ChapterOne
WHITNEY
The Omega Council therapist’s office is sterile and unwelcoming. White walls, small inkblot paintings in cheap plastic frames, a fake plant in the corner, and a faint undercurrent of lemon-scented cleaner coating the air. Linda, a short woman with pixie-cut black hair, peers at me over the rims of her tiny glasses. The spectacles make her look older than she is. Her face doesn’t have many wrinkles, so she can’t be much older than thirty. Her lips are pursed, waiting for me to say something.
She’s always waiting.
I pick at my nails. “Things have been fine.”
Not a complete lie, but the last thing I want to do is open up to the lady who was appointed to me because the Omega Council has some concerns. Apparently, getting cited for underaged drinking a few times is a no-no. I haven’t gotten citations for over two years—thanks to a handy-dandy fake ID—but they’re still forcing me to come to these god-awful sessions. I never stopped breaking the rules, I simply got better about hiding what I do.
“How’s your friend doing, the one you met last month?”
“Oh, um. We’re not friends anymore.” I don’t even remember the name of the woman I’d made up to appease the therapist. Nothing like imaginary friends to help me seem normal in therapy.
She frowns. “Things were going so well. You were really excited about meeting her.”
I don’t tell her it was only a story I made up. I don’t tell her that I’m always excited to connect when I first meet people. I don’t tell her I fall in love at the drop of a hat, imagining a million different scenarios about what a future might look like between me and a man I’ll never be allowed to date. I don’t tell her I’m so desperate for attention that I fake my way into friendships until things start to get real. That’s when I run.
No. All of that is too honest for this therapy session.
“I know.” I shrug. “We were too different.”
Humming, Linda writes something in her notebook. The tip of the pen scrapes loudly across the paper, like nails on a chalkboard. “Do you often have a hard time maintaining friendships?”
“No. Lindsey and I have been best friends since elementary.” I shift in the oversized chair, trying to get comfortable. It’s too damn soft, and the long sleeve shirt I’m wearing is suddenly too hot. I push the sleeves up, wishing I’d worn a more summer appropriate top.
“And do you have any other friends?”
Considering I’ve been coming to her for a few years, I’m sure we’ve been over this before… and do I detect a hint of judgment? So maybe I’m not the type of woman to have a dozen friends. There’s nothing wrong with that. I like what I know. Lindsey is a little mean from time to time, but she always answers when I call and she never pries into my life.
“Not many, no.”
“One, two?” she queries, tapping the end of her pen on the notebook.
Monica, a friend from high school, moved to a different city and we never kept in touch. I tried to call her once, but she never called back. I didn’t take it personally. We really only smoked pot together. It’s not like we shared intimate secrets. If this woman were any other therapist, I’d ask her why I want to connect with people so desperately but anytime something starts to click, I run. That would lead to more questions about my past, and I don’t trust her with the truth. Anything I tell her will be weaponized against me. The Omega Council doesn’t need any more reason to think I’m unfit for matching.
I watch the pen bounce, scowling. “Just Lindsey, I guess.”
“No boyfriends?” Linda asks the question so casually, like we’re old friends catching up, but I’m not stupid.
Omegas aren’t supposed to date. They’re also not supposed to use hormone suppressants so they can go out and get wasted and hook up with random betas or deltas. Whore is a word the Omega Council isn’t afraid to lob around. Omegas are supposed to listen. Be good girls. No partying. No drugs. No fun. Unless you know how to find it. While most omegas do follow the rules, there are a few of us who beat at the bars of our gilded cages, pounding our fists onto the metal until it breaks and we can escape, if only for a little while.
“Of course not,” I say, tipping my head to the side. “I’m waiting for my pack.”
I’ll say whatever it takes to get her to stop asking questions.
Just before an omega’s twenty-first birthday, they take a compatibility test and get assigned to a pack. There’s a fancy ceremony with pretty dresses and makeup. All of the fanfare is meant to make omegas feel better about the process. My heat is two weeks away, and if the therapist says I’m well enough, on Friday I’ll be matched with a pack. It would be lying to say the thought of being given to a pack was fine by me. It’s not okay, but it’s better than the alternative. No match means I get kicked out of the apartment the council gave me when I turned eighteen and sent back to my parents.
That can’t happen.
“Have you been drinking?”
“No.”
“Drugs?”
“No.”
