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I put the glass on the counter and pick up my bag.

“Wait… where are you going?” Lark asks.

I give her my happiest grin. “I called a rideshare. You guys need some alone time, and I need to leave before you all get weird and emotional.”

“We’re not—” Graham starts.

I raise a brow and he stops cold. He’s going to have to toughen up before the kiddo arrives.

“Exactly,” I say, satisfied. Then I look back to Lark. “Text me tomorrow. I want all the updates.”

I slip out the front door before anyone can protest, the cool night air brushing over my skin. My heels click down the steps as I pull out my phone and open the rideshare app again.

I’m not going home. Not yet. I’m in mile-high fuchsia heels, a sweater that keeps slipping off one shoulder, and leggings that do fantastic things for my stress-eating ass. The Dougs can choke on their opinions and a bag of dicks.

There’s a club ten minutes from my apartment that’s supposed to be wild on Friday nights. Loud music. Dark corners. Plenty of alphas who don’t know my name and won’t try to give me investment advice.

nine

Camelia

“Thanks for the ride,” I say, as I shut the back door.

My Uber driver nods, then pulls back into traffic.

The club is called Element, and the line is already snaking down the block. I immediately start second-guessing everything. I should have gone home first. Added a little scent neutralizer, put on something tighter, darker, sexier. Instead, I’m walking in wearing a soft off-shoulder sweater and leggings like I just came from book club. Sexy book club, but still.

Everyone out here looks five years younger and ninety percent more naked. The omega in me does a nervous little wiggle. Then I remember: I’m Camelia Fucking James. I’ve got this.

I tug the sweater lower on one shoulder, then hitch it up just enough at the waist to remind the world what Old AF Doug was so offended by. Shoulders back, tits out, ass on display. Let them stare.

The bouncer lets me cut the line. Damn straight.

Inside, the music is deep, dirty, and loud enough to rattle my teeth. The place is packed. Lights strobe across sweat-slick skin. Alpha pheromones hang thick in the air, and the scent spray most betas wear is trying way too hard.

My bladder immediately screams at me because apparently, I inhaled those two glasses of cabernet like a pro. Great. Nothing says sexy single omega on the prowl like sprinting for the bathroom first thing.

I weave through the crowd, find the ladies’ room, and lock myself in a stall. I handle business, wash my hands, and stare at my reflection under the too-bright lights.

Plan time, Cammie.

Option one: Sit at the bar and deal with all the nonsense that comes my way.

Option two: Get table service and look ridiculous with a whole bottle and no one to share it with.

Option three: Walk straight onto the dance floor and figure this shit out on the go.

I take a deep breath.

Option three.

When I step out of the bathroom, my eyes adjust to the strobe and the dark. And then I see him. He’s standing maybe ten feet away, arms crossed, watching the men’s room door like he’s waiting. He hasn’t seen me yet, so I take my time running my eyes up and down his body. Black boots, black cargo pants, black t-shirt stretched across broad shoulders. He definitely has a look and it should be try-hard. It isn’t. It’s infuriatingly perfect. His hair looks almost black in this light. If I didn’t already know it’s red, I’d never guess.

He sees me. His face doesn’t change, but a spark lights behind his eyes.

I don’t hesitate. I walk straight up to him because that is the only reasonable thing to do when an alpha looks like that and smells like woodsmoke and pure trouble.

He looks down at me. That scarred brow lifts. "Hey, Twenty-A."