Subtly, at first. Men had paid more attention to her, Betas and Alphas alike. Women had steered clear of her, generally, giving her looks of disgust that even they didn't seem to quite understand. Their jealousy wafted off them in waves, and though Camelia had been hurt about it for a long time, she had eventually understood that there was very little they – or she – could do about it.
And as her body had developed, forming into the curvaceous, lush figure that Omegas were known for...it had gotten worse. Until...
Camelia stood up, packing her suppressants back into the safe with sharp, decisive movements and forcing her thoughts away from that particular avenue. "It happened, we don't have to sit and constantly think about it," she told herself aloud, firmly. Her skin tingled with shame and disgust at the latent memories, but she focused her energy on looking around the room and making sure that there was nothing that she had missed in her quest to be the most thorough packer on the planet.
It was her last year of college. She was finishing her Political Science degree at Ridgeview Conservatory, one of the most prestigious schools on the East coast. She was going follow her father's career path and become an ambassador after that, and her biology was not going to get in the fucking way.
Chapter two
James
The restaurant that his dad had told him to meet him at was crowded, and James grimaced as he got out of his car. The suit that he wore fit perfectly, of course, but the fine fabric still grated. He hated dressing up, especially for his dad.
“Reservation for Devin,” he said to the hostess when he walked inside. The low sound of conversation made his skin prickle with discomfort, and he didn’t return her smile when she located the name on her list.
“Of course. Your other party is already here, please follow me.”
James resisted the urge to stuff his hands in his pockets as he followed the hostess through the restaurant, his eyes sweeping the space almost involuntarily. As he had been trained to do.
Three exits, two of them hidden. One window that could be broken out onto the patio, a ten foot fall down to the floor below if necessary to escape.
He hated that he automatically noticed all of those things. Almost as much as he hated the man who was sitting at the table the hostess let him to.
“If you will, please, sir,” the host said cheerily, holding out James's chair for him. He didn't sit, instead meeting his father's gaze with cool hostility. His father was dressed to the nines, as had been expected, but he wore a tie and his cufflinks shone in the dim light of the restaurant. Drake Devin never looked anything less than his best, and James fought the urge to shrink in on himself as his father's eyes flicked down his form. Lingered on his open collar, narrowed when he noticed the lack of cufflinks at his wrist.
“Thank you, this is fine,” James finally murmured to the girl, taking a seat.
She flitted away, assuring them that their waiter would be with him in just a moment, and then James was alone with his father. The silence stretched between the two of them, hostility crackling between them thick enough to be seen if you were discerning. James didn't break his father's gaze first; that was the test, to see how much discomfort he would endure before one of them finally cracked.
He reached out and took a sip of his glass without looking away, and finally his father nodded, looking down at his menu. The small triumph didn't eradicate the discomfort of sitting across from his father, though. It was the first time James had seen the man in almost seven months, and he could have easily gone another five without losing sleep over it.
“How are you?” James finally muttered, picking up his menu and dropping his gaze as well. His voice was rough, betraying his discomfort, and internally, he winced.
Keep it together, don't show weakness. Don't show him how much you hate him.
His father didn't respond, instead flipping a page of his menu nonchalantly. It was a game that James hated; he never understood the point of inviting someone out to eat if you weren't going to have a conversation, but it was his father's favorite activity. Proving his power with money and intimidation and silence, and then expecting his opponent to be grateful for it.
James knew that it wasn't normal that he saw himself and his father on opposite sides of a battle, that the man who had largely raised him was his primary opponent in life, but that was how it was.
"Hi guys! How are you tonight?" Their waiter was a perky-looking blonde kid who barely looked like he was out of high school, a wide smile on his face as he immediately jumped into his spiel, rattling off the specials for the night.
Drake didn't look up from his menu as he said, "Bring us the house red, and we'll need another few minutes on the menu. Thank you."
His voice was harsh and firm, and there a flicker of unease that crossed the writer's face before his million-watt smile was back and he hurried away to get the wine. James gritted his teeth but didn't say anything.
He hated dinners with his dad.
The waiter returned a few minutes later. Not a single word further had been exchanged, but this time Drake set his menu down, ordering before the waiter could do more than set down the bottle of red that had been requested. "I'll have the filet, rare, with a side of rice and steamed vegetables."
The waiter, to his credit, didn't blink or stutter. He pulled his pad out and scribbled the order down with a nod, and when he looked at James there was a flicker of sympathy in his eyes as he asked, "And for you?"
James had barely glanced at the menu, the tension between him and his father too much to absorb the information. Still, hepicked the first thing that he saw and snapped the menu shut before handing it off. "Truffle risotto with a baked potato. Please and thank you."
The waiter took the menu and scurried off without saying anything else, and James watched as Drake uncorked the wine and poured both glasses almost full, finally settling his gray gaze on James as he took a sip.
"How are you, son?"
Oh, now you want to talk. James ignored the glass of wine, settling back in his chair. A sharp peal of feminine laugher behind him pricked his ears, and he grimaced. "Fine."
