The idea of watching strangers put their hands on Micah has my Alpha instincts bristling, but after what happened last month, he needs this.
I had started out teaching him myself, but it’s hard to be rough with my bestie, whose previous exercise experience was squats, and our schedulesdon’t always line up. So he had suggested these classes as a compromise and asked me to come along to vet the teachers.
My hackles still rise when I think about how he looked after one of his clients tried to assault him. He needs to learn how to defend himself, or next time he might not be so lucky.
The world isn’t kind to Omegas, especially ones who make their living on camera.
In the bedroom, I pull a long-sleeved black shirt from the drawer despite the weather report on my phone warning of ninety-degree temperatures. Heat is a small price to pay for a place that ignores my juvenile detention record and the bruises from new fights and old.
My reflection catches the corner of my vision as I pass the hallway mirror. Dark eyes with darker circles beneath them and hair messy from sleep.
I turn away before I can catalog more details.
The top drawer of my dresser sits ajar, revealing what I call my “quieting down” kit. A small leather case, inconspicuous enough that no one would question finding it. Inside, sharp blades and temporary relief. My fingers hover over the drawer handle, muscle memory urging me to take it along.
The phone buzzes again.
Micah
If you’re not there when class starts, I’m telling everyone you collect Norman Rockwell plates.
My hand closes around the kit, and I shove it into my gym bag.
The motorcycle keys hang on a hook by the door, next to the leather jacket that’s too heavy for summer but covers everything in need of covering. The keys settle in my palm, solid and real in a way few things are.
Micah needs me. That has to be enough reason to keep moving forward.
I lock the apartment door, triple-checking the deadbolt before heading down the hallway to the elevator. Artificial pine mixes with the char of someone’s breakfast in the air, and the walls are so thin that a child’s crying leaks through one door while a television thunders through another.
Normal morning sounds that belong to a world I’m only visiting.
As the elevator creaks its way down to the ground floor, I check my phone again, noting the time. Forty minutes until the class starts. Plenty of time to meet up with Micah, who will be wired with his second energy drink by now and expecting me to keep up.
I can do this much.
I can pretend.
The gym reeks of old sweat and cheap disinfectant as I push through the glass doors. Blue mats cover the floor of the front room, where a dozen people stretch in workout clothes ranging from professional to pajama-adjacent.
Micah spots me, and his hand shoots up in an enthusiastic wave that draws attention I don’t want.
“You came!” Micah bounces on his toes, chestnut hair falling across his forehead. “I was about to text you again.”
“I said I’d come.”
The fluorescent lights hum overhead, too bright with the white of the walls. In my leather jacket, I don’t blend in, and a few people waiting for class to start take me in with clear concern.
I ignore them as I scan the room, cataloging exits and potential threats out of habit. A familiar figure leans against the far wall, arms crossed over his chest.
Jade’s black hair is pulled back in a tight ponytail, and his blue eyes meet mine across the room, one eyebrow arched in greeting.
He tilts his head toward the instructors warming up at the front of the room, his expression conveying what words don’t need to.
We’re in for amateur hour here.
“You brought Jade?” I ask.
Micah shrugs. “He showed up five minutes ago. Said he was bored.”
