Page 15 of Hunted Omega: Part Two

Tonight, I’m going to bed. Even superheroes need their beauty sleep.

As I crawl under the covers, surrounded by the lingering scents of my friends and the comforting softness of my nest, I feel a flicker of something I haven’t felt in a while—hope. That, more than anything, gives me the strength to face another day.

Bring it on, universe. I have wine, friends, and a newfound determination to kick ass and take names.

My phone buzzes again, and against my better judgment, I check it. Curiosity killed the cat, satisfaction brought it back, and all that jazz.

Malachi: I’m glad you’re dealing. We have a lot to talk about, but it can wait. Just know that we’re here when you’re ready. Sleep well, Aria.

I stare at the message, a complex mix of emotions swirling inside me like an emotional smoothie. I feel fear, anger, andconfusion, but also a tiny spark of curiosity. What could Malachi possibly have to say? What game is he playing? And why does a part of me yearn to hear his voice and be surrounded by the comforting presence of the pack?

As I drift off, one thought echoes in my mind—am I truly ready to face Pack Clarke, or am I diving headfirst into a game where I don’t know the rules? Whatever tomorrow brings, I know one thing for certain—I’m done being a pawn in someone else’s game. It’s time to become the queen of my own chessboard.

Watch out, world. This omega’s about to make some moves.

6

ARIA

I stormthrough the revolving doors of Scent Synergy like a tornado in yoga pants. The building is all shiny glass and sleek lines, probably designed by some hipster architect who thinks concrete is passé. It’s about as welcoming as a dentist’s office, but I’m not here for the décor. I’m here to kick ass and take names, and I’m all out of name tags.

Fancy building, same old alpha BS. Time to shake things up. Maybe I’ll start by redecorating their lobby with my righteous anger.

The lobby hits me like a wall of Febreze gone wrong. The air is so thick with scent neutralizers, I half expect to see a hazmat team. My nose burns, and my omega instincts scream louder than a metal band at a library. It’s like they are trying to Lysol away every hint of humanity. I grit my teeth so hard I might need a dentist after this.

Focus, Aria. You’re on a mission.

I march up to the reception desk like I’m storming the Bastille. The receptionist sits there, all prim and proper, with a smile so fake it could be in a toothpaste commercial. Her beta scent is hidden under more layers than a kid lying about eating cookies.

“Welcome to Scent Synergy. How can I?—”

“I’m not here for a tour,” I cut her off, my tone sharp. All my bottled-up frustration is fizzing like a shaken soda can. “I need to speak with Dr. Reeves. Now. As in five minutes ago.”

Her smile wobbles like a Jenga tower, but she recovers swiftly, and her fingers dance across the keyboard like she’s auditioning for Riverdance. “Do you have an appointment, Miss…”

“Aria,” I snap, glaring at her because we just did this a couple days ago. My scent spikes with enough aggression to make a bouncer nervous. “And no, I don’t, but I’m not leaving until I get some answers. So unless you want me to start a one-woman protest in your lobby, I suggest you get him down here.”

She hesitates, her fingers frozen mid-air. “Dr. Reeves is very busy, and without an appointment?—”

“Get. Him.” I lean in closer, channeling my inner drill sergeant. My omega pheromones flood the air between us like I cracked open a can ofdon’t mess with mespray. It’s a power move I never thought I’d use, but desperate times call for desperate measures. “Or I’ll make a scene that’ll have TMZ camping outside for a week.”

Her eyes go wider than a kid’s on Christmas morning, and she snatches up the phone like it’s a lifeline. A tense moment later, Dr. Reeves appears, looking about as thrilled as a cat in a bathtub. His beta scent hits me, crisp and neutral, like freshly laundered sheets. I steel myself, refusing to be intimidated. I didn’t come this far to be cowed by eau de professional indifference.

“Ms. Aria,” he says, his tone clipped enough to trim hedges. “This is unexpected. What seems to be the issue?”

“The issue? The issue—” I start, ready to unleash a tirade that would make a sailor blush.

“Not here.” He cuts me off, glancing around like he’s afraid I might start a riot. A few people are already rubbernecking harder than drivers passing a fender bender. “Follow me, please.”

I follow him into a small conference room that’s about as inviting as a prison cell. The door is barely shut before I let loose, my fury hotter than a habanero pepper. The room is a sensory black hole, which only adds fuel to my rage fire. “The issue is that I’m in your system without my consent, and I want to know how that happened. It’s illegal, and you damn well know it, or did you skip that day in Alpha Ethics 101?”

Dr. Reeves sighs like he’s explaining quantum physics to a toddler. His scent remains steadfastly neutral, like he’s trying to out bland a piece of tofu. “Ms. Aria, I appreciate your… passion, but let me be clear. Our systems are infallible. Your concerns, while understandable, don’t change the facts. We discussed this during your last visit. I reviewed your file, and everything is in order. You submitted your sample?—”

“No, I didn’t!” I shout, my voice bouncing off the walls. My scent fills the room, a cocktail of fury and fear strong enough to knock out a rhino. “I never agreed to any of this, and I never sent you a damn thing, so how did my genetic information end up in your database? Did the DNA fairy pay you a visit?”

For a moment, I’m back in Cayenne’s spare room, hiding like a mouse from a particularly persistent cat named Noah. The memory of that fear hits me like a freight train. There’s no way I would have risked exposure by submitting my info to any database, let alone one for mate matching. I’d rather lick a cactus.

Dr. Reeves pinches the bridge of his nose like he’s trying to ward off a migraine. His beta pheromones remain frustratingly steady, probably an attempt to project calm in the face of my omega storm. It only makes me angrier. I half expect steam tostart coming out of my ears. “Ms. Aria, our system is secure. Your sample was logged with your name and a consent form attached. Perhaps you forgot or?—”

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