SCARLET OMEGA’S POV
The music at the Bobby’s clubhouse was the kind that vibrated through your ribs before it ever reached your ears. I’d been on my feet for three hours straight, balancing trays of overpriced cocktails for off-campus pack elites who tipped in scraps and looked through me like I was furniture.
It wasn’t glamorous work, but it was mine, and nobody at this job knew me as the wolfless mate of the Castillo triplets. Here, I was just Scarlet. A girl earning her own money for paint supplies, for textbooks, for a life that didn’t depend on three men who couldn’t decide whether they wanted me or wanted me gone.
I liked it that way.
I was weaving between booths with a tray of empty glasses when I felt the air shift. It was subtle at first, the kind of thing only someone who’d
