The Omega's Desperate Escape

Chapter Six

The dinner rush hit Murphy's Law like a tidal wave of hungry drunks and desperate souls. I moved through the chaos with practiced efficiency, plates sliding through sudsy water while my hands worked on autopilot. Three months in this job had taught me the rhythm—scrub, rinse, stack, repeat. A meditation in minimum wage.

"Jinx, you're a goddamn miracle worker." Mo materialized beside the dish pit, his movements liquid in that way that screamed not-quite-human. The allurus had a gift for appearing when you least expected it. "We'd be drowning without you."

"Just doing my job." My voice came out appropriately low, roughened by the Old Spice cloud that followed me everywhere. The baseball cap stayed pulled low, shadowing features that were too delicate for the beta male I pretended to be.

"You do more than that." He studied me with dark eyes that saw too much. "Reliable. Quiet. No drama. That's worth its weight in gold in this business."

Wanda chose that moment to crash through the kitchen doors, arms full of bus tubs. "Table six is full of assholes and table twelve just ordered everything on the menu." She dumped the dishes with a clatter that spoke of barely contained violence. "I swear to god, if one more alpha tries to grab my ass, I'm going knife-shopping."

"Use mine," I offered, nodding toward the serrated blade I used for stubborn food debris. "Already sharp."

She laughed, the sound harsh but genuine. Wanda had been working at Murphy's since before I arrived—a beta in her thirties who'd perfected the art of dodging handsy customers while maintaining tip-worthy charm. Brown hair always in a messy bun, curves that her uniform couldn't hide, and eyes that had seen too much but kept looking anyway.

"You're too good for this place, kid." She hip-checked me affectionately as she passed. "Both of us are."

Mo had already vanished back to whatever dimension he occupied between appearances. The kitchen returned to its usual controlled chaos—Terry sweating vodka over the grill, the new line cook whose name I hadn't bothered learning yet chopping vegetables with manic precision.

By the time my break rolled around, my hands were pruned and my back screamed. I grabbed my cigarettes—a prop more than a habit—and headed for the alley. The October air bit through my soaked shirt, but it was better than the kitchen's grease-fog atmosphere.

I'd barely lit up when they appeared.

Three of them, Lakeshore pack by the smell—lake water and construction dust, the particular musk of wolves who thought manual labor made them superior. They moved with the coordinated arrogance of alphas who'd never met a consequence they couldn't punch.

"Well, well." The biggest one, all flannel and bad decisions, blocked my path back to the door. "Murphy's hiring children now?"

"Just trying to have a smoke." I kept my voice steady, pitched low. The cap shadowed my face, but my heart hammered against ribs that felt suddenly fragile.

"Smells like a b***h to me." The second one circled to my left, nostrils flaring. "Under all that cologne. Trying to hide something, little beta?"

The third laughed, the sound sharp as breaking glass. "Maybe we should check. Make sure Mo's not harboring anything... illegal."

They moved closer, predator formation as old as time. The alley walls pressed in, narrowing escape routes to nothing. My fingers found the knife tucked against my ribs—not the kitchen blade I'd offered Wanda, but Jules's gift, sharp enough to part air.

"Back off." The words came out harder than intended, carried on six years of survival instinct.

"Or what?" Flannel stepped closer, close enough that his breath fouled the air between us. "You'll tell teacher? Run crying to your boss?"

His hand reached for my cap.

I moved.

Six years of Jules's training condensed into muscle memory. The knife stayed sheathed—too many questions if I bled them—but my knee found his groin with the precision of a heat-seeking missile. He folded like bad origami, wheezing.

The second one lunged. I ducked under his grab, using his momentum to send him face-first into the brick wall. The crack of nose against stone was poetry.

The third got his hands on me, fingers digging into my shoulders hard enough to bruise. I snapped my head back, catching his nose with my skull. Blood erupted warm across my neck as he staggered away.

"f*****g b***h—"

"Is there a problem here?"

The voice cut through the alley like a blade through silk. Smooth, cultured, carrying the kind of authority that didn't need to raise its volume. I knew that voice. Had heard it in fragments through the restaurant, in whispered stories, in the phantom scent that haunted my dreams.

Desmond Venture stood at the alley mouth like he'd been carved from shadow and expensive suits. Dark hair perfect despite the wind, eyes the color of whiskey in firelight. The kind of beautiful that hurt to look at directly. Power radiated from him in waves, making the air itself genuflect.

The Lakeshore wolves scrambled upright, suddenly prey instead of predators.

"Just a misunderstanding," Flannel wheezed through his bruised balls. "We were just—"

"Leaving." Venture didn't move, but somehow filled more space. "Now."

They fled like kicked dogs, not even pausing to collect their dignity. I should have been grateful. Instead, every instinct screamed run as those whiskey eyes turned to assess me.

"Are you hurt?"

Two steps closer and his scent hit full force—smoke and aged whiskey, power and something wild barely leashed. It punched through my suppressants like they were tissue paper, making my omega instincts wake with violent interest.

I bolted.

Back through the kitchen door, past Terry's startled curse, into the bathroom where I could lock the door and remember how to breathe. My hands shook as I gripped the sink, staring at my reflection in the cracked mirror. Blood from the third alpha's nose painted my neck like war paint. My cap had shifted, revealing too much face, too much feminine bone structure.

"Jinx?" Wanda's voice through the door, concerned. "Let me in."

I flipped the lock. She slipped inside with a first aid kit pilfered from who-knew-where, taking in my appearance with sharp eyes.

"Jesus. You really did a number on them." She wet paper towels, starting to clean the blood with gentle efficiency. "Lakeshore boys?"

"Yeah."

"Assholes. Think they own everything because they build condos." She worked in silence for a moment, then reached up and plucked the cap from my head.

My black hair tumbled free, chopped short but still unmistakably feminine. We stared at each other in the harsh fluorescent light, her hands still frozen mid-reach.

"I knew it." Her voice held satisfaction rather than surprise. "The walk was wrong. Too much hip, not enough swagger. Plus, no beta male I've ever met washes dishes like they're doing penance."

"Wanda, please—" Panic clawed at my throat. "You can't tell anyone. I need this job, I need—"

"Relax." She set the cap on the counter, resuming her ministrations. "I'm not telling anyone anything."

"But—"

Her smile shifted, something predatory entering the curve. When she spoke again, her voice had dropped a full octave, testosterone threading through the words like smoke.

"We all have our secrets, honey."

The scent hit then—male musk barely disguised by perfume and the beta blockers that probably cost more than our rent. She wasn't a beta woman.

She wasn't anything she appeared to be either.

We stood there in the bathroom's harsh light, two liars recognizing each other, while outside the kitchen continued its chaos. Through the thin door, I could hear Mo calling orders, Terry cursing at the grill, the ordinary sounds of a life I'd built on deception.

"Trans," Wanda—not Wanda—said quietly. "Realized early on I was born in the wrong body. Been on hormones since I was sixteen, but..." A shrug that encompassed all the ways biology betrayed us. "Some things don't change. Some things you just learn to hide better."

"I'm—" The words stuck. What was I? Omega pretending to be beta? Female pretending to be male? Runaway pretending to be human?

"You're Jinx." Firm, certain. "Who does the job and doesn't ask questions and makes my shifts easier. That's all that matters."

He—she—they?—handed me back my cap. "Clean yourself up. Take ten minutes. I'll tell Mo you're dealing with the mess those assholes made."

At the door, Wanda paused. "That alpha who showed up. Venture. He comes in sometimes, sits in the back booth. Never seen him intervene in alley business before."

"I don't know why—"

"Sure you don't." That knowing smile again. "Just be careful. Alphas like that don't do anything without a reason. And honey? Maybe vary the cologne brands. Old Spice is distinctive. Try Axe next time—nobody can smell anything through that chemical warfare."

The door closed, leaving me alone with my reflection and racing thoughts. Desmond Venture had seen me. Maybe not enough to recognize, but enough to intervene. Enough to make those Lakeshore wolves run like rabbits.

I tucked my hair back under the cap, washed the blood from my neck, rebuilt my beta male facade piece by piece. But underneath the costume, my omega nature hummed with awareness. It knew what I refused to acknowledge—that an alpha had come to my defense. That his scent had woken things better left sleeping.

That I was in so much trouble.

The kitchen welcomed me back without comment. Terry glanced over from the grill, took in my cleaned-up appearance, and returned to his cooking. Mo was nowhere to be seen, but that was normal. Wanda worked the dining room like nothing had happened, though she threw me one weighted look that said our conversation wasn't over.

I returned to my dishes, to the meditation of hot water and repetition. But my hands shook slightly as I worked, and every time the kitchen door swung open, I tensed.

Waiting for whiskey eyes and smoke-scent.

Waiting for the inevitable moment when my carefully constructed life came crashing down around me.

The rest of my shift passed in a blur of plates and paranoia. By the time midnight rolled around, my nerves were shot. I changed out of my work clothes in the bathroom, layering street clothes that disguised what little figure the hormones hadn't suppressed.

"Walk you out?" Wanda appeared as I headed for the back door. Still in her server uniform, but something in her posture had shifted—protective, almost fraternal.

"I'm good."

"Wasn't really a question."

We stepped into the alley together. No sign of the Lakeshore wolves, but their blood still decorated the brick where face had met wall. Wanda lit a cigarette with steady hands, offering me the pack.

"How long?" The question came quiet, meant just for us and the October wind.

"Six years. Give or take."

A low whistle. "That's a long time to pretend. The suppressants must be killing you."

"Better than the alternative."

"Is it though?" Smoke wreathed between us. "I spent ten years trying to be what everyone expected. Nearly killed myself in the process. Sometimes being honest about what you are is the only way to survive."

"Easy for you to say. You're not—" I stopped, unwilling to voice what I was. What I was running from.

"Omega?" The word hung between us like a challenge. "No. But I know what it's like to have your body betray everything you know about yourself. To wake up wrong and spend every day trying to make it right."

We stood in comfortable silence, two people who understood the weight of secrets. Somewhere in the distance, a siren wailed. The city breathed around us, indifferent to our small dramas.

"Venture's interested in you." Wanda flicked ash into the wind. "Don't know why, but he is. Men like that don't intervene for strangers."

"He doesn't know me."

"Maybe. Maybe not. But be careful either way. Pack alphas are dangerous when they want something."

I thought about whiskey eyes and smoke-scent, about the way my omega nature had sung at his proximity despite six years of chemical suppression. Dangerous didn't begin to cover it.

"Thanks. For earlier. For not—"

"We look out for each other." Simple as that. "The broken ones, the ones who don't fit. We find each other and we hold on."