Page 5 of Heat Hesitation

"I've read some of the news articles. The Daily Rag said you found your omega, but she died?" Imogen clutches the diamond necklace draped across her dainty flesh. "That's so tragic. I couldn't imagine." Tears well in the corner of her eyes, and it's so un-ironic and earnest, I can't help but indulge the poor girl.

"As I said, it's a long story; don't believe everything you read in there."

The Rag speculated the omega we lost on the river bank was ours, given Asher's rapid descent into despair, but the three of us carried on publicly, even if we, too, felt the hurt through our pack bonds. We confirmed and denied nothing, and I don't intend to start with Imogen Bradford.

"I'm sure the Rag will post something about us courting you in tomorrow's edition; it's just how high society works. We're well-known and single; people love to create a story from a photograph. And you, my dear, are the picture of beauty, an absolute vision, so people will talk." Theo winks, popping an olive into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully, while Imogen glances around the room, for the first time realizing how on display we are.

"Oh! Oh my, I didn't even think… I'm so sorry. Truly, my father just asked if we'd join him for lunch and told us to be around the Constantine Towers at two o'clock. I'd not have come if I'd known he was setting us up. Certainly not without your knowledge, especially if you'd already told him you weren't interested."

As Imogen speaks, her voice grows sharper. She's not as flighty as she appears, clearly reading between the lines of her parents' failed attempts. She presses her lips together, and damn if she doesn't look even a little bit pissed.

It's nice to see, to be honest. As the years pass, the OFA pushes the omegas to act more and more like dolls, props for the alphas to display or use. Maybe that's why we've had such a hard time finding a match; they suit us less and less each year. Of course, we attend all the events when required as a sponsor of the OFA and as one of the wealthiest and most eligible packs in Arrow Cove.

But watching Imogen transform, arriving with the guise of perfection, now showing us a little hint of fire, reminds me there's more to her, to the others, than we give them credit for. The omegas leaving the academy are more docile and submissive than each year's previous.

"It's alright, we can handle it; we're used to the charade. What about you? Do they fear you'll reach spinsterhood without their intervention?" Theo jests.

She snorts with her giggle, then slaps her hand over her mouth, eyes wide. Cooly, she straightens her shoulders, pretending to shed the human skin, replacing it with the practiced OFA cloak. "Yes, unfortunately, my parents are concerned I've not shown interest in any packs. I think they're getting desperate."

Theo barks a laugh. Horrified, she backtracks, "Not that you're a desperate choice! Oh my. No, I'm sorry, I meant bringing me here. We lived in SoCal; I went to school there. I turned down every pack they tried to match me with, both my parents and the academy. Nothing ever felt quite right. So, we moved. They dragged me across the country, thinking the Arrow Cove OFA was my best chance, being the largest facility." She sounds sad.

"It's not what you want?"

Her smile is wistful, and for a moment, she shows authentic vulnerability—not the fake one, the demure omega submissiveness, but her honest longing for something more. "I want a scent-match."

Theo and I catch eyes. His smile dims, and I finish the next glass of wine. Neither of us bother reminding her how rare scent-matches are, that she's better off choosing her pack. We're too lost in our grief because, for a moment, we could pretend Asher was the one overreacting. But the reality is that we may have our own scent-match out there, and if she's alive and didn't drown in that river, then we have to live with the knowledge that we may never see her again.

Chapter 3

Ophelia - one month ago

Red runs his hands through his dark black hair, asking for patience. I ignore the gesture and plop down on the oversized leather couch in the back office at Queenie's, rotating my leg inward as I stretch out so Red can't see the small tear in my fishnet tights on my inner thigh. We might be in South Loop, but Queenie's strip club is no slouch, and Red's pack has standards. Holes in tights don't really fly here unless they're intentional.

"Ophelia, the answer has been and always will be a resounding no. No, you cannot dance. You've got the coordination of a newborn calf."

"Bro. Harsh."

"You finally stopped spilling drinks on customers. Anyone else would have been fired. I finally get the concept of nepotism because I love you, and I'll help you figure your shit out. But the answer is no, you can't dance. You're lucky you're still serving drinks."

In truth, his patience helped me land my second job in catering because they would never have hired me if I hadn't gained experience serving drinks here at Queenie's or without a good word from my neighbor Melanie. What can I say? I'm clumsy. It's a skill.

But now that I've got two jobs, I'm finally making some decent cash. My dream of getting out of C-Block is within reach, and if I danced at Queenie's instead of serving drinks, I'd be making bank. I could have a nice new apartment in no time.

"You're a hypocrite," I point my finger accusingly, though we've devolved into fake arguing because he's right; I can't dance for shit. "You're all about omegas rights until I'm the one in question. I could work the back rooms, you know? Minimal dancing required."

He laughs, "You're right, I'm a hypocrite. But my sister will not now nor ever take her clothes off in my club. And not a chance are you working the back rooms." I'm not actually his sister, but he's been my family ever since I lost my own. He gets up and knocks my stretched-out legs off the coffee table, making me nearly fall off the couch.

Truthfully, as much as I love and support what the girls here do, I couldn't bring myself to work in the backrooms, even to piss off Red—dancing on stage, though? That I could do. If only I had coordination and didn't look so wobble-kneed when trying to dance.

Red knows how hard it is for an omega to make money on their own, so while he asks all the dancers who work the back not to sleep with clients, as long as they have a bouncer nearby to keep them safe, he knows things happen. Private dances are pretty sexy and with the added pheromones—scent-blockers or no—it's hard for anyone to resist taking things a little too far, betas included. We're pretty sex-positive here at Queenie's.

"Side hustle not paying enough?" Red changes the subject, breaking my chain of thought.

"You know money's got nothing to do with that," I wave him off, with the reminder of my third gig, which doesn't count. I barely charge the omegas I deal to, mainly collecting enough cash to pay for the pills and the cost of getting around town to make all the deliveries. And if I ever meet an omega who can't pay, they don't. Simple as that.

"You know if you need money, you can always borrow—"

"Absolutely not," I cut him off. He's tried to support me financially for years, but I don't want his charity. He's right; I'm lucky I even have this job. "Mel and I were talking about maybe going in on a place together to get out of C-Block." Melanie and I live in a set of apartment buildings on C-Street, nicknamed C-Block because once you dip low enough on the totem pole to have to rent there, there's little chance of breaking free.

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