Page 10 of Royal Omega

Meanwhile, I’m wearing a tight-fitting, above-the-knee cocktail dress in royal purple — it’s our family’s signature color, which I usually avoid, but the producers sent me the dress along with instructions that I should wear it. My hair is all done up in perfect ringlets, and my feet are clad in unreasonably high heels.

Looking out the window, Lily piles her brown hair on top of her head and ties it in a messy bun. “Ok, here’s your mic.” She holds up a black choker with a little pearl at the center. “This is your mic. Keep it on when you’re awake so we can hear you clearly.”

I take it and fasten it around my neck, trying not to panic at how confining it feels.

“Don’t worry, we have lots of other styles you can use.”

That wasn’t really my concern, but there’s not much point in saying so.

“Are you ready?” she asks.

“Can anyone actually be ready for this?”

Lily chuckles. “No, I guess not. But it won’t be so bad. Lots of sexy alphas to play with, right? And all of them will be drooling over you.” Her eyes turn wistful for a moment, as if she’s always dreamed of being one of us.

I want to tell her it’s not all it’s cracked up to be, but that feels disingenuous. I have no idea what it’s like to be on her side of the fence, always being told you’re ordinary when compared to an omega.

In fact, she would be a great resource to add to my article. A beta among omegas, always in the shadows. But that would mean telling her what I’m doing, and I doubt that would go over well.

Unaware of my thoughts, Lily snaps her fingers as if she’s just remembered something. “I almost forgot,” she says, holding out her hand. “Heat drugs please.”

“Oh... right.” I reach into my bag and pull out the drugs I’ve used to control my heat since I revealed. I’ve never been without them before, and it feels wrong, just giving them up. Plus they’re illegal, so admitting I have them is a little anxiety-producing.

Heat drugs have been available since about 1985. In 1980, an earthquake disrupted the magical Current running through the city, and suddenly people were growing knots and smelling like heaven, and everything was bananas for a while, as people tried to figure out how to live with a total shift in social dynamics.

When scientists discovered that certain drugs could control omega urges, everyone was thrilled... except the people who were running the city government. The city continues to see omegas as some kind of gift from the heavens, and the mayor has declared that anything that impacts our urges — aka heat drugs — is illegal.

Thanks for that, jerk.

Of course, anyone with any kind of income at all uses them anyway. There’s even a little poem we learned at Bancroft to remind us to take the daily pills:keep yourself neat, manage your heat. One of my friends made up a rude version that went:suck on my teat, I am in heat. Which I believe she actually was at the time; if you don’t take them every day, the pills aren’t very effective, and an omega’s heat can sneak up on them pretty fast.

Lily doesn’t even blink as she accepts the pills. She throws the bottle into her own bag as if it’s nothing. I guess for a beta, it would seem like nothing; but those heat meds are what kept me from turning into a raging mess of hormones and slick every time I was in a ballroom full of alphas.

Shit... this is going to be a nightmare.

“You’ll do great,” Lily says, patting my knee gently as the limo pulls to a stop by the curb. “Just remember — walk in, go to the left, stand on your mark, and smile. Willard’ll ask you a few questions, and then the next person will step up.”

“Sounds good,” I say with more confidence than I feel.

“You can leave all your stuff here. We have to go through it anyway to look for contraband. Good luck, Carissa.”

Trying not to imagine people pawing through my stuff, I get out of the limo, smoothing out my dress and trying not to look into the camera that appears at my side. Lily gets out behind me, and gives me a nod of approval before stepping behind the cameraman.

I’m on my own now.

I swallow hard and then channel my mother, smiling big as I start up the stairs toward the mansion’s door.

I try to ignore the sense of dread that threatens to overwhelm me. It’s not that I don’t want to find a pack. It’s more like I don’t actually think there’s a pack out there for me. And I really don’t think I can ever trust anyone enough to believe that their motivations are honest. And even if I found all that, I’m not sure I could ever subject anyone to my family.

The next few weeks are going to be a master class in fakery and chicanery, shining veneers and hair spray. Maybe if I’m lucky, I’ll have a damn article by the end of it all.

The writing piece of this is the only part that comforts me; it gives me something to hold on to. Something that sets me apart from this whole affair. I’m not really taking part in this — I’m just a journalist working undercover.

As my heels click across the threshold onto the marble floor, I pause in surprise. There’s a large wooden structure set across the middle of the mansion’s main floor. As I get closer, I recognize the scent of the wood, old and musty, with a faint hint of frankincense. That’s when I place them: they’re confessional boxes, like from a church. The priest goes in on one side, the parishioner on the other, and they tell the priest their sins. But these are way larger than the ones I remember from movies. They’re big enough to fit three or four people on each side. And there are a few of them, lined up in a row. I count at least five boxes.

I’ve watchedOmega Girlsbefore, and I’ve never seen anything like this. Usually when people arrive, there’s a big wide-open space with an ornate staircase in the background. No weird boxes, no big surprises. I look over my shoulder at the producers, standing behind the cameras. Lily points toward the left side of the boxes. Gesturing to urge me forward.

As I walk around the side of the confession boxes, I see Willard Peters, the host, waiting for me. He’s wearing a shiny gold suit, and his hair is styled in a pompadour that cannot be ignored.

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