Chapter
One
IVY
The arena is silent at two in the morning.
No crowds, no coaches screaming at refs, no alphas throwing elbows. Just the hum of refrigeration, the creak of settling metal, the distant whir of a floor buffer.
I've memorized every sound all the way down to the scampering of rats and the knock of pipes in the walls. It's how I've survived almost two months hiding in plain sight right under everyone's noses in the very last place anyone would look for Wade Kelly's runaway omega.
The Ghosts' home arena.
The turf of the Demons' most fearsome rivals.
Poetic, right? Almosttooon-the-nose.
Which is exactly why it works. Wade's ego would never let him consider I'd have the balls to hidehere.
The skate I'm sharpening right now belongs to one of the rookies. The kid treats his blades like shit. I run my glovedfingers along the edge, checking for imperfections. Clean. I set it aside and grab the next.
I've gottengoodat this job. It isn’t just a cover anymore. It's become a point of pride.
Funny how life works. I went from being Wade Kelly's decorative omega arm candy to actually contributing something to this sport. Even if no one knows it's me.
Even if I'm technically trespassing.
If I hide in the tunnels the entire time instead of getting out and doingsomethingwith my time, I'll go completely feral. Thanks to my shitty situation and the stress I'm under, I already feel the occasional twinges of basal omega instincts flaring up. But I needed a cover story in case someone catches me wandering around. The equipment crew is almost never around this late at night, so I can just brush it off and say I'm a night owl who likes the quiet.
I'm overpreparing. I know. But a year of predicting Wade's stormy moods down to the microsecond will do that to a person.
Setting aside the finished skate, I check my watch. Right on schedule. I have exactly fifteen minutes before the night security guard, Frank, makes his rounds past the equipment room. He's the noisiest security guy they have and makes ungodly sounds while he patrols, so I know I have plenty of time to finish up and disappear.
My shoulder twinges as I reach for the next skate. The burn scar pulls tight, tingling with phantom pain from the mark I destroyed. I don't touch it. The memory of melting flesh is seared into me just as permanently.
No one expects an omega to burn off her own claiming scar and the omega designation mark beneath it. That's the good thing about expectations. They makeexcellentcamouflage.
The cologne and scent suppressants help with the rest. And with my auburn hair dyed dark brown, I don't have to worry about standing out in a crowd.
When I first got here, I had no plan beyonddon't get caught. But weeks turned into something else. Something almost like a life—an abandoned VIP suite, a makeshift nest of Ghosts team merch and towels, something like my own territory.
It's not a perfect home.
But it'smine.
I finish the last skate and set it on the rack with the others. My back aches from hunching over the sharpening station for the past three hours, but it's the good kind of tired. The kind that means I accomplished something.
I strip off my work gloves and flex my fingers. The calluses are new. Wade would've hated them. He liked my hands soft, manicured,presentable. Said it reflected well on him when I touched him in public.
Now my hands look like they belong to someone who actually works for a living.
Good.
I gather my tools and return them to their proper places. If everything is exactly where it should be, no one asks questions. No one wonders who was here after hours.
Invisibility is an art form.
And I've become a fuckingPicasso.
