The beta nods. “Yes. All omegas currently on display are female.”
A pulse of dread pounds behind my ribs.
We’re really doing this. We’re really going inside toselecta fucking omega like we’re shopping for a new furnace.
And the worst part?
Thisisnormal. Even at academies, packs flip through catalogs, pick potential mates, and request supervised meetings. It’s all regulated within an inch of its life.
And I get why.
Alphas and omegas can’t meet out in the open. It would be chaos. Alphas would fight to claim a mate. Omegas would panic or fold under the pressure, or worse—they’d succumb to instinct and end up bound to packs they hate.
There’d be injuries. Claims. Bonds forged in the middle of public streets. It would be violent and messy. A disaster for everyone involved.
So the structure exists for a reason.
But it’s still all bullshit.
“Any questions?” The beta asks, looking up at Warren.
He lifts his chin. “No. Understood.”
I hesitate. Not long, but enough for the beta’s brows to pull together in warning. “Yeah,” I say quickly. “I understand.”
The beta steps aside, pulling the tent flap open with a practiced sweep. “Welcome to the display room,” he says. “Please conduct yourselves appropriately.”
Warren steps through first.
I follow, and the sugary sweet air inside hits me like a shift in pressure. It’s cooler, darker, heavy with muted omega pheromones and something medical underneath that I don’t want to identify.
Looking around, everything is dim and moody. Long velvet curtains cascade all around us in rich jewel tones—emerald, garnet, sapphire—creating what looks like a hallway between them, forcing us forward through a narrow, velvet-lined corridor.
Overhead, small chandeliers are suspended from the tent’s ceiling. Delicate crystal things that shouldn’t logically hang from canvas, but they do, casting soft halos of gold light over everything.
Somewhere nearby, classical music drifts through the air. Soft strings. A piano. I can’t tell where it is coming from. There are no speakers that I can see, no orchestra hiding behind the curtains. It just…exists, wafting through the tent like perfume.
As we walk, my eyes adjust.
To my right, a gap appears in the curtains. It’s an intentional break in the velvet, revealing a small alcove.
A blonde omega sits on an overstuffed chair inside, framed by fabric and soft light like she’s part of an exhibit. Her hair is curled and glossy, her lacey lingerie is a pale shade that makes her look delicate in a way that feelsrehearsed. She keeps her eyes down, hands folded neatly in her lap.
A rope stretches across the front of the alcove, marking the boundary. A guard stands beside it, arms crossed, posture bored but alert. His gaze flicks to us as we approach.
“If you want to learn more about her,” he says, tapping a thin metal stand beside him, “her one-sheet is right here.”
I blink at the stand perched next to the rope, filled with paper clipped neatly in place. Like sheet music.
Curiosity pulls at me before I can stop it. I reach out and lift the top page.
Name. Gender. Age. Height. Weight. Body type. And a whole bunch of other shit that I don’t care about.
I really wish we could leave.
Warren leans in slightly, reading over my shoulder, his expression tightening.
I let the page fall back into place, and I suddenly feel like I need to wash my hands.
