ANITA
Iunbutton my jeans with a sigh of relief and shimmy out of them, trading denim for soft cotton pajama pants and a hoodie with a fraying cuff I keep meaning to fix. Comfort over everything, especially when I’ve got a show to host soon and my brain is still reeling from arriving in Mistberry Cove.
The ferry. The Alphas. The landlord with glacier eyes and a mouth that could ruin a woman’s peace.
I yank my hair into a messy bun and move around the apartment, flicking on the little radio perched on the counter. The kitchen light buzzes quietly overhead as I open a cupboard for a mug and make myself a cup of chamomile tea.
But instead of mellow indie music or a sleepy small-town weather report, a voice slithers through the speakers and makes my stomach lurch.
Dr. Langston Reed’s voice, an asshole Alpha who hosts an opposing radio show calledThe True Bond Hour. His talks are all smooth, heavy, impossible to scrub away the words once you hear them. He preaches that Omegas are at their best when theysubmit. That we’re biologically built to follow the pull of Alpha command. That independence is dangerous, even selfish, when safety comes from belonging to an Alpha, or a pack, or anyone strong enough to claim us.
He calls it nature. I call it nonsense.
And sure, he probably believes every word and thinks he’s protecting people. But every time I hear his show come on, all I can think about is how many Omegas listen to him and start to doubt themselves.
Which is why I started my own radio show,The Heat Line.
If Dr. Reed wants to tell the world to obey, I’ll be here telling them to question everything. And this is why the asshole hates my show.
That smug, self-satisfied, punch-worthy tone that makes every muscle in my body tense.
“And don’t forget to pick up your copy of my new book,The Omega Rules: A Simple Guide to Natural Order, available now at all major retailers and online. Every Alpha needs this essential handbook. Simple rules, simple instructions to help teach her what an Alpha needs and deserves. Because let’s face it, folks, structure benefits everyone. Especially Omegas who’ve forgotten their place in the natural hierarchy. We’re not talking about oppression here, but biology that has worked for centuries. This book will help you reclaim that balance in your pack, your relationship, and your life. Pick up your copy today and start restoring order where it belongs.”
I stop moving. “What about what an Omega needs, you narcissistic asshole?” I say to the empty room, my voice rising. “What about respect? Autonomy? The basic fucking decency to be treated like a human being with thoughts and feelings and ambitions instead of a pet that needs training and rules?”
The commercial continues, Reed’s voice droning on about traditional pack dynamics, and rage burns hot and bright in my chest, threatening to consume everything else.
This is exactly why I’m undercover again. Why I came to Mistberry Cove. Because assholes like Reed are still out there, spreading their garbage like it’s gospel, and thousands are eating it up. Buying his books. Quoting him like he’s law. Using his twisted words to justify pushing Omegas out of jobs, into boxes, and telling them they should be grateful for scraps of respect.
I wasn’t planning another mission. But then an email landed in my inbox. A listener from this very town, raw, heartbroken, convinced she was fired for being an Omega. She wasn’t the only one. Two others, same company. Same pattern.
And just like that, I knew I had to come.
Because someone has to stand up to men like Reed.
And I’m going to prove him damn wrong. One step at a time.
I lunge for the radio and jab the Off button, tired of listening to that crap. “Nope. Not tonight, Satan. Take your fragile Alpha ego and shove it,” I mutter, grabbing my tea and heading for the spare room.
No way am I letting that arrogant fossil’s voice linger in the air while I prep for my show. Bad vibes are not invited.
The second bedroom is already set up. First thing I did after arriving—well, right after Mr. Sexy Eyes and his stupidly pretty smirk left me flustered. I shoved a desk under the window, set up my equipment, and plugged in my gear to host tonight’s radio show.
It’s quiet in here, cozy even, lit by a salt lamp.
I don’t need to look in the mirror to know I probably have tea down the front of my hoodie, and my hair is doing that rebellious poof it gets when the weather is humid and I’ve been stressed. But who cares? No one sees me when I’m on air. Just my voice. Just the messages.
I sink into the chair and exhale, letting the calm settle in my bones, then set my tea down. This is where I’m supposed to be. No scripts. No fake smiles. Just me, the mic, and the truth.
The laptop is on, and I make sure I’m logged in to my VPN to conceal my location in case anyone is trying to work out where I am. The microphone is positioned. The mixer is ready. I just check it all and call Marcy.
She’s been running the station and board for me and two other indie broadcasters who work during the day for the past year. She handles everything from screening calls to managing the live chat to making sure I don’t accidentally say something that’ll get us sued. She’s a Beta with no patience for nonsense and unlimited patience for my brand of crazy, which is a very specific skill set.
I dial her number, and she picks up immediately.
“You’re ready, Anita?” Always business with her.
“Sure am, let’s do this.”
