Page 12 of Claiming the Pack's Omega
Sure, registering guarantees “safety,” and if I were to register myself, I wouldn’t have to worry about food again, but I’d also have to abandon my family. They wouldn’t be able to get by without me. I’d be reliant on the goodwill of whatever stupid pack bribed their system enough to get me in order to send money back to my family. That’s too big of a risk for me.
“I think you should take the night off,” Roxie says. “You should talk to Dom.”
I press the backs of my hands against my cheeks, feeling how feverish I am.
“Yeah, that’s probably a good idea,” I say, standing and wobbling on my sky-high stripper heels.
I’m usually at Dom’s Club one night a week, unless someone specifically requests me. I get the money from tips and my cut of the fee he charges for my time. Hopefully, he’s feeling nice tonight.
I knock on his door, but there’s no response. I knock again.
“Fuck off, I’m busy!” Dom yells through the door.
I freeze. Damn. Well, there goes my chance of him being in a good mood.
I knock again because obviously, I have no survival instinct. That and I really just want to go home. I feel like shit.
“Who the hell is it!”
“It’s Raine, I have a question,” I say through the door.
It’s wrenched open and Dom scowls down at me.
“What,” he growls.
His tobacco-heavy, cigar scent wafts out of the room. He’s not wearing a shirt, revealing his physique, which, like many alphas out there who step foot inside the gym for at least fiveminutes a week, is unfairly ripped. His belt is also hanging open and the fly to his jeans is unzipped.
I glance past him to see one of the club betas on her knees in front of the couch.
“Sorry to, uh, interrupt,” I say. “I’m not feeling great, can I skip the rest of my shift?”
His scowl only seems to deepen.
“Fuck no.”
“What? Why not? It’s just an open floor shift tonight, right?”
“No, some guy booked you for the entire night. Midnight till 8AM. I was gonna pull you in here to tell you after I was done.”
I blink in shock. The entire night? I get about a hundred an hour, but I know Dom barely gives me 30 percent, so someone is paying well over two and a half thousand dollars for the eight hours he’s buying.
No one’s ever done that before. Most guys who buy my time are done after four, maybe five hours max.
“But—But I’m sick,” I say, my brows drawn down in concern.
“That’s something he gets to worry about then,” Dom shrugs. “You’ve got a client, so you do your job. Or are you going back on our deal? You’re due for another round of suppressants soon.”
I swallow hard before shaking my head. I instantly regret the movement because the world seems to start spinning.
“Fine.” I close my eyes and try to steady myself.
The last thing I need is for Dom to stop giving me my supply of suppressants. They’re not full suppressants, meaning I still smell like an omega to everyone who meets me, but they keep my heat at bay. The full suppressants are harder to come by and I’m pretty sure they have really nasty side effects. Plus, I could never afford them.
Hell, part of the reason my cut with Dom is so small is because the heat suppressants I take are already expensive.
But it’s worth it. Fuck my heat. I never want to experience that sort of helplessness again.
“The dude wants you for eight hours, I’m sure you’ll find some time to just lay there,” Dom shrugs.
