Page 25 of Fired at the Heart

The fake name sounds wrong on Raphael. He’s never been a Smith—too common, too ordinary for someone who commands attention simply by existing. Even now, playing the role of a wealthy Alpha looking for an Omega plaything, he radiates an authority that can’t be faked.

The accountant taps a few more times on the tablet, and the moment the transaction simulation completes, his posture changes, shoulders relaxing. He thinks no one will be dying today.

I make a mental note to take him alive. Money men always know more than their employers believe.

He turns to the club owner. “Everything checks out, Mr. Vince.”

Vince’s smile widens, showing far too many teeth. “Excellent. Then we can proceed.”

The guards move aside, one of them producing a key card. Is it the same one used for the elevator? Do all the guards carry them? The intel the Rockfords had gathered on the club hadn’t been able to verify that information, and I hate not knowing.

A heavy thunking sound comes from the door as it unlocks, followed by the soft hiss of a pneumatic system. More expensive security than I expected. Whatever’s behind that door, Vince values it highly.

“After you,” the club owner gestures with a flourish.

Raphael guides me forward with his hand still on my hip, his touch burning through the thin fabric of my dress.

“Remember,” he whispers, his breath a warm caress on my ear, “we’re only browsing. Don’t be greedy, pet.”

It’s part of our cover story of Mr. Smith, the wealthy Alpha, bringing his treasured Omega to help select a companion. But it’s also a reminder of our actual mission: reconnaissance. Find Jade. Map the facility. Get out. The real raid comes later, after we secure Vince when he leaves to go home.

As we step through the doorway, I take one last look back at the hallway, calculating distances and memorizing faces. Six guards in total. One accountant. Vince. The narrow staircase is our only exit. If anything goes wrong, it’s going to be a bloodbath.

Then the door closes behind us with a finality that raises the hairs on my arms.

We’re in.

9

The room beyond the door is larger than I expected, bathed in soft, warm lighting that can’t disguise the horror of what’s happening here.

A dozen Omegas stand or sit around the perimeter, each dressed in flowing, delicate fabrics reminiscent of the emerald silk number clinging to my body.

Pretty wrapping paper for merchandise.

My hand twitches, wanting to reach for the gun hidden beneath my dress. I want to kill Vince so badly I can already imagine the warmth of his blood on my hands.

“Magnificent, aren’t they?” Vince sweeps his arm in a grand gesture, like a museum curator showing off prize exhibits. “Each one hand-selected for their unique qualities.”

I force myself to remain passive, even as rage boils under my skin. These Omegas—men and women of various ages—stare at the floor or distant points on the wall, avoiding any direct eye contact. None wear collars, which tracks. Buyers would want to be sure the merchandise hasn’t already been claimed.

Raphael takes in the room, his body language relaxed, but his fingers tap a restless rhythm on his thigh, tension humming beneath the surface. “You let them roam free in here?”

Vince laughs, the sound grating on my nerves. “Chains leave marks and cages are so vulgar.” He reaches out to stroke the cheek of a young male Omega who can’t be more than twenty. The boy flinches but doesn’t pull away. “There are more effective ways to ensure compliance.”

I catalog the details, channeling my rage into observation. The Omegas’ clothing is expensive and revealing, with sheer panels, strategic cutouts, and high slits like the one in my own dress. The fabrics shimmer under the recessed lighting, silks, satins, and a material woven with a faint metallic thread that catches the light with each subtle shift.

Beautiful display pieces.

Vince weaves through the group as if evaluating livestock, brushing a shoulder here, the curve of a cheek there. The Omegas hold themselves motionless during his rounds, expressions blank. Sedated, or trained through fear. Either explanation sets my trigger finger twitching.

I scan the faces, searching for any sign of Jade among them. It’s been a few years since I last saw him, when he was still a teenager. But Omega men don’t change much after puberty. We don’t pack on muscle the way Alphas do, and our frames lean toward delicate even in adulthood. Some of us can pass as Betas, with the rare outlier who can challenge an Alpha, but I doubt that’s the case with Jade.

And as I examine each face, disappointment settles heavy in my chest.

He’s not among this group.

After not finding him at the mansion, we had hoped to locate him here. Hopefully, one of the other teams has better luck.

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