Page 12 of Captive Omega

“He does.” Not an ounce of doubt in her voice. Her thin lips flatten and dark eyes narrow. “The sort of guy a woman would find a reason to leave the room if he entered it.”

“His resume looks good.”

“So did that boring office worker who turned out to be an ax murderer. Go home.” Message delivered, she stalks out.

Her chair scrapes hardwood floors outside my office as I scrutinize the photo. Maybe Cynthia has a point. Not about the serial killer eyes. There is something a little predatory about his gaze. I nudge his resume firmly into the no pile and rake a hand through my shoulder-length blond hair before bending to grab my bag.

Instinct counts for a lot in my line of work. When the last time you trusted your instincts someone you loved died and another one still carries scars, it’s hard not to doubt yourself.

I’m turning my computer off when an email notification pops up. Another job candidate. Perfect excuse to stay even later. I reach for the mouse as I sit back down.

“GO HOME!” Cynthia yells and I nearly fall off the chair, grabbing the edge of the table to save myself.

“My God, woman, are you monitoring my emails?” I yell back.

“No. I have a little camera pointed at your desk,” she says calmly. “When you start leaving at a reasonable time, I’ll remove it.”

She’s joking. I know she’s joking.

My office is in a windowless room for security purposes. Between my desk, a lockable metal filing cabinet, and the stacks of papers on my desk beside my computer, if there was a camera in here, I’d have seen it. That doesn’t stop me from giving my room a probing sweep as I slip my jacket on because if anyone would bug my office, it’d be Cynthia.

“You give more orders than me, you know that, right? It’s like you’re trying to steal my job or something,” I say, pausing at her desk. “And when are you going home?”

There are two main hallways that lead off the entryway. We’re on the left side for staff. The right is for omegas to head downstairs to the heat suites or up to the bar if they’re here to relax.

“I’ll go home when I have these forms finished, and I don’t want your job. I want the one above it.”

“And that is?”

“Area manager,” she says with the gravity of someone declaring they want to run the world.

Area manager would be fine, but there’s only one Ever Safe location. Downtown. And we’re in it.

“We don’t have an area manager.” I frown.

“Yet.” She gives me a pointed look and goes back to her typing. “The right answer is yet. See you tomorrow.”

Chuckling, I say my goodbyes on my way out. There are no keys hanging on the wall behind the entrance hatch. All heat suites are occupied, and we have five members of security to ensure all omegas on site will stay safe. There’s no reason to stick around, yet I linger at the front entrance, not eager to go home.

Do I want to sit through a pack meeting with Blaine who barely meets anyone’s eyes and subtly retreats if anyone comes within a hair of touching him?

No.

Do I want to feel that same acrid burn of guilt twist my gut because I keep inventing crises so I can avoid meetings, even though I suspect Garrison knows exactly what I’m doing?

Also, no.

But Blaine is not okay, and it’s not fair on Garrison that I’m dodging him, the house, and Blaine because I don’t know how to fix any of it.

And if Cynthia finds me hanging around, she’ll march me to my car and stand there, eyes like a hawk, until I pull my car out of the parking lot. Though probably not before she sticks a tracker on my car to ensure I actually went home.

So I step out into the dark streets and my instincts scream a warning when I clock the black truck with tinted windows on the other side of the road, its engine idling.

“It’s nothing. Go home,” I mutter, juggling my keys between my fingers.

But I narrow my eyes on that vehicle as I puzzle over what it is about it that’s setting off every alarm that I need to check it out.

Is this the usual home avoidance? Or is this something more?

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