Page 4 of Hunted Omega: Part Two

Even as I think it, I know it’s a lie bigger than my last credit card bill. I need them, I need someone, and that realization feels like the weakest part of me—the part I’ve spent years trying to bury deeper than my embarrassing high school photos.

My phone buzzes, snapping me back to reality like a rubber band.

Cayenne: Rise and shine, buttercup! We’re hitting the market, and you’re coming. Don’t even think about arguing. I have my stubborn pants on today. They are very tight and uncomfortable, so don’t make me wear them for nothing.

I stare at the screen, my thumb hovering over the keyboard like it’s about to disarm a bomb. A part of me wants to tell her how lost I feel, how every shadow in this damn apartment looks like a threat, but the other part of me, the one that’s kept me safe by keeping everyone at arm’s length, wins out. I don’t respond.I’m the queen of emotional avoidance, and my throne is made of unread messages and ignored calls.

Another buzz.

Cayenne: Seriously, Aria. Fresh air will do you good. We’ll be there in ten, and if you aren’t ready, I’m dragging you out in whatever you’re wearing, even if it’s your birthday suit.

The thought of leaving the safety of my apartment sends a cold wave of anxiety crashing over me, but she’s right—I can’t hide forever. I can’t let fear keep me boxed in like last year’s Christmas decorations.

My fingers tremble as I type back.

Me: Okay, fine, but not for long. If I see one alpha, I’m out faster than a toupee in a hurricane.

Baby steps, Aria.You can do this. It’s just a market, not a war zone. Though with my luck, who knows?

I force myself to get up and pull on loose, comfortable clothes that won’t draw any attention. I’ve been hiding for so long, it feels like second nature. I’m just tightening my ponytail when there’s another knock. This time, Cayenne’s determined smile and Ginger’s steady gaze greet me.

“Ready?” Cayenne asks, her tone brooking no argument. Her cinnamon scent wraps around me, warm and comforting like a hug.

Ginger’s earthy aroma joins in, grounding me further. “Today will be amazing,” she says softly, her green eyes scanning my face. “We can even stop and pick up those little pastries you love. You know, the ones that make you moan like you’re auditioning for a very specific kind of film.”

I do love little treats… and now I’m blushing. Thanks, Ginger.

I nod, grabbing my bag and stepping into the hallway. We walk out of the Omega Guardians building together, and I can’t help but scan every face we pass, my senses on high alert.The crowd feels too close, too loud, and a cacophony of scents threatens to overwhelm me. I grip Cayenne’s arm like it’s the last life raft on the Titanic.

She leans into me, whispering, “I bet that guy shits himself during long meetings. Look at how he’s walking. That’s definitely anI have bathroom anxietywaddle.”

I swallow the laughter that tries to bubble out of me like a foghorn. Barely. Trust Cayenne to find humor in the most inappropriate places.

The market hits me a moments later—a dizzying kaleidoscope of colors, shouts, and laughter, the air thick with a hundred different scents. My head spins, and for a moment, I forget how to breathe. Fresh produce mingles with the aroma of street food and the underlying musk of alpha pheromones. I feel my ribs shrinking, squeezing my lungs. Each breath comes in short, desperate gasps, like I’m trying to suck air through a straw.

Ginger notices and steers us to a quieter corner, away from the crush of people. “Let’s start over here,” she suggests, her eyes scanning the crowd. “Less alphas, more exits. Perfect for a quick getaway if needed—not that we’re planning a heist or anything. Unless you want to. I’m game if you are.”

I nod, focusing on the vibrant rows of fruits and vegetables and the mundane task of picking out ingredients. It helps to lose myself in something so ordinary. Look, a perfectly normal apple. Nothing scary about apples.

Unless you’re Snow White, I guess.

Cayenne bumps my shoulder playfully. “Hey, remember that time we tried to make salsa and ended up with what can only be described as spicy fruit soup? I think my tongue is still confused about what happened that day.”

A small laugh escapes me, surprising me. “God, that was awful. I think my taste buds are still recovering. We shouldprobably be banned from cooking anything more complicated than toast.”

See? Not so bad. You’ve got this. Independence, here we come. Maybe we’ll even graduate to cooking pasta without setting off the smoke alarm.

Then a scent, sharp and unmistakable, hits me. My pulse spikes, and my vision blurs at the edges like I’m in some cheesy romance novel.

Alpha. Pack Clarke.Mine.

The scent is a potent mix of leather, sandalwood, and something uniquely them. It floods my senses, dragging me back to memories I’ve been trying to suppress harder than my middle school goth phase. For a moment, I’m there again, surrounded by them, feeling both terrified and… complete.

My omega instincts scream at me to submit, to seek out the source of that intoxicating aroma, but my rational mind, the part of me that’s been running and hiding for so long, takes over. It’s like a WWE smackdown in my brain, and let me tell you, it isn’t pretty.

“I need to go.” My voice wobbles, the tightness in my throat turning my words into strained whispers. I turn away, ignoring Cayenne and Ginger’s questions. The lump in my throat swells, and my chest feels like it’s being squeezed in a vise, or maybe by a very enthusiastic anaconda.

I push through the crowd, every step a battle against the panic clawing at my insides. The market becomes a blur of faces and scents, all threatening to suffocate me.

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