Page 56 of Your Wild Omega

I steer my omega in the other direction. Red walks slowly, taking her time and enjoying the scene, careful not to rush Zack.

The wild alpha vibrates with a silent growl, his nose twitching as he takes in the scent medley. Despite neutralizers working overtime, perfumes mix with alpha and omega pheromones to create a potent cocktail. I’ve done everything possible to shield Red’s nose, using scent blockers and hiding neutralizing patches in her hair, but Zack still detects alpha threats.

This might be the most crowded place we’ve taken him, and I’d hate to mar Red’s night with an incident.

“Rickon Jones!” Lyra steps into our path and points at Red. “Why is this woman wearing my dress?” Since the fuming actress makes no attempt to mask her voice, the crowd around us all turn to watch the drama.

I swallow down a sigh. “This isn’t your dress, Lyra. You had the opportunity to wear it to a previous event, but you declined.”

She scoffs and scans Red up and down, eyes narrowing. “So you thought you could pass it along to some third-rate strumpet without my permission?”

I straighten, rumbling with anger. When I open my mouth to blast her, Red steps forward, resting one hand on my arm.

She beams. “You must be Lyra Gray?”

“Of course.” Lyra turns her neck, preening in her own fame.

Red nods and hums intently. “Right, there’s only one actress in Ommywood famous for being a sourpuss, so with that face, it must be you.”

Lyra twitches. “I beg your pardon?”

“Forgiven, since I’m in a good mood.” Red looks coy as she drags on my arm, turning us away from the shocked drama-llama.

“You did not just turn your back on me,” Lyra hisses, indignant.

Red pauses and looks over her shoulder. “Oh? But it should be a pretty view.”

Lyra’s sneer turns dark. “Why? Because you’ve practiced shaking your ass to get here?”

“Sounds like you know all about it,” Red shoots back. She acts cool and calm, but a tremor runs through her hand.

Lyra glances at the crowd and then lifts her nose. “I want my dress back.”

“Your dress?” Red cocks a brow and turns to me. “Rickon, sweetheart, who paid for this dress?”

I smirk, my confidence lifting. “I did.” Lyra always made me feel like a worm, but with Red here, it’s like I’m standing beside a queen.

“I see.” Red touches her fingers to her throat. “And who signed a contract with Hannah Sorentito to represent her brand?” Her voice rises, and I know it’s no accident. Fight fire with fire.

“That would be you, Red Jones,” I reply. The moment I say her name, whispers run around the watching crowd, linking her to Valencio Yun’s film.

Our exchange only makes Lyra madder. “So what? I had a contract under my name first, and don’t you know the one with the earlier appointment gets served first?”

“You never paid for it,” I say, resisting the urge to slap her. Really, I’m not a violent person, but Lyra tests my limits.

The bitter actress curls her hands up, as if she’s got the same idea to hit me. “We had an arrangement,” she tells me haughtily. “Not my fault you were fired for inappropriate behavior on the job.”

Red laughs. “What a strange world I’ve entered.” She passes me Zack’s leash, and then twirls, taking in our audience with spread hands. “A woman who never paid for a dress and didn’thave the balls to wear it in the first place now wants to steal it off another woman’s back.” She chuckles and approaches Lyra. “Dear little girl, since you’ve suddenly changed your mind, I can be generous, but only if you prove you have the guts to wear a Sorentito preview. Here and now.”

“What do you mean?” Lyra asks, looking around desperately.

The first inkling of trouble enters her shifting gaze. But she walked herself into this situation with her own two stilettos. Red doesn’t have the same notions of social propriety as others. She’s leading her alpha around on a leash, for pity’s sake.

My omega holds out her hand imperiously, and I take it. “Unzip me,” she declares.

A chill settles in my fingers as I release the metal tag and draw it slowly down the tracks on the closed side of the dress. How far will she take this charade? No matter which way the press spins the story, Lyra can’t come out looking like an angel.

“Red,” I implore in a whisper as the zipper reaches the bottom. I hold the two pieces together, the boning doing the rest of the work to keep the garment perfectly shaped.

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