Page 2 of Claimed By the Band

That and the industrial strength suppressants and scent blockers that would have made me a billionaire by now if I got a bit of stock with each purchase.

I go out of my way to be as unremarkable as possible, but there's something about the whole brooding loner vibe that seems to attract a certain type.

"I'm good, thanks," I say, keeping my voice low and gruff. I've spent years training myself to speak from the chest rather than the throat. It's all part of the persona I've crafted so carefully.

The waitress doesn't take the hint. She leans in, lowering her voice conspiratorially. "You know, my shift ends in an hour if you wanted to grab a drink or something."

Pretty sure she's not even old enough to drink legally, but I decide not to bring that up. I meet her eyes, letting a hint of coldness seep into my gaze. "Sorry. I'm gay," I say flatly.

It's better to be blunt. She's really barking up the wrong tree in more ways than one.

Her face falls, a blush creeping up her neck. "Oh! I'm sorry, I didn't realize... I mean, I shouldn't have assumed..."

I wave off her stammered apologies. "It's fine. Really."

She nods, mortified, and scurries away. I feel a twinge of guilt for being so brusque, but I squash it down. Survival means not getting close to anyone. Ever. And it's a strategy that's worked for me these last nine years.

My phone buzzes again, this time with a text. The contact is listed only as "Ace," a precaution against prying eyes. But the truth is, I don't know any other name to call him by.

Or her.

Safer that way for the both of us.

The message is simple.

ACE: Showtime.

A smirk tugs at the corner of my mouth. I've been looking forward to this for weeks. Ace and I have been working on a little project, one that's much closer to my heart than testing corporate security systems.

We're about to take down a social networking site that caters to alphas who stalk and doxx omegas. It's a cesspool of hate and violence, one the authorities have been stubbornly ignoring despite multiple reports. Well, let them ignore what doesn't exist anymore.

This is why I do what I do. It's not about the money, though that certainly doesn't hurt. It's about making a difference, about protecting omegas who can't protect themselves. It's about striking back at a system that would rather pretend we don't exist.

And yeah, maybe it's a bit of consolation for not being able to live as myself. For having to hide behind baggy hoodies, for speaking in a voice that isn't quite my own, for always having to pop pills just to keep my body's traitorous cycles in line. For having to hide, day after day, year after year.

I take a swig of coffee, grimacing at the bitter taste. Time to get to work. I pull up a series of command prompts and dig in. To anyone watching, it probably looks like I'm furiously writing a term paper or something equally mundane.

In reality, I'm about to unleash hell on a bunch of alpha supremacist assholes.

Sometimes I love my job.

The first line of code goes in, a elegant little virus that will replicate and spread through their servers like wildfire. Next, a data scraper to collect evidence of their activities before we wipe everything. Can't hurt to have a little insurance, after all.

As I work, my mind drifts back to the article about Wild Honey. I wonder how Asher's doing, if he and his bandmates are okay.It's not often you see an omega in such a high-profile position, let alone one who's so vocal about omega rights.

Part of me admires him for it. For having the courage to stand up and be counted, to use his platform to advocate for change. Another part of me thinks he's painting a giant target on his back.

Today's attack is proof of that.

But then again, who am I to judge? I might not be on stage in front of thousands, but I'm fighting my own battles. We're just using different weapons.

A notification pops up on my screen. The virus has successfully infiltrated the main server. Now for the fun part. I crack my knuckles, a grin spreading across my face as I prepare to bring the whole system crashing down.

"Enjoy your digital apocalypse, fuckers," I mutter, hitting the enter key with a flourish.

Lines of code scroll across my screen as the virus does its work. In a matter of minutes, the entire site will be reduced to ash. User data, message logs, everything—gone. All except the backups I've already tucked away in my own private server for future evidence I'm apparently going to have to spoon feed to the cops. Anonymously, of course.

They'll have fun scrambling to regroup. It's beautiful, in a destructive sort of way.

---