Maybe he was fucking dropped on his head as a baby.
“She’s supposed to bemineto play with,” Jett continues.
The quiet, terrified whimper that leaves the omega has my already racing heart jump into overdrive.
“You know I’ll do a better job keeping her alive,” I snap.
My dad glances between my brother and me, and I know I’m losing him. He’s never had faith in my ability to do fucking anything hands-on. Partly because I never expressed any interest in the more hands-on parts of the industry.
“I’ll train the new alpha too,” I rush to add.
This catches my dad’s attention.
“Really,” he drawls.
“Yeah, I will,” I say, nodding, partly to convince him and partly to convince myself.“And I’ll do a good job. I promise. And if I don’t, then Jett can have the omega.”
What the fuck am I saying?
Why am I tying this omega’s safety to my ability to do something I’ve never done before?
“Oh, this is fucking rich,” Jett growls, throwing his hands up in the air, but I ignore his theatrics.
My dad’s the one who’s ultimately going to decide here.
“Fine, if you want to train the omega badly enough that you’refinally going to take part in the family business, then yes,” my dad says.
“What the fuck!” Jett snarls.
“Let me finish,” my dad snaps, his dominance rolling off of him in waves. It makes all of us, especially the omega on the floor, freeze. Dad cuts his gaze to Jett. “You came up with the plans to use her as bait, so you’ll still be in charge of that. Take it or leave it.”
“Fine,” Jett says, his jaw clenched so hard I’m surprised he hasn’t broken a tooth yet.
“Thanks, Dad,” I breathe out.
“I expect actual results from you training the new alpha. No results, and you lose the privilege of training the omega you’re so fascinated by. You can get started once he’s done with his intake process.”
“Got it,” I say, swallowing hard.
“She’s all yours, then,” my dad says, nodding down to the omega, still silently curled in the cage at our feet.
CHAPTER 3
Mirabelle
“She’s all yours, then,” the terrifying older alpha growls.
My clammy palms press against my skin as I curl in, trying to disappear beneath their gaze.
I can’t help the urge to keep looking at the man who wants to “train” me.
I think his name is Rowan.
As I take in his features—his hazel eyes and his strong brow that seem to match the older alpha behind the desk—it hits me he looks almost boyish. Despite the darkness that lingers in his gaze, he looks a couple of years younger than I am.
He takes a step towards the cage, and his scent hits me. A subtle, fresh basil.
There’s an eerily familiar bitter aftertaste to his scent that I can’t quite place, but that doesn’t really matter.
