The Omega's Desperate Escape

Chapter Thirteen

JINX

The Emperor Hotel's service entrance smells like possibility and industrial-grade floor cleaner. I arrive twenty minutes early because punctuality was beaten into me with the same efficiency as proper grout-scrubbing technique. Six AM feels like luxury—at Cascade, I'd already have been working for two hours by now, hauling water from the well before the alphas woke and wanted their morning ablutions.

"You must be Jin." The woman waiting by the time clock studies me with sharp brown eyes that miss nothing. Patricia, the head chef Stephanie mentioned. Her wolf scent hits subtle but unmistakable—controlled power wrapped in chef's whites. "Right on time. I appreciate that."

"Thank you for the opportunity."

"Don't thank me yet. Persephone runs on precision. You'll either keep up or you won't." She hands me a uniform—black pants, white jacket with the restaurant's logo embroidered in gold thread. "Locker room's through there. Be changed and ready in ten."

The locker room is nicer than most apartments I've lived in. Individual lockers with actual locks, benches that don't threaten tetanus, even a shower stall that promises hot water without the kind of negotiation that involves prayer and percussive maintenance. I change quickly, fingers steady despite the flutter in my stomach. The uniform fits better than anything I've worn in years—like someone actually considered that bodies came in different shapes instead of just ordering bulk sizes and letting us make do.

"Blimey, you must be the new guy."

I turn to find a man leaning in the doorway, all lean muscle and easy smile. His accent carries London's edges softened by time. Dark hair, darker eyes, and the kind of kitchen-scarred hands that speak of years at the stove.

"Amit." He doesn't offer a handshake, which I appreciate. "Sous chef, general dogs-body, and Patricia's favorite verbal punching bag for eight years running."

"Eight years?"

"Started together at Hartford's place in Mayfair. When he decided to conquer the colonies, we tagged along." His grin suggests stories that probably involve after-service drinks and questionable decisions. "Fair warning—Patricia runs her kitchen like the bloody military. But if you can hack it here, you can work anywhere."

The kitchen proves his point. Every surface gleams with aggressive cleanliness. Stations laid out with mathematical precision. Walk-in coolers organized like libraries of food. This isn't just a kitchen—it's a temple to culinary efficiency.

"Right then." Patricia materializes at my elbow. "Steph says you've got kitchen experience. Let's see it. Brunoise these carrots. Julienne the peppers. Small dice on the onions. Standard prep, nothing fancy."

She hands me a knife that's sharper than anything I used at Murphy's—sharper than most of the weapons Jules trained me with. The weight feels good in my hand, balanced and eager.

I fall into the rhythm without thinking. Cascade taught me to work fast, silent, invisible. To anticipate needs before they're voiced. To move through spaces like I don't exist while making everything perfect for those who do. My hands remember the motions even if my mind has tried to forget the lessons.

The carrots become perfect tiny cubes, each one identical to its brothers. The peppers fall into matchsticks so uniform they could be measured with calipers. The onions surrender to the blade without making me cry—a small mercy I've earned through years of practice.

"Where'd you train?"

Patricia watches my knife work with professional interest. Around us, the morning prep crew filters in—a mix of humans and supernaturals working with the kind of integrated ease Toronto seems to specialize in. Nobody questions my presence or challenges my right to be here. They just work.

"Self-taught, mostly." Not entirely a lie. The Cascade omegas taught each other what the pack wouldn't—how to stretch inadequate ingredients, how to make scraps into meals, how to feed fifty on provisions meant for twenty. "I learn fast."

"I can see that." She takes one of my carrot cubes, examining it like a jeweler with a suspicious diamond. "Amit, what do you think?"

He ambles over, tastes one of the peppers. "Proper job, that. Bit show-offy with the uniformity, but I suppose that's what Cambridge pays for."

Cambridge. They mean Hartford, and something about the casual nickname makes him seem more human. Less like the impossible presence who interviewed me personally, who knew about my suppressants, who offered solutions I still don't trust.

The morning slides past in a blur of prep work. I fall into the kitchen's rhythm like I was born to it, which in a way I was. Every omega at Cascade learned kitchen work whether they wanted to or not. The alphas needed feeding, and who better to serve than those designed to serve?

But this is different. Here, the work has dignity. Purpose beyond servitude. When I perfectly portion fifty servings of mise en place, Patricia nods approval. When I catch a mistake in the morning's produce delivery—bruised tomatoes hidden beneath perfect ones—Amit claps me on the shoulder like an equal.

"You'll do." Patricia's declaration comes just before the lunch rush. "Prep station today. We'll see about moving you to salads by the end of the week if you keep this up."

The lunch service hits like a controlled storm. Orders flow from the dining room in waves, and the kitchen responds with choreographed chaos. I lose myself in the work—prepping ingredients as fast as the line cooks can use them, replacing empty containers before anyone has to ask, keeping my station immaculate while the world burns around me.

This is what I'm good at. What six years of bondage taught me. How to be essential while being invisible.

"Behind you, hot."

I step aside smoothly as another cook passes with a pan that sizzles and pops. The dance continues—calls and responses, the clatter of plates, the hiss of proteins hitting hot metal. It's almost meditation, the way the work consumes everything else.

Almost.

Because underneath the kitchen sounds, I feel it. That prickle between my shoulder blades that says I'm being watched. Not the casual observation of coworkers learning my rhythm, but something focused. Intent.

I glance toward the kitchen's service window and catch a glimpse of honey-gold hair in the dining room beyond. Hartford. Making his rounds, Stephanie mentioned. Checking on his investment.

Except his "rounds" seem to circle back to Persephone with unusual frequency.

"Boss doesn't usually hover." Amit appears at my station, voice low enough not to carry. "Usually stays up in his tower counting money or whatever billionaires do. But today?" He shrugs. "Must be the new hire excitement."

Right. Because CEOs regularly get excited about prep cooks.

The afternoon prep is lighter, giving me time to observe the kitchen's ecosystem. Patricia rules with competent authority—never cruel but never soft. The team respects her, works for her approval, takes pride in meeting her standards. It's everything the Cascade kitchens weren't.

"You're quiet." One of the line cooks—Maria, human by her scent—pauses near my station. "Most new hires, we can't shut them up. All nervous energy and questions."

"Just focusing on the work."

She laughs. "Patricia loves the quiet ones. Less drama." Her expression shifts, curious. "You really worked at Murphy's? That dive bar near College?"

"It's not so bad."

"If you say so. Just seems like a hell of a jump, dishwasher to here."

Before I can respond, that watched feeling intensifies. This time when I glance up, Hartford's actually in the kitchen, speaking quietly with Patricia near the pass. His suit probably costs more than most people make in a year, but he doesn't look out of place among the steam and steel. Like he actually knows his way around a kitchen.

Our eyes meet for half a second before I drop my gaze back to my prep. But that half-second is enough to catch something in his expression. Not the predatory interest I'm used to from alphas. Something more... protective? Concerned?

Whatever it is, it makes my skin tight.

The rest of my shift passes without incident. I clean my station with the kind of obsessive thoroughness that once kept me from beatings, help with the dinner prep setup, and finally clock out at exactly 2:47 PM. Fifteen minutes over because there was still work to be done, and leaving things unfinished feels wrong in my bones.

Ami and Puck wait in the lobby, both still glowing with first-day success. Ami's front desk uniform makes her look older, more polished. Puck's maintenance coveralls already sport a few decorative grease stains that probably have stories attached.

"How'd it go?" Ami links her arm through mine as we head for the massive front doors. "The kitchen looked intense from what I could see."

"Good. Really good, actually." The truth surprises me. "The head chef knows what she's doing, and they actually treat the prep cooks like humans."

"Novel concept." Puck's grin holds only a little bitterness. We all know what it's like to work jobs where humanity is optional.

We're halfway across the gleaming lobby when the front doors open and Desmond Venture walks in like he owns the place. Which he doesn't, but his presence suggests ownership is just paperwork. His whiskey eyes find me immediately, and my steps falter.

"Ms. Smith." He uses my fake name like he's tasting it. "And friends. How was the first day?"

"Fine." The word comes out sharper than intended. "We were just leaving."

"Perfect timing then." He pulls keys from his pocket—the kind that belong to cars with names instead of model numbers. "I'm headed your direction. Let me give you a ride."

"We're good with the subway."

"Please." His smile doesn't reach his eyes. "It's on my way. And we should talk about your building—I own it, as you know. There are some improvements planned you should be aware of."

The calculation is instant and ugly. Refuse and risk angering my landlord. Accept and owe him something, even if it's just gratitude.

But Ami's already moving toward the door, exhaustion clear in her movements. Fox metabolism burns bright and fast—she's probably running on fumes. And Puck's trying to hide a limp from where he banged his knee fixing something in the hotel's basement.

"Fine."

We follow him outside where a black Bentley waits like a predator at rest. Of course he drives something that screams money and power. Of course the interior smells like leather and his particular brand of dangerous cologne.

What I don't expect is the prickle of awareness that says we're still being watched.

I glance back at the hotel as Venture holds the door open—unnecessary chivalry that makes my teeth itch—and catch a figure in one of the upper windows. The angle makes it hard to see clearly, but I know that silhouette. That stillness.

Hartford watches us pile into Venture's car with an expression I can't read from this distance. But something in his posture speaks of... disappointment? Calculation?

The drive passes in strained silence. Ami and Puck make small talk about their first days while I press against the window and try not to breathe too deep. This close, Venture's scent works against my suppressants like water against a dam. Not overwhelming it, but finding all the cracks.

"The building improvements will start next week." He navigates Toronto traffic with casual competence. "New security systems. Better locks. Some infrastructure updates that are long overdue."

"How generous." The words taste bitter. "Let me guess—the rent goes up to match?"

His eyes find mine in the rearview mirror. "The rent stays the same. I'm not in the real estate business for profit, Ms. Smith. I'm in it for... other reasons."

Other reasons. Like installing cameras to watch your investment. Like controlling every aspect of the environment until the mice forget they're in a cage.

We reach Queen Street in record time. He pulls to the curb but doesn't unlock the doors immediately.

"I trust you'll find everything about the improvements to your satisfaction. If there's anything specific you need—anything at all—you have my number."

I don't, actually. But pointing that out feels like admitting weakness.

"We're good." I reach for the door handle, find it locked. My hand drops to the knife at my ribs—subtle, but his eyes track the movement.

"Of course you are." The locks click open. "Welcome to the real Toronto. I'm sure you'll find it... illuminating."

We pile out, and I don't breathe properly until the Bentley disappears around the corner. Ami shivers beside me despite the afternoon warmth.

"That was weird, right? Like, deeply weird?"

"Rich people are always weird." But Puck's usual humor sounds forced. "Come on. Let's go celebrate our legitimate employment with illegitimate beer."

Our apartment welcomes us with its suspicious comfort. Everything still too nice, too convenient, too much like bait in a very pretty trap. But it's home, for now, and that's enough.

I shower off the kitchen smells—onions and carrots and industrial soap—then stand in front of the bathroom mirror in just underwear and a tank top. No restraint band compressing my chest. No baseball cap hiding my face. No baggy clothes designed to obscure rather than fit.

The omega in the mirror looks nothing like Jin Smith, prep cook.

She's all curves and angles in the right places, the kind of beauty the Moon Goddess supposedly blesses her favorites with. High cheekbones that catch light like blades. Eyes too large for my face, brown shot through with gold when the light hits right. The kind of pretty that made Marcus notice. Made Alpha Brennan decide I was worth giving away. Made every alpha at Cascade look too long and think too much.

No wonder Hartford watches. No wonder Venture circles. Even through suppressants and ugly clothes and enough Axe body spray to qualify as chemical warfare, something shows through. Some essential omega-ness that marks me as prey no matter how well I hide.

I touch my reflection, wondering who this girl is. Not Billie—she died in Cascade's forest. Not quite Jinx—she's the survivor who crawled out after. Someone caught between, maybe. Someone who's tired of running but doesn't know how to stop.

Someone who started a real job today. Who has a real apartment and real pack and real problems that don't involve counting pills or checking exits.

Someone two alphas want for reasons that probably have nothing to do with me and everything to do with what I represent. Omega. Unclaimed. Available.

Let them want. I've got work tomorrow, and prep to master, and a life to build that doesn't involve being anyone's prize.

Even if the girl in the mirror looks like exactly that.

Even if some treacherous part of me wonders what it would be like to stop hiding. To be seen—really seen—by eyes that don't just see property to claim.

Even if I can still feel Hartford's watching and Venture's wanting and my own body's slow betrayal as the suppressants fail by degrees.

The mirror doesn't offer answers. Just reflections of a girl who's very good at being invisible suddenly feeling far too visible for comfort.