Better than being an alcoholic or a chain smoker, I suppose. But life becomes a special kind of punishment when you can't even properly feed your vices.
I grab a set of dumbbells—heavier than usual, because apparently I need to work out some unexpected tension—and begin my routine. The familiar rhythm of lifting and lowering, the burn of muscles under strain, the counting that occupies just enough of my brain to quiet the rest.
We still don't have an omega.
The thought intrudes despite my best efforts to focus on my form. Tank, Elias, and me—three Alphas approaching or past their mid-thirties, still unbonded, still incomplete. I'm thirty-five, and I've more or less accepted that no omega is going to tolerate my toxic, grumpy traits and high-maintenance requirements. Not like anyone can reach my standards anyway.
I require precision. Order. Someone who understands that routines aren't restrictions but rather the framework that makes everything else possible. Someone who won't try to "loosen me up" or "help me relax" or any of the other well-meaning but ultimately infuriating suggestions I've received from every omega who's ever tried to get close.
That omega in the gym—the one who smelled like salvation and looked like trouble—she probably wouldn't tolerate me either. Probably likes spontaneous Alphas who go with the flow, who don't need everything labeled and organized and scheduled six months in advance.
Not that it matters. I'll never see her again.
I finish my weight routine in exactly thirty minutes—not a second more, not a second less—and move toward the cardio equipment. But as I pass through the corridor that connects the weight room to the main gym floor, voices drift toward me from around the corner.
Two Alphas. Male. Speaking in the tone of men who think they're being quiet but haven't bothered to actually lower their voices.
"Hey, we got a client to stalk."
I freeze. Not obviously—I'm too controlled for that—but my feet slow, my attention sharpens, my entire body orienting toward the conversation without appearing to do so.
"That omega in the gym," the second voice continues. "The one with the dark hair and the piercings. You see her?"
Dark hair. Piercings.
My omega. The one from just now.
Not my omega. A random omega. A stranger.
"Some rich pack put a bid on her," the first voice says, and I can hear the grin in his words. "To shake her up, it seems. Scare her a bit. You know how it is."
"Odd target for a small town like this," the second one muses. "She's gotta be important or something back in the city. Someone worth the trouble."
"Omegas usually run to these small towns to try to hide from ex packs." There's a laugh—ugly and knowing. "I bet this pack has to be some rich fuckers to put a bounty on her. Maybe she comes from those elite, rich families that just want to marry off their omegas and keep the Alphas in the lineage of power."
They laugh together, mockingly, the sound grating against my ears like nails on a chalkboard.
A bounty.
Someone put a bounty on her.
The pieces fall into place with sickening clarity. Her spiral in the gym—that wasn't just general anxiety. She's running from something. From someone. From a pack that wants her badly enough to hire people to "shake her up" in a town she probably thought was safe.
She was standing there, completely vulnerable, and they could have taken her. Could have done whatever they wanted. And I almost walked away without a second thought.
The two Alphas round the corner, still chuckling between themselves. They're the type I recognize immediately—mercenary energy, the kind of men who take questionable jobs for questionable clients and don't ask too many questions. They don't notice me pressed against the wall, don't realize their conversation has been overheard.
I let them pass.
Let them disappear into the weight room where they'll presumably continue their surveillance, waiting for another opportunity to get close to their target.
This isn't your business, Julian.
The thought is logical, rational, exactly what I should be thinking. She's a stranger. Whatever drama she's fleeing from has nothing to do with me or my pack. Getting involved would be messy, complicated, the exact opposite of the controlled existence I've so carefully constructed.
Walk away. Go back to your routine. Forget her scent and her eyes and the way she looked at your back like she could read every secret written there.
I walk away.
