Page 18 of Pack Rivals, Part One

"You heard what happened, right?" Courtney says to my aunt as she carries over a large bowl of steaming chicken soup and places it on the coffee table in front of me, before dropping down to sit cross-legged on the floor. She lowers her voice, "with the ex-fiancé?"

Aunt Julia nods her head. "He was indeed a jerk. And if you're not interested in men or women right now, my dear, then you don't have to be. Although we will have to talk to Dr Hannah about how to handle your heats."

"Heats!" I wail.

Courtney pats my knee. "Come on, Bea. I don't think it will be that bad."

"Easy for you to say!"

"True, but Aunt Julia here is one of the coolest people I know. And the happiest."

I peer up at her from my tissue. "Are you mated?" I ask.

"I am," she says.

"And they let you out?" I got the impression all omegas were chained either to their alphas' sides or in their bedrooms.

Aunt Julia chuckles. "Let me? Oh no, dear. I never had to ask permission." She hands me my soup. "My pack passed ten years ago in an accident."

"I had no … I'm so sorry."

She smiles at me. "I know your mother probably filled your head with all sorts of nonsense. But I can tell you now. There's lots of fun to be had being an omega."

"Do you have a job?"

"Yes, I'm an art teacher. I'm independent. I have an active social life with plenty of friends. I am indeed very happy."

I stare at her. She's at least fifty. With a happy life?

I'm twenty-six and my life used to be okay. Not exactly earth shattering. Perfectly adequate. At least I thought it was. Perhaps my ex-fiancé wouldn't be enjoying our honeymoon with my ex-best friend right now if ithadbeen earth shattering.

I sigh.

I don't want to think of that right now.

I want to feel normal. I want to find another job.

"When can Dr Hannah get here?"

* * *

The doctor arrivesmid-afternoon dressed in a turtle neck top and smart skirt and armed with a medical bag as large as my suitcase. She lifts it up onto the counter, unzips the lid and pulls out all sorts of medical-looking equipment.

"Now don't be alarmed," she says. Too late because I already am. "None of this is going to hurt. But we need to determine what's going on here."

"I really don't think I'm an omega," I say, sitting in my oversized sweater, wrapped in a comforter and clutching three pillows to my body.

"Well, there's one very quick and easy way to find this out." She comes to sit on the sofa with me, some object hidden in her hands.

"What's that?" I ask.

"I just need a drop of blood."

"Blood?" I gulp, not knowing why. I was a high-schooler first aider. I set broken bones and stemmed nose bleeds. I even stitched up a wound at camp once. Today though, I feel faint.

Before I can protest though, the doctor has grabbed my hand and stabbed a needle into the pad of my thumb.

"Ow," I screech as she squeezes a drop of my blood into a test tube, then shakes it with a clear liquid already encased inside.

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