Page 6 of Justice for Puck Bunnies

And my mom... how she found out is beyond me. I’m convinced she pays a PI to follow me. I can’t take another lecture about what the Admin will do.

I’m not going back to Brad without a concrete commitment. I want him to claim me in a way that he can’t escape without repercussions. I’ve been turning over ideas for three days to figure out how to push him into giving me a mate bite or a diamond ring—preferably both.

And I might have even been a bit remorseful for using Wyatt, Vinson, and LaMille. I’m sure they’re catching hell.

Mason doesn’t seem to mind, though, and keeps on not minding every few hours.

I bark out a laugh.

I open the privacy tab on my phone’s browser, search for “bikini pic,” and screenshot the most extreme option. After cropping the image down, I add it to the message and hit “Send.”

The headset beeps in my ear before his reply. I click to the guy obsessed with correctly accounting for his credit card miles.

“I’m going to need one more minute,” I say.

He gets out a, “Wait—” before I punch the hold button again.

Despite how much I hate working here, I click the correct window and search for a resolution to the guy’s issue in the answer bank.

The job’s easy, and there are eight different companies in the system so it isn’t as monotonous as a lot of other call centers, but it’s soul draining. I’m always able to make my quota, though, and have qualified for the bonuses twice.

Omegas naturally want to appease people and read intonations or whatever, so awful customer service jobs are a surprisingly good fit for our “talents.”

Those talents being, of course, humoring egotistical alphas who want a woman barefoot and preggo. Silent and sexual. I used to enjoy caring for my family, but none of the guys I’ve met socially are worthy of that kind of attention.

No, thank you. One Brad is enough for me.

My heats suck with just one alpha, but it’s better than the alternative with the Admin.

It’s also better having one alpha than none, which is what I had before Brad. He’s covered them twice and I survived.

When I pick up the call on hold, the guy is still screaming, so I punch the hold button again.

If I had the stomach, I’d suck it up and submit to the Admin. Sure, I’d be forced into a life of homebodied subservience, lose all independence and individuality, have to undergo invasive testing and monitoring given my age and hidden status, have every aspect of my life become tightly controlled and be stripped of even the choice of who I spend it with...

Deep breaths, Izzy.

...but perhaps I’d find a pack I could cope with and drop the dead-end jobs for good?

Without knowing where on the continuum I’ll end up, it’s a risk I’m not willing to take. I trust myself above Big Alpha.

The Admin wants to force every omega into the system, which is why my suppressants are so incredibly expensive. They don’t want us to take them. They pretend they’re bad for us, but I’ve been on them for easily a decade and have only one or two heats a year.

I’m perfectly fine.

The job covers the pills, my car, and a grocery share with Jolie, and even leaves some left over to sock away. My bestie doesn’t expect me to fill the fridge, but I still stuff twenties into the tin for our household expenses.

There’s also the fact that I can’t normally stay in one place for too long. People grow suspicious, and hourly work is easier to replace if I need to skip a week or four suddenly or have to escape and not look back.

I’m not so great with consistency anyway.

The screen on my phone lights up with three waiting messages.

He knows I won’t. That’s why he asks. He wants me to shoot him down.

My headset beeps. I peck a few buttons on the computer screen and pick the call back up.

“Yes, Mr. Dennie? I’ve submitted a ticket with your concerns. I’m afraid I’m unable to resolve it for you. It needs to be handled by the IT team.... I can transfer you to a manager, but the wait is currently”—I pause for dramatic effect—”46 minutes.”

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