Page 52 of Pack Choice
I can see Cassidy pouting in the corner. Some pack sitting at the back of the ballroom paid $5000 for a date with her.
The host keeps raising the prize, by $500 a pop now, until he reaches the sum of $28,500 and there are only two bidders. Deborah and another older woman who wears a startled expression I know is the cause of countless facelifts.
“So ladies, it’s just the two of you,” the host says. “Who will land their hands on the city’s most eligible bachelor?”
I suppress a sniff. So eligible, the omega I want is paying me no attention, enraptured instead by my best friend.
“Ladies, why don’t we make this more fun, why don’t you both come up on stage?”
This time I suppress a groan, watching as the two women eagerly jump to their feet and weave my way.
“What do we think up close, ladies?” the host asks, as my bidders climb the steps onto the stage. He offers Deborah the microphone,
“He certainly is a looker,” Deborah says, with what I’m sure she thinks is a seductive smile hovering on her lips.
I smile back without enthusiasm, reminding myself this is worth it for those kids. If Deborah does win this lot, better her money is spent on this good cause than on the designer clothes and priceless jewelry she usually wastes it on.
However, just as I’m resigned to this fate, Deborah’s voice captures the omega’s attention. She looks away from goddamn River and towards me, her brow furrowing when she spies the two ladies who have joined us on the stage. Her jaw sets and her grip on her paddle tightens.
Seems the omega has been struck by that jealous omega streak after all.
Thank Christ.
The host encourages the older women to stand on either side of me, and both automatically grip my biceps, their countless and very sharp rings digging into my flesh.
The omega’s eyes flash.
I bet she’s a determined little omega when she wants to be.
I peer down at River and smirk.
But I’m counting my goddamn chickens far too early. Molly Stormgate, though she may be glaring at Deborah, her paddle in her hand, keeps it resting on the table.
No wonder her brothers watch her like a hawk.
The host restarts the bidding and the two older ladies giggle along playfully, although both their grips tighten.
The audience begin to gasp as the figures spiral upwards until we’re looking at a date for nearly $50,000.
After that though, the woman on my right starts to waver. I hear it in her voice, her hands loosening. She’s going to concede.
“$49,375. Mrs. MacMillan, do I have $49,400?”
The woman pauses, her frozen features not giving away anything, but then she shakes her head, releasing my arm and stepping around me to shake Deborah’s hand. Deborah grins like a snake that just found a bird’s nest.
“Well, Mrs. Cassidy, congratulations, it looks like you are the winner of one date with this very handsome and certainly very charming gentleman, Mr. Colt–”
“$100,000!” Molly yells, jumping to her feet and thrusting her paddle into the air.
The figure smacks me round the face. $100,000? Jesus fucking Christ.
It isn’t far off the donation I make annually to Felicity’s charity. But still, the omega doesn’t know that. And $100,000? It’s more than most people earn in half a decade.
“What was that?” the host says, squinting at the audience. “Do we have a young lady here, who would like to make a last-minute bid?”
“Yes,” Molly says, nodding with a mischievous smile on her lips.
She thinks she’s being clever.
