Page 7 of Fallen Omega

“God, how…” I gulp down air as I look at the photo of Craig Edmonton of Hover Valley, again. “Gross.”

I’m not shallow or judgy. But…I’m twenty-one, almost twenty-two. I haven’t even started living yet. Dad didn’t want me to think about settling down, not until I was older, and met someone. That’s how he put it:meet someone.

Not matched with a mate.

An alpha.

Justsomeone.

He talked of love.

He wanted me to learn and while college was off the table, I’d been attending classes. Not putting in work, obviously, but attending. Dad’s death two months ago put an end to that, and…

Shit, girl, don’t cry. Just don’t.

My eyes burn and ache, but I’m not sure there are any tears left. The problem with grief is it settles, sits, the ache and pain and sadness get…not boring, but it wears you down until there’s nothing. Just ash.

I breathe in and look at the photo again.

This man is a mate, a means to an end. He’s got lips like a dead fish, a flattened, misshapen nose. Cruel, hungry eyes, like they don’t care about who’s taking the photo, only whatever better thing awaits.

And worse? He’s gray, balding, and probably about sixty.

He’s older than my father.

The man makes my stomach heave.

Who the hell reported me? The cops?

But they had my name, that’s it. Those guys were tiny fish, looking to scare me. Maybe even screw me in exchange for them letting me go. Of course, they’d probably have still arrested me, but…

A cold clarity hits.

Not them.

The man with the deep, sexy voice. The commanding voice that somehow made me obey. The man who smelled of salt and dark, rich earth, and the air of a storm. He smelled like rain.

And he drove an expensive car. The cops had rushed to him.

An alpha, I’m thinking, and…oh god. I’m betting he’s Council and somehow found me out.

I crush the photo and snatch up my cell, dialing the number on the letter.

A woman answers. “Starlight City Pack Council, how may I help you?”

“There’s been a mistake,” I say. “I got a letter and a photo and?—”

“Just a moment, I’ll patch you through to the right department.”

Horrible, loud music assaults me, and I’m almost ready to hang up when the music stops and a crisp voice says, “Susan speaking.”

“I got a letter, and a photo, and there’s been a mistake. I’m not pack material. We’re exiled so I can’t be eligible for a match.”

“What’s your name?”

I hesitate, but the clack of a keyboard comes through the line.

“Is this Lizette Roth?” Susan rattles off my address and date of birth. The real one, not the one I’ve been putting down on job applications. Even cash-in-hand places want some details.

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