She cracks open a glossy binder and immediately starts laying out omega profiles across the conference table, one after another. Sweet, God-fearing omegas who look like they’d apologize for breathing too loud.
“Here we have Naomi,” she says, tapping a photo of a wide-eyed omega with a pearl necklace and a sweater set. “Twenty-two. Sweet temperament. No history of behavioral outbursts.”
Behavioral outbursts.
Christ.
Before I can grimace, she’s already sliding another sheet forward.
“And this is Elise. Wonderful fertility markers. Comes from a highly respected family. Excellent with children.” She lowers her voice like she’s sharing a secret. “A very pure image.”
Milton chokes on a laugh. Lincoln elbows him. Marilyn either doesn’t notice or pretends not to.
She fans out the next three profiles like she’s showing us luxury real estate. “This one’s volunteered at her church every Sunday since she was sixteen. This one hosts charity streams for veterans. This one’s taken compatibility classes tailored specifically for athletes.”
The women all look the same; quiet smiles, soft eyes, pastel sweaters, hands folded politely in their laps.
My skin crawls.
Marilyn clasps her hands together, stepping back like she’s proud of her little spread. “These are all top-tier vetted candidates. Polite, feminine, stable. Exactly what the board feels would complement the Scorpions’ brand.”
She gives us a practiced smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.
“And, of course, you’ll need to consider compatibility scores.” She flips a laminated page toward us, filled with charts and pastel pie slices. “It’s important the public sees you matched with omegas who represent discipline, moderation, and good values.”
I stare at the charts like they’re written in another language.
Milton looks seconds from laughing. Lincoln looks seconds from murder. Marilyn continues anyway, oblivious to the heat rolling off all three of us.
“You need to cooperate with us on this,” she says, pacing. “Controlling the narrative is essential. The team’s image has taken recent… hits.”
Her gaze flicks between us with pointed disapproval.
“You must present stability. Commitment. A clear, unified front. We can’t have alphas running wild. Courtship. Dating. Something predictable. Something clean.”
She punctuates “clean” with a tap on Naomi’s file.
I look at the pastel omegas spread out like sacrificial offerings. They look like they’d cry if someone raised their voice. They look nothing like our girl.
My jaw tightens, and that’s when something in me snaps.
I lean forward, voice flat and cold. “Fuck off.”
Marilyn gasps, hand flattening over her necklace. “Excuse me?”
Milton doesn’t even blink. His smirk widens.
Lincoln sits back, crossing his arms, pride burning in his eyes like he’s watching his kid win a science fair.
“We’re not matching with some random omega,” I growl.
She slaps another stack of files onto the table. “You boys don’t have the luxury to chase fantasies. The team needs you to look stable. Committed. Dating. Courtship.” She points at us one by one. “Your locker room is a PR disaster waiting to happen. Failure to comply can and will have intense consequences.”
Milton stands up. “Too bad,” he says. “Bench us. Trade us. Kick us off the roster. We met an omega. We’re seeing where it goes. We’re not hurting her by playing fucking cupid for PR.” He pauses, tilting his head. “We said what we said.”
Marilyn sputters, threatening to report us to management, then ownership as if any of us give a single fuck.
I shrug. Milton yawns. Lincoln stands and smiles, the fakest smile I’ve ever seen on a human being. “Thanks for your time.”
