Page 1 of Pack of Crooks
one
HAZEL
They say the world was made for alphas, but I’m not so sure I agree. Most of a pack’s life revolves around an omega. Can you blame them? Omegas are gentle, sweet, and caring. Honest. Morally pure.
I crash into someone. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry.”
“What the fuck?” the woman in a designer dress now stained by her morning coffee growls, tipping over in her too high heels. My gaze snags on her omega mark, a delicateΩon the inside of her wrist.
Here’s the thing. I’m not exactly god’s favorite, and I’m definitely not the poster child they use in all the omega life and health classes—no matter how much I want everything this omega clearly has.
Sure, I may not make an honest living, but maybe if I rob a rich omega first thing in the morning some of her goodness might rub off on me. The omega has overly done makeup, perfectly curled hair, and an air ofI’m better than all of youchasing her jasmine scent.
Surging toward her, I grab her arm to steady her, sweep my hand down it while my other one squeezes her bicep, keeping her focused on that touch and not the one primed and ready to steal. “Are you okay?”
“Get the fuck off me!” she screeches right as my fingers brush against the ring on her finger. A big fat diamond on a white gold band.
I guess her pack wanted to be extra sure the world knew she was taken. Like their claim mark on her neck wasn’t enough. Honestly, it’s sweet—but today, she’ll be parting with that little token of affection. Knowing I’ll be making money off it helps soothe the sudden burst of jealousy writhing inside me like an angry snake.
“I am so sorry—I didn’t mean to knock you over. Are you sure you’re okay?” I give her arm a quick, reassuring squeeze, like I might hold on a moment too long, and in that instant, I slip the ring off her finger. Her eyes bug at my audacity. She wrenches out of my hold with a huff, brushing herself off and glaring at me. If looks could kill, I’d be eviscerated.
She takes in my worn jeans and shirt, curls her lip, and backs up another step, like my particular brand of poor is contagious. “Watch where you’re going next time, gutter scum.”
Arching an eyebrow, I watch her whirl around and storm away. It’s a miracle she can walk with that stick up her ass. I may look like gutter scum today, but that makes me forgettable. People go to great lengths to avoid making eye contact. Fine by me. The more invisible I am, the longer I can keep working this area.
There are some omegas who are fortunate enough to live their entire life pampered. They had good parents, found a nice, financially stable pack. Their nests are probably huge. Definitely not a tiny little closet with a questionable mildew smell.
Lucky bitches.
A scowl contorts my features. Am I jealous? Fuck. Yes. But right now, I don’t have time to find a pack. Money first. Love and pack life later. Hopefully before I’m dead.
Pivoting, I head in the opposite direction, hook a right, and try not to choke on the exhaust filling the air. It’s not that I haven’t tried to find a pack. I’ve dated. The nice packs were the safe choice, but having lived my life on the edge of my seat, I could never relate to them. On the other hand, there are packs, or lone alphas like my ex-boyfriend, who made me contemplate remaining single until the day I die.
Terrible. Toxic. Degrading. The men I seem to attract are all carbon copies of my mother. There’s probably a therapist out there salivating to sink her healing claws into me, but therapists are expensive, and outside of what I steal and pawn, I have no money.
Regardless of all that, I know the pack I’m meant to be with is out there somewhere, waiting for me to fill their home with my strawberry scent. If only I could stop pickpocketing, I might be able to find them. Right now, theft is my nine to five. I clutch the ring in my pocket. It’s heavy. Thank fuck. There’s been slim pickings lately in the Flatiron District. The tech bros have gotten a little too aware.
But maybe I’ve been going about this all wrong. Lower Manhattan is where I can finally catch up. There are a lot of overdue bills to be paid and the stupidly expensive cheer uniform my sister needs isn’t helping. I could tell Lottie no, but it’s freshman year and she’s finally coming out of her shell, finally making friends, and she’s smiling again. Something she hasn’t done since Mom overdosed.
Losing our only parent to the drug she seemed to love more than us broke her spirit. It almost broke mine too, but I had more anger to cling to. More years of her torment to suffer through.
“Excuse me!” A guy shoves me out of his way, and hisΩcatches my gaze as well. Oi. There are omegas everywhere. This one has a harried expression, zipping through the crowd, power walking to his desk job that probably doesn’t pay him enough for the lines of stress cutting across his forehead.
Sighing, I rub my own omega mark—the same designation that’s been on the inside of my wrist since the day I was born—and take in my surroundings. There’s money all around me. Fendi. Gucci. Armani. Other expensive brands I don’t know how to pronounce. Looks like I won the lottery today. I can probably get enough loot to cover all of our bills with a few more targets like that bitch I stole the ring from.
Breathing in, I wander down the sidewalk, far enough away from where I nabbed the ring, but still surrounded by designer labels and enough people that an elbow or shoulder brush won’t seem suspicious.
If the concept of heaven is real, and all my actions are weighed on a giant scale, it’s probably already dipped toward hell. Which really isn’t fair if you ask me. For every bad thing I’ve done, there’s been a good reason.
My sister was hungry.
Rent was due and she can’t live on the streets.
She needed new shoes.
I wanted the new Gucci mini dress. . . In my defense, it was basically required to attend a ball last fall. I can’t exactly fit in with rich people in shopping mall quality dresses. Or shoes. Or jewelry. I like pretty things, okay? But that’s not the point.
To survive in New York City, sometimes an omega has to break some laws.
