I tug at the strap of the silky, emerald green dress. It’s fitted across my chest and flares at my hips. It’s pretty. A little daring. Something that I’d never be allowed to wear at Danvers. And honestly, it makes me feel like I’m out from under everyone’s thumb for five fucking minutes.
“I like it,” I say, even though my voice sounds tighter than I want.
Mother sighs the way she always does when I dare to have an opinion. “Tansy, sweetheart. Colors like that are meant for smaller girls. Delicate girls. You need something more…forgiving.”
A hot spark crawls under my skin, and I glance away, trying not to react.
On the other side of the boutique, two middle-aged omegas flit around the tall gold racks. They ooh and ahh as they look at gowns with tissue-thin silk and beadwork that glitters under the recessed lights. The women giggle softly as they talk about some upcoming fundraiser and impressing their alphas.
I wish I was having half as much fun as them.
“The cut of that dress isn’t doing your figure any favors.” Mother’s sharp tone pulls my attention back to her. Her dark eyes hone in on my thighs like they’re a personal failure of hers. “You’re so…tall, darling. And curvy. It can look a bit much.”
I cross my arms, making the fabric pull softly over my chest. “I don’t think an inch of this dress is any of your business.”
Her perfectly manicured brows lift. “Excuse me?”
Shit.
Too direct.
But I hold my ground, pulse thudding. “I just wantsomething I like,” I say, softer this time. “Something that feels like me. I’m not a little girl anymore. I’m a full-grown woman who’s receiving adegreenext week.” I straighten my back, holding my head up high. “I’m the first omega at Danvers to accomplish that.”
Mother looks at me for a long, evaluating moment. Like she’s trying to remember who I am.
“The only thing you’ve accomplished,” she says at last, voice cool, “is wasting your time at a prestigious academy learning about useless, ancient finger paintings when you should have been looking for a pack.” Her gaze drags down my body, sharp and dismissive. “Now you’re twenty-seven and about to age out of Danvers altogether.”
My stomach drops. “Age out?” I echo, frowning. “What does that mean?”
Mother lets out a hard, impatient sigh, like I’ve asked something vulgar in public. “When I attended Danvers,” she says crisply, “the old omegas were placed with a pack whether they liked it or not.” She smooths a nonexistent wrinkle on her sleeve. “If you want any say in your life, then you’ll stop all this nonsense and settle down before it’s too late.”
I stare at her.
Her words sink in slowly, like stones dropping through water, and for a second I can’t find my voice at all. My mouth opens, closes. My tongue feels thick.
“They… they can’t do that,” I finally manage to say, but my voice comes out weak. “They can’t force an omega to accept a pack they don’t want.”
“That’s what happens when an omega wastes her prime years,” Mother replies coolly as she plants her hands on her hips. “Don’t be surprised if the administrators start forcing you to attend the pack meet-and-greets.” She looks me upand down, frowning when her eyes reach my hemline. “Now,” she claps her hands once, signaling that she’s done with the conversation, “why don’t you try on the blue one next. At least that one covers your chest.”
For a second, I can’t feel my legs.
Everything goes strangely distant, like my mind is lagging behind.
The boutique noise fades to a soft, muffled buzz. I’m aware of Mother’s hand at my elbow before I register the movement. She pushes me forward, nudging me back toward the dressing rooms like I’m a mannequin she’s repositioning.
“Go on, Tansy,” she murmurs, already turning away to look at more dresses. “I’ll get you something more suitable to wear.” Then she jerks the curtain closed behind me.
I stand in the soft light for a second, staring at my reflection in the mirror. Then, I slowly move.
The emerald dress slides off my shoulders in a whisper of silk. I hang it carefully, smoothing the fabric over the hanger with both hands. Even if my mother hates it, I don’t want to treat it the way she treats me—like something that’s already failed.
I turn toward the blue dress waiting next to the tiny cream-colored chair. The fabric is stiff and conservative in that omega-safe way the Silk Den specializes in.
I don’t let myself think about how much I hate it as I take it off the hanger and slip it over my head. The neckline is high, practically at my collarbone, the hem falling above my knees. The waist cinches in a way that makes me feel packaged. My hair catches on the zipper, and I hiss softly, tugging it free.
There is no way this dress was made in an omega-approved facility.
Omega clothing is supposed to follow strict standards: soft seams that don’t rub, zippers that don’t catch, fabric that doesn’t cling too sharply when pheromones spike. Nothing scratchy. Nothing constricting. Nothing that makes an omega feel every stitch against her skin like a warning.
