Mattaniah
TheparkinglotofRomano's is nearly empty when Mom's car pulls up to the curb. I'm exhausted, my feet aching from a double shift, the smell of garlic and marinara clinging to my clothes and hair. The apron tied around my waist is spotted with grease and sauce, and all I want is to go home, shower, and collapse into my nest in the corner of my closet where nobody can bother me.
Instead, Mom gets out of the car and walks into the restaurant without a word to me.
It's not the first strange thing she's ever done, but Mom hates Italian food and hates my job even more. Watching her go inside sets off alarm bells I'm too tired to properly heed. I'll figure out whatever she's broken tomorrow. I always do.
I lean against the brick wall and watch her through the window as she approaches my manager. They talk for maybe thirty seconds before she turns and heads back out. There's something different about her tonight. She's wearing a dress I've never seen before, something expensive and tailored, her hair done and her makeup perfect and she's smiling in that particular way that makes my stomach drop.
That smile means she's found a new mark. A new Alpha to sink her claws into.
I fish the small bottle of blockers out of my pocket and shake it, gauging what's left. Half full. I took my dose this morning, and if there's a new Alpha involved I should double up. Mom's drilled that into me thoroughly enough over the years that it's reflex now. Keep my scent muted, keep my responses locked down, be appealing enough to catch interest without ever actually responding. Alphas can smell desperation, and desperate Omegas are worthless for the long game she likes to play.
"Get in," she says, not looking at me as she slides back into the driver's seat.
I pocket the blockers and push off the wall. My hand finds the door handle and then I stop, because the backseat is wrong. Everything I own is packed into boxes and garbage bags, stuffed haphazardly into every available space. My clothes, my books, the few personal items I've managed to accumulate over the years are crammed into the back of her sedan like we're leaving in the middle of a crisis.
The one thing I don't see is any part of my nest. Not one pillow, not one blanket, not even the overstuffed carnival dolphin I've had for two years.
My heart drops. I yank open the door and drop into the passenger seat, turning to stare at her. "Who did you piss off this time?" The last time we fled without warning, her latest mark had been short nearly twenty-five thousand dollars. He never caught up to us, but that's not the point.
She laughs, which is not the response I'm expecting. "Nothing like that, baby." She reaches over and pats my knee, a gesture that's clearly meant to be comforting and lands somewhere closer to condescending. "I found an Alpha for us. A good one. He's going to take care of us."
The dread doesn't ease. It gets worse.
There have always been men coming through our apartment. Alphas who stayed a week, maybe two, before disappearing when Mom got bored or they figured out she was more trouble than she was worth.
I learned early to keep my head down, stay out of their way, and never get attached. More importantly, I learned to stay locked down. The blockers handle the chemical side of things, but the real work is mental. Training myself not to respond when an Alpha's scent hits me. Training myself to swallow every whimper and whine that tries to climb my throat. Training myself to be useful bait without ever actually getting caught.
It's the same principle behind how I've always managed my heats. Clinical. Transactional. I'm on a schedule with a rent-an-alpha service, every three months like clockwork, an arrangement as impersonal as a doctor's appointment.
There are no names beyond what's on the intake form, no scent-bonding, no staying the night. Everything is back to normal by morning. Mom approved of that system because it kept me useful without making me vulnerable. An Omega who'shad a proper heat is easier to control than one who's desperate, and desperation makes people sloppy.
I've never been sloppy. She's made sure of that.
This feels different, though. The dress, the packed car, the way she's talking about this Alpha like the outcome is already decided. This isn't a two-week mark. This is something else entirely.
"Where are we going?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.
"To his house." She pulls out of the parking lot and onto the main road. "Our house now. You're going to love it, Mattaniah. It's beautiful, nothing like that cramped apartment."
I twist my hands in my lap, picking at the edge of my apron. The city lights blur past the window as we drive, moving from the familiar streets of our neighborhood into areas I don't recognize. Buildings get taller and newer and more polished. Streets get cleaner and wider, and my anxiety climbs with every mile between me and everything I know.
"When did you meet him?" I ask, not because I care but because the silence is making it worse.
"A few weeks ago, at a charity function." She glances at me, smile still in place. "He's important, Mattaniah. The Alpha is successful with real money, not the kind men pretend to have. He wants to take care of us."
A few weeks? She's known this man for a few weeks and she's already packed up our lives and moved us into his house, which means he's wealthy enough to be worth a full relocation and she's decided skipping the usual courtship is worth the risk. But men with real money don't take on an Omega wife and her grown Omega son without a reason, and I've never once been anyone's reason for anything.
"Why haven't I met him?" I don't bother hiding the edge in my voice. Her jaw tightens in response, her scent sharpening fromits usual soft rose into something that makes the back of my neck prickle.
"Don't start," she says flatly. "You'll meet him soon enough, and you'll be respectful when you do. No whining, no whimpering, no embarrassing displays. You know how to behave."
I swallow and turn back to the window. My hand finds the blocker bottle in my pocket again, the familiar shape grounding me. I'll need another dose before we go inside. A double, probably. New Alphas always hit harder when I haven't had time to prepare, and the last thing I need is my body doing something stupid before I even learn this man's name.
The buildings continue changing as we drive, each one more expensive than the last, until we're moving through a part of the city I've only ever seen in photographs. Mansions stand behind iron gates and manicured lawns, the kind of wealth that doesn't look real from the outside. When Mom turns down a private drive my breath catches in my throat, and the beat-up sedan suddenly feels deeply, embarrassingly small.
The house at the end of the driveway is massive. Three stories of cold modern architecture, floor-to-ceiling windows and sharp angles make it look more like a museum than anything anyone is supposed to live in. There’s no warmth to it, no personality, just sleek lines and expensive materials and an overwhelming sense of otherness that my instincts recoil from immediately.
