Page 16 of This Fate That Guides Us
The plaza where the protest is being held is already full by the time we arrive. Police barriers block the front of the capitol building where several Senators from anti-pack states are meeting this week to discuss yet another attempt to overrule the previous law put in place to protect pack rights across the nation. They are calling for each state to have the right to determine pack rights based on internal voting and not national popular opinion.
Even with ample scientific evidence proving the necessity of packs, too many states refuse to admit non-monogamous pairings have any benefit in our world. Knowing there are packs out there who have to hide their relationships to stay safe saddens me. Everyone should have a chance to find the same love I have with my own mates.
I keep my hand tightly wrapped around Nexus and Titan as Nebula leads us through the crowd toward the front. We have a small group of DAU friends we often meet up with at these events.
The Designation Activist Underground–DAU–is publicly known for its many faces. Namely funding scientific research for easily accessible suppressants and designation-friendly birth control. Privately, they work to infiltrate and dismantle extremist organizations as well as rescuing at-risk citizens in anti-pack states. They also organize protests like this one.
I let out a sigh of relief when I see our friends Shepherd and Foster through the crowd of bodies in front of us. Shepherd has his arms wrapped protectively around his omega’s shoulder preventing him from being swallowed by the crowd.
The alpha is close to Nebula’s height, but bulkier. Short, strawberry blonde hair and neatly trimmed facial hair give him a much more rugged look than any of my packmates. Foster is only an inch or two shorter than I am with dark wavy black hair.He waves enthusiastically when his mate points us out before turning back to whomever he is talking to.
We’d met the pair shortly after moving to New York, at a protest, and had quickly grown attached. After we learned about what happened to Foster’s brother, an alpha who was murdered by anti-designation extremists when traveling for work, he and Nebula found solidarity between them. Both lost someone they loved deeply to the cruel, disparaged viewpoints of those who actively argue against designations.
Stepping into the crowd at their side, my breath catches in my throat when I see our new tour photographer, Omen, speaking animatedly with the male omega. I don’t have to look to my side to know my packmates are as keenly aware of her as I am.
From the moment we met, she’s consumed my thoughts. At first, it was curiosity, wanting to know more about the person we’d be spending so much time with over the next two months. After browsing her portfolio, curiosity quickly turned to obsession. Her photos are true works of art. Captured in a way that highlights the intense emotion of each scene.
I relate to Omen’s creativity like I have no other. Each picture, whether a solo or a series, speaks with the same passion as my lyrics often do. I’ve been counting down the days until the start of the tour, excitement filling me at the thought of watching her in action. Curious to see if she gets as lost behind the lens as I do in composition.
“Long time no see, gorgeous,” Nexus greets her with a wink. His lips are stretched into a broad smile, so full of sunshine and playfulness.
Omen’s icy blue eyes turn to us and I’m caught in a sea of crashing waves, unable to catch my breath as I get lost in their depths. I’m drowning, but I can’t find the will to try to findthe surface. My soul is content to spend eternity adrift in her presence.
“It has only been a few days, Nexus,” she replies, fidgeting with the strap of her bag, “but it’s nice to see you too.”
“We haven’t seen you at a protest before,” Nebula scowls.
I can sense his suspicion through our bond, and I’m speaking before I have time to think it through. “She does photojournalism for the DAU’s public front.” My cheeks burn as everyone's attention turns to me. “I, um, looked at her portfolio after Brady introduced us,” I explain, one hand rubbing the back of my neck awkwardly. So much for not admitting to my packmates how deeply she’s caught my interest.
“That is true. Though I usually stick to the edges of the crowd or gain a higher vantage point for a better view,” Omen explains. Her cheeks are as pink as I imagine my own to be. Seeing her embarrassment under our attention eases my own anxiety.
“How did you get involved with the DAU?” Nexus asks as he inches closer to her, not even attempting to fight the pull we all feel to the omega.
“The Powells play a big role in DAU activity in New York and along the East Coast,” Shepherd answers. He gives Omen a look I can’t decipher, and she gives him a tight smile. I can’t help but wonder how the two of them met. Unfortunately, it isn’t my place to dig further.
The dull roar of the crowd turns to a cacophony of screamed objections and calls for action. Peeking through the sea of people and signs, I watch as a spokesperson works their way through the capitol steps to the front of the building, microphone in hand to address the crowd.
Omen scrambles to stand on a nearby bench, camera in hand. I bite back a laugh when both Nebula and Titan reach out a hand to steady her, matching frowns on their faces as they eye her precarious perch. Their instincts are probably screaminghow unsafe the omega’s position is, but they’re fighting the urge to scold her for it.
I tug on the back of both of their shirts and shake my head, wordlessly reminding them she isn’t theirs to take care of.
My mind refuses to focus on the man’s speech, still drawn to the north star beside us. She watches the crowd with rapt attention, giving me a chance to study her. A long, narrow nose. Lips painted a deep burgundy and begging to be kissed. Her eyes remind me of water running off a snowy mountain. Waves of white amongst the lightest shades of blue-gray.
Something the government advocate says has her gaze flicking to Shepherd and I swear I can see the outline of a contact, but I blink and it’s gone. A trick of the light, I imagine.
Omen gets lost behind the lens of her camera. Her focus narrowed to the images she is capturing. I watch with rapt fascination, studying each group she turns her focus to and trying to anticipate which emotions she is trying to convey in each shot.
It is captivating to watch her work. Her teeth dig into her bottom lip, and she holds her breath as she waits for the perfect moment. The peak of the individual's passion immortalized with a click of a button.
I cannot wait to be the object of her focus. To have those icy eyes fixed on me. What will she see when she looks at me? The beta who will do anything he can to keep the peace, even to his own detriment?
Or will she see the artist who speaks through his music in a way he’s never managed in conversation? Who gets so lost in his creative process, the world around him ceases to exist?
Regardless of the answer, I know my pack will be irrevocably changed in two months on the road with Omen.
CHAPTER SIX
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