Page 74 of Pack Rivals, Part One

"I don't know," I say.

"What do the doctors think?" the one closest to me asks, her golden hair styled in perfect waves down her back and her eyes a dreamy blue. "I mean, are you actually an omega? It's not some kind of malfunction." She waves her manicured hand in my direction. Then her eyes narrow. "Or did you take something you shouldn't have taken?"

The other omegas around the table look utterly scandalized.

"They say there're all sorts of experimental drugs you can buy from unreputable clinics these days," one whispers.

"No," I sigh, "I'm definitely an omega."

The blonde looks at me, my outfit and the pony I drew my hair up into after my shower, and turns to her friend to resume their conversation.

Rude.

But I'm saved the indignation of having to try to worm my way into the chatter, by the class instructor who walks to the front of the room, clapping her hands.

Voices hush and for the next 45 minutes we follow a step-by-step run through on how to arrange roses in a vase. The instructor speaks at the pace of a snail and talks us through every single thing in great detail. She's a beta and I have a sinking feeling she considers us all incapable of fast talk and complex instructions.

I follow along anyway, trying not to think of the bouquet of pink roses that ended up in the dumpster along with my dress. Also trying not to think of the white rose buttonhole Karl left me along with his note.

Not many words.

Don't want to marry you. Gone to Barbados with Serena.

The thought of it has me snapping a stem right in half so violently, half the omegas around my table jump in their seats.

"Never mind," the instructor says at the front, clearly concerned I might burst into tears. "Accidents happen. Just pick another."

I select another rose from the pile in the center and glance around at everyone else's creations. They are flawless and professional looking. My arrangement, on the other hand, looks like a three-year-old dumped a handful of flowers into a vase.

"I'm guessing you've all done this before," I say to the others.

"Of course," the blonde says, tossing her hair over her shoulder.

"So you spend a lot of your time flower arranging?" I ask struggling to maintain this conversation.

The blonde laughs. "No, not at all. We have our own florist."

Right. Yep. Makes sense.

"So you're new to the city and newly presented?" the blond says, shuffling white roses around her vase.

"Yes."

"So tell me, Bea? Have you met any alphas yet?"

She asks me the question with an air of innocence, but I'm not blind to the way everyone at the table seems to stiffen, waiting for my answer.

"One or two," I say with caution. "How about you? Are you all bonded?"

The blonde points to a redhead on the other side of the table. "Lara is. She got engaged last month." Lara waves her fingers at me, a rock the size of a small country glinting on her finger. "And Corrine and Lydia have both been bonded about a year."

"How about you?" I ask. I find it hard to believe she hasn't been snapped up by a pack. She's by far the most beautiful woman in this room and everyone keeps telling me how much alphas want omegas; how better off omegas are with a pack.

The woman shakes her head, her golden hair shimmering like threads of gold.

"Melody is holding out for the top prize," Lara squeals.

"And she's super close to snaring it too," the one called Lydia adds.

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