Page 37 of Omega's Fire

Leo

The words on the exam paper swim before my eyes. I blink hard, forcing myself to focus on the question on my Constitutional Theory final. I know the answer but my brain is too fuzzy to throw up the words I need. Ironically, it’s a topic I could normally dissect in my sleep.

Sleep. That’s the problem. Last night was just one more featuring Nash Thorndike’s hands in my dreams, his voice, his mouth... my body responding with embarrassing enthusiasm to the man I’d walked away from six weeks ago.

I shift uncomfortably in the hard wooden chair, tugging at the collar of my new crisp white shirt. The whole suit is new and it feels stifling in the overheated exam hall, but I have an interview at Brennan & Wallace in two hours. I can’t risk being late. It’s my first callback after a dozen applications.

If I can just get through this exam first.

Another wave of nausea rolls through me. I swallow hard, drawing a deep breath through my nose.

It’s just stress, I tell myself. It’s the pressure of finals, applications and everything that happened with Nash. I’ve been working too hard and not sleeping. My immune system is shot. I’m probably picking up every bug in range.

I glance up, catching Meg’s concerned look from two rows over.

She’s been so protective of me since I got back. It’s both lovely and annoying. We’ve always looked after each other but the last six weeks, she’s been hovering and I’m on the verge of snapping at her.

I’ve been studying non-stop. I’m burned out. I work too hard. And I’ve still got all the Thorndike hormones working their way out of my system.

Of course, I don’t feel well.

As soon as finals are over and I’ve got an internship confirmed, then I’ll take some time off to rest. I don’t look after myself properly. I know that. She doesn’t have to tell me.

I return to the exam, forcing my attention to the paper. I know the answer to this question. I’d written an entire critical analysis on it last semester. I can do this.

Forty-five minutes later, I scribble my final conclusion and set down my pen just as the proctor calls time. My shirt clings to my back with cold sweat, but I’ve finished. Three more finals to go, and then, hopefully, the internship that will launch my career as an omega rights attorney.

I avoid Meg on the way out. She’s just going to fuss over me again and all I want to do is get this interview over with.

Brennan & Wallace were the first and only firm to respond to my application. It’s unsurprising given how the media’s been painting me. My jaw tightens. Depending on which newspaper you read, I’m either a brave defender of omega autonomy or a hysterical radical undermining social stability. Neither portrayal seems to impress law firm hiring committees.

I walk fast, turning toward the stairs that will take me to the subway station.

The ride downtown is uncomfortable in ways I hadn’t anticipated. There’s physical discomfort: the persistent nausea, the sweating. That’s expected. The stares are not.

A woman elbows her companion, whispering as they bothlook my way. A man in a business suit keeps glancing up from his phone, eyes narrowing in recognition.

Before the Nash Thorndike situation, I had been known in activist circles but now my face has been splashed across the media.

I’ve become a symbol in a larger culture war. And symbols, I’m discovering, don’t get to have upset stomachs or anxiety about job interviews.

I get off one stop early, needing fresh air. The ten-block walk will help clear my head and settle my stomach.

I check my reflection in a store window as I pass. I’m pale but presentable. The dark circles under my eyes are mostly concealed. I like the way I look in the suit. I can do this.

The Brennan & Wallace offices occupy the thirty-second floor of a gleaming downtown tower. I give my name to the receptionist, then take a seat in the waiting area, trying to ignore the renewed churning in my stomach. I’d skipped breakfast, unable to face food, but now I’m regretting the decision. My head feels light, my hands clammy.

“Mr. Torres?” A professionally dressed beta woman appears in the doorway. “We’re ready for you.”

I stand, extending my hand. “Thank you for the opportunity. I’ve admired Brennan & Wallace’s work for years.”

“We’ve certainly noticed yours,” she replies with a small smile, leading me down a hallway lined with framed newspaper headlines documenting the firm’s victories. “Your analysis of Bureau registration coercion tactics was quite impressive.”

Pride flickers through the nausea. They’ve read my work. They’ve noticed.

She opens a door to a small conference room where two other attorneys wait—an older Alpha man and a middle-aged omega woman, both in impeccable suits, both with expressions of polite interest.

“Charles Brennan and Eliza Wallace,” Ms. Sharpe introduces. “Our founding partners.”

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