Page 9 of Claiming the Pack's Omega
Oh, that’s awesome! Was the bar slow tonight?
I grit my teeth and shut my eyes again. Ah yes, the “bar” I work at.
It’s not too far-fetched of a lie. The Warehouse sells drinks, though I’m usually not the one serving them unless we’re short-staffed.
Reyna
yeah
Mom
I get paid next Friday, so I can send you some money for the medicine then
no need, mom, it’s fine
I can never tell her the truth. I can never tell any of my family the truth. This is my burden to carry alone. I’ll figure it out, I always have.
CHAPTER 3
Stone
The door to the dingy apartment I’m staying at for the time being slams shut behind me. I click the lock and slide the chain shut before collapsing on the couch.
Fuck. Tonight was crazy.
I’ve never been a big fan of rain. I hate driving in it, and I don’t like the way it soaks into my shoes when I walk.
But for some reason, I wish it were raining.
Not for some reason. I know exactly why. Because ofher.
Raine.
I’ve read some of the basic reports from other guys who have done undercover work in the Southside. It wasn’t surprising that there are omegas here that aren’t registered with the North.
It wasn’t even the first time an omega had approached me at The Warehouse. There was another one who tried talking to me before. I don’t even remember her name.
She doesn’t hold a candle to Raine.
There was just something about her. Something intoxicating about her scent, even though it was different from a lot of the sweeter omega scents I’ve been around in the Northside. Something charming about the way she spoke to me.
Then I saw that fucker’s hands on her. Saw the way no one else did anything to help her.
And fuck. Those nasty bruises around her neck, underneath that smudged makeup. The look of fear and disgust she had when she looked at me, looked at the blood on my hands.
Anyone with eyeballs could see she’s been through some shit. Or rather, actively going through shit. It makes my blood boil just thinking about it.
She did say she needed money. Maybe she’s in some sort of trouble. Is there anything I can do about it? I’m a fucking police officer from the Northside, I should be able to do something, even if I’m undercover.
I pull my phone out of the duffel bag I carry to The Warehouse and groan.
A dozen text messages and a couple of missed calls.
I guess my pack was worried about me.
I video call Milo, knowing he’s probably still up, even though it’s three-thirty in the morning.
He picks up on the second ring.
