Page 67 of Captive Omega

Garrison, Vaughn, and Roman would circle the ballroom, entryway, patio, and the garden, regularly changing directions to avoid falling into a pattern of behavior someone could exploit. Frost would be at the front door and walking the driveway in case trouble hurtled this way.

I would talk with Everleigh, and after, I could join Blaine at the back of the room. But only if I wanted to. Since they planned this party two weeks before, the guest list is confirmed, and no new arrivals added to it meant no one could sneak in at the last minute. And it’s not like they had told anyone—other than Pack Ashe and Everleigh—that I would be here.

It would be safe.

But like any event or job, it was their business to manage risk and ensure there were no surprises. So expect it would be safe, but plan for something to go wrong.

And everyone, without exception, would check in every ten minutes using the skin-colored earpieces they stuck in when we pulled up at the house.

Even me.

I hadn’t been expecting an earpiece, but I got one too.

I knew why they were talking about something they didn’t need to. They were doing it so I knew what was going on and exactly where I fitted into the plan. And just like back in the house, I had another of those thrill moments where I felt I had a role to play.

“This party is in Pack Ashe’s home,” Garrison had twisted in his seat to tell me before we’d climbed out of the Hummer. “We’ve gone over and over the guest list, but any gathering always has the potential to turn, including ones thrown by friends. You’re welcome to sit out the party with Everleigh.”

I didn’t want to hide out in a back room—still don’t—even though I don’t like the crush, the smells, the sweat. But I like the way people see my all-black outfit, assume I’m part of security and move out of my way.

It makes me feel like I’m something other than an omega when I’ve gotten used to being nothing else for years.

So I weave around the perimeter of the room, though I’m not sure I would recognize trouble until it smacked me in the face. I keep my eyes open, stay alert, watchful, like I’m an experienced hand at this security business.

I spot Blaine standing on the back wall, hands stuffed in his pocket, expression strangely… fixed at the same time I hear it.

“…dance. Then I saw his face. All half-melted, like some nightmare,” a woman in an ice-white dress says, shuddering.

My lips flatten.

I know exactly who she’s talking about and why Blaine’s face is so fixed.

A scar is just a scar.

It does not turn someone from a person into an object to be ridiculed.

The rage this woman’s words ignite has me reaching into the waistband of my jeans before I tell myself this is not a stabbing situation.

I spot a server with a tray of red wine and that’s when I know exactly what this deserves. Fight ugly with ugly. Veering right, I snatch up a glass from the tray and stalk straight toward her. I don’t hide my intention behind a stumble or an accidental trip.

I toss my drink at the woman’s dress. White silk ruined. Instantly.

She whirls around with a shocked gasp.

“Oh, I’m sorry! Did I accidentally get you in the dress instead of your face?” My voice is saccharine sweet. “I’ll have to work on my aim.”

Her nostrils flare and I spot the exact moment she realizes what I am.

“Omega bitch,” the woman says, taking a step toward me.

I shove my glass onto a passing server's tray and close the distance between us, nose to nose, tuning out the surrounding whispers. “Omega bitch with a black belt in karate.”

The woman hesitates, her expression turning wary.

“Go ahead. Try it.” I have no clue how to defend myself, but you can be as sure as hell whatever I do, I’ll make sure it hurts.

More people angle their heads toward us, asking each other in low voices what’s going on.

Maybe it’s my stare that convinces her to back off, or maybe it’s all the attention we’re attracting, but the woman glares at me and swings away.

---