Page 2 of Waiting for Fate
Maybe my heat is coming early? Why else would I react like this to a man I just met? One who has barely paid me any attention outside of our work-related conversation.
Shit, I should mention that. Warmth floods my cheeks, but I ignore the flushed feeling it brings. Heats are a natural part of an omega’s life. They are nothing to be ashamed of.
“I already let human resources and my supervisors in the production department know, but my heat is due soon. I will have someone reach out to the label if it will interfere with my ability to join the tour on schedule.”
He stares at me for several seconds, his jaw clenched shut. I wonder if he is uncomfortable discussing heat? Some older men are old school about a woman’s bodily function, even with something as common as a period or heat. When he finally nods, I let out the breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. I’m glad he isn’t going to make a big deal about it.
I follow him out of his office, listening as he points out the break room and the manager’s office where I will be working. When he stops suddenly, I bump into his back. It takes a monumental effort to hold myself back from leaning in to soak in his scent. I’m in trouble if I have to work with this man every day. He smells like the best anxiety-relieving candle money could buy.
“My apologies,” he mutters as he moves again. He ruins any daydream I could conjure about an illicit office romance when he opens his stupid mouth. “Have a lovely afternoon, Sabine.”
“Bea,” I demand, but he’s gone before the haze of anger dissipates from my vision, leaving me to wrangle my bratty self into the elevator.
Why are men so fucking ridiculous?!
“What about this one?” My best friend and roommate Omen shows me her phone screen, the app open to the Mateability app. We’ve been scrolling through options in anticipation of my upcoming heat.
Since I’ll be using suppressants, it should only last a day or two. Even with the shorter heat window, I certainly don’t want to suffer through it alone. I’ve spent too many heats with only my toys and hands to get me through, so I’m going to take advantage of heat helpers now that I’ve graduated from the Omega Academy.
My eyes roam over the screen, soaking in the delicious specimen of an alpha. I might be drooling. Tall but lithe, he’s covered in tattoos clear up to his neck. The cut-off tank top he’s wearing is from an older metal band, adding to his attractiveness. I grab Omen’s phone and scroll through his profile. He’s unmated and packless in his late 20s, with no career listed. He likely signed up for the alphas paycheck they receive when they help an omega through their heat.
Not that his reasons for participating matter to me. As long as he isn’t there to do anything nefarious, I’ll ride this alpha’s knot for two days, no problem.
With an alpha to help me through the worst of the heat haze, I switch to the beta profiles. Having a beta in the room is a necessity. Too many things could go wrong—like accidental bonding—to risk going into heat with only an unknown alpha to help me through it.
A shocked laugh squeaks out of me when I stumble across one of the music producers from the label within the profiles. I’m so going to give Manny shit for this when I see him next!
I keep scrolling, though. As attractive as he is, it would cross professional boundaries to ask him to help with my heat. I finally find a male beta, a nutritionist, to fill the role. If anything, at least I won’t have to worry about not getting enough calories during the heat.
“How was your meeting at the label?” Omen’s ombre black-to-lilac hair is in a long ponytail, and I’m jealous as hell about how long it is. If my hair hung to the top of my ass, I would melt down every morning when I had to try to tame my curls.
She’s packing our stuff into totes and boxes, preparing to move out of our shared dorm at the Omega Academy and into our new apartment in Starburgh. We’ll be closer to the label, so I won’t have such a long commute to work. And it is just a short drive out of New York City, so we can go to omega-safe clubs on our nights off.
“It was… interesting?”
I grab a tote and start helping her, trying not to grumble about it the entire time. I hate packing. If I didn’t have a meltdown over strangers touching my stuff, I would hire a moving company to pack for us. If I caught someone else’s scent in my nest, my instincts would have a conniption. Like the end of the world, tantrum style freak out.
“I’m going on tour.”
Omen stills, her lips tugging into a frown for the briefest of seconds. My best friend doesn’t do well with big changes in her routine. She grew up in an anti-designation cult in New Hampshire. A place she only escaped when her older sister brought her into the DAU—Designation Activist Underground—an organization that helps rescue at-risk citizens from dangerous areas throughout the country. They helped her create a new identity so she could start over in her new life as an omega.
My family took over the role of her guardian, adopting her as my sister without caring where she came from. It was the best decision my parents have ever made. Aside from having me, of course. I always wanted a sibling, something that wasn’t possible for my beta mother, and Omen is everything I could have ever asked for in a sister, even if we don’t share a blood relation and look nothing alike.
After growing up in an abusive, unstable home, Omen struggles with change. Moving to Starburgh is a big enough stressor for her, and I know hearing I’ll be leaving for two months isn’t helping. But I won’t set aside my dreams when she’s busy chasing her own. My parents live close enough to visit her and ensure she isn’t spiraling while I’m away.
“That’s awesome!”
I don’t buy the fake cheerful tone she’s using, but I don’t push her to tell me what’s going through her mind. Instead, I reassure her my leaving won’t change anything before redirecting the conversation to talk about her upcoming gigs. Omen is a photographer. She eventually wants to work as a tour photographer. Her love of music is nearly as vast as my own.
All thanks to me since I have spent the past four years dragging her to concerts and blasting my favorites as we clean our dorm.
“I didn’t book anything. There’s not enough time when we have graduation tomorrow, moving next weekend, then time to settle in. I can’t add shoots on top of that. Actually, there is a protest next Monday I am attending for the DAU.” She shrugs, continuing to pack as she talks. Her eyes dart to my still-empty tote and the pile of things around me I have yet to do more than sort into piles. Subtle she is not.
“We need to jam if I’m going to accomplish anything other than complaining,” I pout.
Omen laughs and hooks her phone up to our big speaker. The dark, seductive notes of her favorite band, Primordial Covenant, fill the room, pulling me back to the shocked awe on her face when they opened at a concert we’d attended last year.
Masked hotties with lyrics that melt your heart and your panties. Yeah, my bestie was hooked from the opening notes. Understandably so because those men are a wet dream walking, and that’s without knowing what they look like beneath the masks.
