Page 24 of Hunted Omega: Part Two

Typical Zane. He’s man of few words, but even his ellipsis speaks volumes. I can almost smell their scents through the phone, and for a moment, I’m overwhelmed by how much I miss them and how much I need their strength right now.

Then, without thinking, I scroll to Logan’s number. He’s been a rock lately, always there with a quick response or a word of encouragement, but something holds me back from dialing, a small voice in the back of my mind whispering that maybe I’ve been leaning on him too much.

Logan’s been great, but why does leaning on him feel like I’m making a deal with the devil?

I pocket my phone and start the walk home. The night stretches out before me, each step echoing with the possibilities of where I could go from here. The sidewalk is slick under my feet, and the occasional gust of wind carries the scent of rain and city life. It’s a long road filled with missteps and uncertainty, but for now, I’m sober. For now, I’m trying.

One foot in front of the other, Dash. It isn’t a stage, but it’s a performance all the same.

Tonight, in the dim glow of streetlights and the quiet rustle of city sounds, maybe that’s enough. As I turn the corner toward home, a thought hits me, both terrifying and exhilarating. Tomorrow, I might just be brave enough to take the next step in making things right.

Who knows? Maybe I’ll even crack a joke that doesn’t make everyone cringe. Baby steps, right?

As I reach for my keys, another thought sneaks in, uninvited and unsettling. What if making things right with Aria means losing the pack for good?

Why does that idea terrify me more than the thought of another day of sobriety?

11

ARIA

The bellabove the door jingles like a hyperactive fairy as I burst into the Juice Joint, my heart doing the cha-cha in my chest. The trendy smoothie bar is an oasis of chill in the early evening chaos of Puritan City. A few patrons are scattered around, lost in their laptops or phones, oblivious to my mini meltdown.

The scent of fresh fruit and herbs hits me like a slap from Mother Nature herself, momentarily drowning out the stench of stress sweat clinging to me like a clingy ex. Ginger glances up from behind the counter, her bright smile fading faster than my resolve in a cupcake shop.

“Holy shit, Aria,” she says, already reaching for a glass with the speed of a bartender at last call. “You look like you need a Calm-o-mile Cooler with a shot of forget your troubles. What happened? Did you accidentally like your ex’s Instagram post from 2015?”

I make one mistake…

I collapse onto a stool, the cool metal shocking my overheated skin. “Make it a double,” I rasp, sounding like I’ve been gargling gravel. “And maybe add whatever makes peopleforget the last hour of their lives. Is amnesia on the secret menu?”

I’ve survived worse than this, and I’ve faced down alphas with egos bigger than their knots and come out swinging, but right now, I feel like I’m starring in my own personal soap opera—The Young and the Restless Omega: Puritan City Edition.

Ginger’s eyes narrow, a familiar spark of protective fury igniting in their depths. It’s the look that says she’s ready to throw hands with fate on my behalf. “Okay, now I’m officially worried. What happened? Did some knot-head alpha try something? Because I swear to God, I will end them. I have at least three plans for hiding a body, and I’m not afraid to use them.”

I shake my head, a laugh escaping me that sounds more like a wheeze. “No, nothing like that. It’s just… God, Ging, why is my life always such a clusterfuck? Did I piss off a witch in a past life or something?”

Ginger’s hands are a blur as she crafts the smoothie, her ginger hair bouncing like it’s at its own private rave. “Spill,” she demands, sliding the pale green concoction toward me. “What has you looking like you saw a ghost? Or worse, your ex?”

I take a long sip, letting the cool, herbal flavor wash over my tongue. It’s a soothing balm for my frazzled nerves, taking the edge off. “Funny you should mention exes,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper.

Ginger’s eyebrows shoot up so fast I’m worried they might achieve orbit. “No fucking way. You ran into Noah? Here? I swear to God, Aria, if that piece of shit is in Puritan City, I will personally?—”

“No, no,” I interrupt, touched by her instant rage on my behalf. It’s one of the many reasons I love having my besties in Puritan City. They are like my own personal army of righteousfury, armed with sarcasm and a concerning knowledge of how to dispose of bodies. “Not Noah. It was… Dash.”

Ginger’s mouth forms a perfect O of surprise. “Dash? As in Pack Clarke Dash?Mr. I Can-Drink Everyone Under The Tablealpha? The walking, talking don’t date musicians PSA? Honestly, I can’t wait to meet him.”

I nod, wincing at her colorful description. I recount the encounter, the memory still fresh and jagged in my mind. “He had this easy smile,” I add, remembering the moment, “like running into me was the best surprise he had all day. It was… unsettling, like seeing a shark suddenly sprout legs and offer to walk you home.”

As I speak, a memory surfaces, unbidden. It’s from before everything went south, a rare moment of peace with Pack Clarke. I find myself smiling as I remember game night.

Dash sprawls on the floor, his citrus and ocean breeze scent teasing my nose as he grins. “Your move, Red. Unless you’re too scared to build on Park Place?”

I roll my eyes, fighting a smile. “In your dreams, rock star.”

Malachi chuckles from his armchair, his cedarwood and amber scent deepening. “Don’t let him goad you, Aria.”

Quinn leans in, his lavender and bergamot scent tickling my senses. “Psst, want to team up? I have my eye on Boardwalk.”

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