"It’s insane how lucrative the suppressant business is," Franky says, still examining the pills. He's moved on to the second crate now, prying the lid off with a crowbar. "People pay top dollar to control their heats. Or trigger them. Depending on what they need."
"I know."
I've seen the numbers. Suppressants are a multi-billion dollar industry, and we control a significant chunk of the black market on the West Coast. No prescriptions. No waiting periods. No judgmental doctors asking why you need them.
Just money and product and silence.
"You think you'll ever—" He stops. Clears his throat. Looks away, suddenly fascinated by the crate in front of him. "Sorry. None of my business."
"What?"
"Just... you know. Finding your omega. Settling down." He shrugs. "You're twenty-four. That's prime bonding age for alphas."
I look away.
Stare at the concrete floor. At the oil stains and scuff marks and the dark spots that might be old blood.
Finding my omega.
Yeah.
That's the dream, isn't it?
Every alpha wants it. That perfect match. That one-in-a-million scent that hits you like lightning, rearranges your brain chemistry, makes everything else fade to static. The omega whose scent calls to you like nothing else. The one you'd kill for. Die for. The one you knot and bond and keep forever.
The one who looks at you like you're their entire world. Who needs you as much as you need them. Who makes you feel like you're finally, finally whole.
I've thought about it. More than I should.
What it would feel like to have that. To have someone.
An omega who's mine. Who needs me. Who looks at me like I'm the only thing that matters. Who fits against me like they were made for it. Who smells like home.
I'd never let them go.
Never.
I'd burn the world down first.
My phone buzzes.
I glance down.
Dad:Margot's worried about Max. She wants you to reach out. Try to get to know him better.
I stare at the text.
Read it twice. Three times. The words don't change.
You've got to be fucking kidding me.
Max Carter. The outsider. The ghost who haunts our second floor like he's afraid his own shadow might bite.
He's not even related to Margot. Not really. He's some foster kid she adopted out of guilt or pity or whatever it is that makes people take in strays.
And now I'm supposed to what? Play nice? Pretend we're brothers?
Fuck that.
