It’s a target on your back for pro-Creed hate groups. They’re still out there, spewing their poison about omegas being the spawn of evil, only good for lying on our backs and popping out babies.
Shattered, I slump down onto a small set of white stone steps halfway up the street. The wind whistles sharply, slicing against my cheek as I huddle in, blowing on my hands for warmth and jamming them under my armpits.
Staring unseeingly into the street, I start to shake.
I’m out of ideas. Out of options.
A door creaks open behind me, warmth and music and laughter spilling out across my back. Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath, breathing in the delicious smell of well-cooked food andhappiness.
Someone sniffs loudly.
“I’m amazed they letthathang around here,” a woman drawls loudly. “I thought Hudson had more taste.”
A male grunt of agreement makes my shoulders stiffen, and I huddle against the railing as they pass me, wincing as a heel catches me in the side. Not so accidentally, I’m sure.
The woman turns back to look down her nose at me with a huff before they move off down the street. Behind me, the door closes, leaving me with nothing but cold and bitterness.
Swivelling, I take in the glossy sign, the ivy trailing down the side of the glorious white building.
Il Piacere,the sign proudly announces in swirling gold font.
Swallowing hard, I scramble up.
I haven’t got a hope in hell. I know that. But I just want a single minute to take it in. To feel warm, and hear music, and forget about my own fucked up world.
Even the bronze handle feels heated beneath my fingers.
As I pull the door open and slide inside, a few conversations die down as people turn to take in the newcomer. Lips curl, hands appearing over mouths as women whisper to each other, their eyes sliding down my worn blouse and faded trousers.
Gripping my elbows, I take another step, looking around at the ornate décor gilding the walls.
Flickering sconces send warm light across each table, tall cream candles and brightly-colored flowers creating a lovely, soft sweet scent in the air. Dark green ivy trails around pillars dotted through the room, decorated with white flowers alongside intricately painted walls.
A pianist plays quietly in the background.
My eyes must be wide as hell.
I could live here, quite happily.
My reverie is abruptly shattered by a hand tapping my elbow.
“Can I help you?” someone asks sharply.
I swing around, mouth open to present my prepared spiel, but I blink.
This isn’t a beta.
This is analpha.
A tall, lightly muscular, tawny-skinned alpha with honeyed eyes and dark bronzed hair, artfully mussed. He towers over me, narrowed eyes widening slightly as he takes me in.
His hand clenches around my arm, and I flinch. Picking up on my unease, he pulls it back immediately, offering me an apologetic half smile. “What can we do for you?” he asks.
Creamy toasted marshmallow and charred wood scent wraps around me, just as warm and inviting as the surroundings around us. Not him, though. He’s staring at me like someone just walked me in on the bottom of their shoe.
Straightening, I hold out my hand for him to shake. He doesn’t take it. Awkwardly, I let it hang there for a few seconds before pulling back.
“I… ah… I was looking for a job?”
