That Alpha—the one with the green eyes and the expensive clothes—he'd appeared behind me without me noticing at all. If he'd been someone else. If he'd been working for my family...
I shake off the thought, forcing myself to focus on the practical implications. I'm going to a public event tonight. A mixer with lots of people, in a small town where everyone knows everyone. Relatively safe, as these things go. But notcompletelysafe. Not anymore.
My eyes drift toward the closet—toward the lockbox on the top shelf that I try very hard to forget exists.
Should I carry my gun?
The thought is reflexive, born from years of self-defense training that my family insisted on before realizing they were creating a weapon they couldn't control. I know how to shoot. I'm licensed. The gun is registered in my name, purchased legally, stored properly.
But carrying a firearm to a community mixer feels... excessive. Like showing up to a potluck in full tactical gear. There's cautious, and then there's paranoid, and I'm trying very hard to stay on the right side of that line.
I look at the lockbox again. Then at the dress hanging on the back of the bathroom door. Then back at the lockbox.
Compromise.
I cross to my other storage area—a smaller box labeled "JUST IN CASE" that contains the kind of items most omegas don't admit to owning. Pepper spray. A taser that may or may not be legal in this state. And a knife—slim, elegant, the kind that can be strapped to a thigh under a dress without creating an obvious bulge.
The blade is beautiful, actually. Custom-made by a metalworker I'd found through the kind of underground connections that wealthy families pretend don't exist. The handle is wrapped in leather dyed the color of dried blood, and the blade itself is folded steel that catches the light like captured lightning. It's not just a weapon—it's a work of art that happens to be capable of causing serious damage.
Perfect for evening wear.
I huff out a breath, decision made. The gun stays locked up. The knife comes with me. Because while I refuse to live my life in constant terror, I'm also not stupid enough to walk around unprotected when my family is apparently escalating their efforts to drag me back.
No one would be stupid enough to try to jump me in such a small town. Not where everyone knows everyone. Not where gossip travels faster than the speed of light and strangers stand out like sore thumbs.
I repeat the reassurance to myself as I finish my makeup—subtle smoky eye, lips stained a deep wine color that matches the dried-blood leather of my hidden knife. As I curl my hair into loose waves that frame my face. As I slide into the black dress and zip it up, feeling the fabric settle against my curves like armor disguised as elegance.
The knife straps to my thigh with practiced ease. I adjust the holster until it sits comfortably, invisible beneath the fall of my skirt. The weight of it is reassuring—a constant reminder that I'm not helpless, never have been, and refuse to become.
I check my reflection one final time.
The woman staring back at me doesn't look like a runaway. Doesn't look scared or vulnerable or one phone call away from a breakdown. She looks put together. Confident. The kind of omega who walks into a room and makes people wonder who she is rather than dismiss her as insignificant.
This is who I am. Not the broken doll my family wants to sell to the highest bidder. Not the desperate fugitive hiding from her past. I'm Rosemarie Carlisle, and I survived every attempt to diminish me, and I'll be damned if I let fear keep me from living my life.
My phone buzzes again—the email from Mila with the event details. I skim it quickly: venue is the Oakridge Community Center, time is 7 PM, dress code is cocktail attire. Standard mixer fare. Should be easy enough to blend in, make the required appearance, and get out before anything dramatic happens.
Famous last words, probably.
I grab my clutch—small, black, just big enough for my phone and ID and the emergency cash I never leave home without—and head for the door. The late afternoon sun is already slanting toward evening, painting the alley outside my window in shades of amber and rose.
My hand pauses on the doorknob.
No one would be stupid enough to try anything in Oakridge Hollows. This is a community event, filled with locals who'd notice anything suspicious immediately. I'll be surrounded by people all night. Perfectly safe. Totally fine.
I take a breath. Square my shoulders. Think about Ruby's warning and my aunt's phone call and the Alpha in the gym who'd looked at me like he could see right through my carefully constructed walls.
Think about the knife strapped to my thigh and the chaos I'm capable of creating if anyone is foolish enough to underestimate me.
Hopefully...
CHAPTER 5
Bathroom Encounters And Bad Decisions
~ROSEMARIE~
"Mila Castellanos, representing Hazel's Hearth & Home Bakery."
