"Move this," he says, fingers hovering near the curtain of hair falling over my shoulder. "You're hiding the view."
I should say no.
There's a whole list of reasons why I should say no.
We are in public. He's a stranger. My alphas are here.
But some stupid, wounded part of me—raw from Marie's "spare omega" comments, from years of feelinghalf-chosen—wants someone to look at my bare neck and see it as a problem worth fixing.
I nod.
He very carefully brushes my hair aside.
His fingers don't touch my skin, but the motion is intimate anyway. My neck feels exposed, vulnerable.
He studies the unmarked stretch of skin, the spot where, in another life, Ragon's teeth would have left a scar years ago.
"It's a shame. Whoever's dragging their feet doesn't deserve you."
My throat tightens.
"You don't even know me."
"I know enough. You smell like loyalty and longing and a pack that hasn't figured out how lucky they are."
My eyes sting.
I stare very hard at a penguin so I don't burst into tears in front of a stranger.
"I shouldn't be talking to you."
"Probably not. But I started it, so I'll finish it."
He reaches into his pocket, pulls out a small white card.
No logo. Just a name, a phone number, a district.
He holds it out.
I look at it like it might bite.
"Call me. When you've had enough."
"Enough of what?"
"Of being an afterthought. I'll show you how real alphas treat an omega they want to keep."
My heart is trying to claw its way out of my chest.
"I'mnot—"
"Disloyal," he finishes, lips twitching. "I didn't say run away. I said when you've had enough. Maybe they'll get their act together before that. Maybe they won't. Options won't hurt you."
His scent is steady, confident. No waver. No fear.
It makes me dizzy.
I reach for the card, fingers closing around it before my brain can veto.
