Page 9 of The Omega Project

“There are no unsecured calls from this office,” Visser tells me with a touch of apology in his voice. “But if you’re still interested, I’m happy to talk to Derek as well and make sure he knows things are good between us.”

Am I still interested? I think of Claudia dragging herself through a double shift while mum hides in her room, sobbing into her lace-edged pillows over all the things she’s lost. And now I’m hearing that Derek might be out of a job soon, which makes the weight on my shoulders even heavier. Do I even have a choice?

“I’ll sign a temporary contract, if that works for you.” I glance at Langston, who gives me a small smile. “I have a lot to juggle, but I’ll commit to three months.”

Visser tilts his head, those pale grey eyes narrowing slightly. “Six months.”

“Three,” I counter. “It’s the most I can take from my job at the campus bookshop before they’ll blacklist me.”

I’m not kidding. Caroline – the owner and manager – is a slavedriver who is as tight as a bee’s butt when it comes to employees taking time off.

“Deal,” Visser says, his unfairly pink lips tilting up at the edges. “Your contract, along with the NDA, are on here. Please read them and get back to me with any questions.”

As I reach for the flash drive he’s placed on the desk between us, his fingers slide over mine. Somehow, he manages to turn the action into a handshake that I feel all the way to my toes.

His skin is cool, his fingers surprisingly strong. But it’s the lick of pheromones in the air – more alluring than anything I’ve ever encountered in my life – that has my knees almost buckling – and my underwear becoming embarrassingly wet.

Despite the alarms going off in my hindbrain, I cling to him, every instinct at war as his pale gray eyes smile into mine.

“Thanks for coming on board, Ms. Nash,” he says, his voice wrapping around me like a caress. “I’m hoping we’ll both get a great deal out of this arrangement.”

Derek

“Pizza or Thai?” I ask as Emily flops on my couch and grabs the remote. “Your choice.”

“Oh, God,” she moans, kicking her socked feet up on the coffee table and navigating to the latest episode ofThe Witcher. “I’ve been dreaming about those spicy noodles you fed me last week.”

“Thai it is,” I grin, parking myself next to her and tapping our food order into my phone app. She snuggles into my side, and I can’t help the goofy smile that breaks over my face. “But be warned. If you keep making those sounds, we’re going to skip dinner and go straight to dessert.”

I know I’m getting slightly obsessed with feasting on my girlfriend, but Em could make a career out of sexy voiceovers. She has one of those slightly husky voices that turns every word into a suggestive purr, even though I can tell she has no idea the effect it has on people. I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve fallen asleep with my phone tucked to my ear, Em spinning some story about the eating habits of the Western honeybee, my dick like a steel bar as I imagine her lips gently moving against the shell of my ear.

And don’t get me started on her humming. Maybe it’s something bee scientists pick up from exposure to the hives, but those soft vibrations she makes in the back of her throat just carry my nighttime fantasies straight over into my waking hours.

Which is one of the reasons Ineedher to move in here with me. That way I can listen to her chatter all day and hum all night, preferably without any sturdy walls – or clothes - between us.

But a familiar frustration knots my stomach as Em tries to stifle a yawn, the shadows under her eyes almost purple in this light. She works too hard and gives too much.If the world was a hive, Em would be one of the worker bees, gathering food so tirelessly that her wings would become tattered, and she eventually wouldn’t have the strength to fly back home.

Jesus, Summers, can you be anylessof a ray of sunshine?

It’s just that asking for help seems to be missing from Em’s vocabulary. I see the way she looks around my place with longing, but even though she comes over at least three times a week, she rarely stays the night, always rushing off to help her family or to grab a couple of hours of study before starting work.

But that’s all about to change now she’s definitely/maybe moving in with me.

“Have you heard from Clark?” She asks, proving how gifted she is at reading my mind. “Is he still happy at the packhouse?”

“Yep. He’s all settled in.”

There’s a wistful note I can’t keep from my voice, and she looks at me curiously. It’s not surprising, since the only conversation we’ve ever had about packs was a touchy one. She told me about her sister’s pack falling apart after their mate was killed overseas, and I admitted that when I failed to present as an alpha in my late teens, my three high school friends ghosted me. They were all football players, and even though I was more into computers than sports, the plan had been for us to form a pack after graduation. The rejection stung like a bitch, and I still find it hard to bite my tongue when anyone expresses surprise that a guy with my physique isonly a beta.

Which is a load of bullshit, because while alphas are revered for their physicality and aggressive ambition, it doesn’t meanbetas are second-rate. We’re known for our intellect and perseverance, and on a day-to-day basis, my designation is irrelevant. Admittedly, I work behind a computer screen most of the time, where the size of your muscles is more likely to get you back strain than anything, but we’re the worker bees who keep the honey flowing. A petty part of me wants to believe that without us, alphas and omegas would be off rutting and nesting 24/7 while the rest of the world grinds to a halt.

It’s just that, sometimes I wish I had a bit more to offer. I can give Em a safe roof over her head, Netflix nights, and my eternal adoration, but I can count my other friends on one hand, and most of them are already in packs. Not that Em and I couldn’t just date and get married, like other beta couples do, but I’m certain that deep down she wants to be part of something more. She wasmadefor something more, even though her dad tried to convince her otherwise, and she’s wearing the scars from that fucking arsehole who tried to bond her against her will.

“I really love this place,” she says, and I blink away the murderous feelings I have towards her ex. She’s looking around the living room, a soft look of hope on her beautiful face. “I feel like I should pinch myself. Am I really going to move in here?”

“Yep.” The grin that takes over my face uses muscles that I swear I didn’t know existed. “And if you’re worried about your budget, you know I’m happy to crunch numbers if it’d help.”

Not that I care if she moves in with just the clothes on her back, but we both smirk, since I’m well aware of how allergic she is to spreadsheets. She tries to hide the fact that her budget is currently written on the back page of her least favourite notebook, but I’ve got her sussed. Plus, she used a black marker instead of one of her glitter pens.

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