwork. “Bellissimo. Even better than I remember.” Which is funny because one of his books sits open on the table, showing the photo I sent him after the needle swelling healed.

“Well, only the best get a look at this body,” I tell him with a laugh.

His dimples pop. “Look who’s buttering me up,” he says coolly, running his thumb across the tat before releasing me.

The way he puts me at ease reminds me of Rickon, but to a lesser extent. Guess I’m missing my best pal more than I realized, since Rickon came with me for my last tattoo.

Juan slides into the chair on the far side of the table. “Now, did I hear you right when you said you wanted to add to this one?” He picks up a pen and a piece of paper with guidelines indicatinga human’s arm. He quickly sketches in my existing ink, his pen gliding effortlessly across the paper to recreate the artwork.

“Yes, I want a second clock beneath it. Same style, different time.”

His pen stops moving. “Alpha, I must ask, but the last one was your lament for your father. Please don’t tell me—?”

I smile as I interrupt him. “No, no one died this time. I just want to commemorate an important moment as a reminder.” Well, maybe a piece of me died inside. For reasons I can’t explain, I want to immortalize that loss too.

“Okay, then,” he says softly, pen whisking away again. “What time?”

According to Hale, the court case on the day I met Red began at eleven a.m. Considering I was a few minutes late, I was rejecting my soulmate right on the hour. “Eleven o’clock,” I tell him.

He hums, deep in his creative state, drawing a second clock but nesting it under the first and adding some shadow. The hour and minute hands for the time I requested form under his busy pen.

Juan turns the page my way, spreading his fingers around the second clock and twisting. “I suggest we tilt it to the left, so the hand position is easier to see,” he says, pointing to show what he means. “We don’t want to lose them under the first one. And how about something in the background to connect them together, depending on your tastes?”

He looks up and aims the pen tip in my direction. “I have to warn you, this will likely come down lower than a short-sleeved dress shirt.” He gets up and circles the table to show me how low on my arm it’s likely to sit. Still on my upper arm, but the base might show.

I hesitate. Is this a risk to my career? Maybe I’ll have to dress more like Hale with his rolled-up long sleeves and skinny ties.

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