The Omega's Desperate Escape

Chapter Eight

JINX

The November rain tastes like rust and possibilities as I duck out of Murphy's Law for my break. Three weeks since Desmond Venture watched me destroy those Lakeshore wolves, and I still feel his presence like smoke clinging to my clothes. Every shadow could hide whiskey-colored eyes. Every footstep could belong to an alpha who saw too much.

I light a cigarette I don't want and lean against the brick wall, letting rain soak through my baseball cap. The alley looks different now—not safer, but marked. Territory claimed by violence and witnessed by power.

"New hotel's hiring." Wanda appears beside me, her own cigarette already half-finished. She's taken to joining my breaks since our bathroom revelation, this strange solidarity between people wearing the wrong skins. "The Emperor. That new billionaire's baby."

"Which billionaire?" Toronto breeds them like fancy dogs, each one shinier than the last.

"Alex Hartford. British money, came here eight months ago." She exhales smoke that the rain immediately claims. "Bought half of King Street while the rest of us were trying to make rent. They say he's human, but..."

The shrug says everything. Nobody human can compete with the power-hitters of Toronto's supernatural community. You either grow teeth or get eaten.

"What's the pay?"

"Double what we make here. Benefits too." Her eyes slide sideways, reading me like a menu. "Kitchen staff, housekeeping, front desk. All positions."

Double. The number sits heavy in my stomach next to the three suppressant pills I have left. Puck's supplier disappeared last week—arrested, dead, or just gone, nobody knows. Finding another source means money I don't have, risks I can't take.

"You thinking about it?"

"Maybe." The lie tastes familiar. I'm thinking about a lot of things. About cameras in our mysteriously upgraded apartment that I pretend not to notice. About how the building's improvements feel like a trap lined with velvet. About whiskey and smoke and the way my omega nature woke up screaming after six years of silence.

"His club opens in two weeks too. The Empress." Wanda grinds her cigarette under her heel. "Invitation only. The kind of place where our kind serves drinks but can't afford to drink there."

Our kind. The broken ones. The ones who remake themselves daily and hope the seams don't show.

The kitchen door bangs open and Terry stumbles out, already three sheets to wherever drunk cooks go when they're not burning steaks.

"Break's over, ladies." He doesn't know how right he is, how wrong. "Lou's here with his crew and they want the usual."

The usual means six orders of everything and enough beer to drown lesser men. Lou Ricci runs construction for Lakeshore, one of their legitimate fronts. He comes in every Tuesday with a crew that tracks mud and testosterone through the dining room like they're marking territory.

I follow Wanda inside, rebuilding my beta male facade with practiced movements. Shoulders back, chin down, that particular swagger that says 'nothing interesting here.' The cologne cloud helps—Axe body spray this week, because Wanda was right about chemical warfare.

The dining room thrums with Tuesday night energy. Couples on awkward first dates, regulars nursing their usual poisons, and Lou's crew taking up three tables pushed together like they own the place. Which they might, for all I know. Pack politics run deeper than property lines in this city.

I'm halfway through the first bus tub when I smell it.

Not pack. Not exactly human either. Something that makes my hindbrain pay attention without knowing why. Clean money and old secrets, power that doesn't need to bare teeth because it owns the dentist.

"—told Hartford we'd have the permits by Friday." Lou's voice carries over the general noise. "Man wants to open on time, he'll open on time."

My hands keep moving—plates into tub, automatic as breathing—but my ears strain for more.

"Crazy bastard's got balls," another voice adds. "Eight months in the city and acting like he owns it."

"Doesn't he?" This from a younger wolf, probably new to the crew. "I heard he bought the Meridian Tower. Cash."

"Money ain't everything." Lou's tone carries the particular weight of someone who believes the opposite. "But yeah, Hartford's got pull. Human pull. Sometimes that's worth more than pack connections."

Human. They keep using that word like they believe it. Like someone could own half of King Street and still smell purely of ambition and expensive cologne.

I move to the next table, careful to keep my movements steady. Just another invisible dishwasher cleaning up other people's excess. The new angle gives me a peripheral view of Lou's table, and that's when I see him.

Not him—his reflection in the window. A man at the bar who shouldn't exist in a place like Murphy's Law. Tailored suit that probably costs more than I make in a year. Honey-colored hair that catches the light like it's been negotiated into the most flattering angles. He's nursing a whiskey and reading something on his phone, perfectly still except for the occasional turn of his thumb across the screen.

Human, my brain insists. Completely, boringly human.

My omega instincts call bullshit.

"Hartford's holding interviews tomorrow." Lou again, loud enough that half the restaurant can hear. "The Emperor needs bodies. Good money for people willing to work."

The man at the bar doesn't react, but something in his stillness changes. Attention shifting without movement, like a predator noting prey it's not hungry enough to chase.

I finish loading the bus tub and head for the kitchen, skin prickling with awareness. He doesn't turn to watch me go, but I feel his attention follow anyway. Not the hot weight of Desmond's gaze that makes my suppressants work overtime. This is cooler, more clinical. Interest without intent.

The kitchen embraces me with its familiar chaos. Steam and shouting, Terry burning something while Mo appears and disappears like smoke. I dump the dishes and start the familiar rhythm of spray and scrub, but my hands shake slightly.

Two alphas—if Hartford is one, and my instincts scream he is—in my peripheral vision within weeks. After six years of invisibility, I'm suddenly collecting dangerous attention like broken glass.

"You okay?" Mo materializes beside the dish pit, quiet as death and twice as inevitable. "You smell... unsettled."

I force my shoulders to relax. "Just tired."

His dark eyes see too much, but he doesn't push. Mo Chen survives by knowing when to look away. "Take your time tonight. No rush."

He's gone before I can respond, leaving only the lingering scent of old magic and older secrets. Allurus, my brain supplies again. Shapeshifter from the old bloodlines, before the moon claimed wolves and the rest of them faded into myth.

The night drags like syrup. Lou's crew finally leaves around ten, tracking mud and satisfaction through the dining room like they've won something. The man at the bar stays until eleven, nursing the same whiskey, reading the same phone. He pays cash—his bill plus a hefty tip—and leaves without looking at anyone.

But just before the door closes behind him, he pauses. Half a second, maybe less. His head turns slightly, not enough to see me through the kitchen's porthole window but enough to acknowledge he knows I'm watching.

Then he's gone, leaving only the ghost of expensive cologne and questions I don't want answered.

"Quite the night." Wanda counts her tips while I attack the last of the dishes. "Lou's boys were extra handsy. Think I bruised one's instep permanently."

"Good."

"You see that suit at the bar?"

My hands don't pause in their rhythm. "Hard to miss."

"That's him. Hartford." She slides two twenties and a five across the steel counter—my share of tonight's tips. "Comes in maybe once a week. Orders one whiskey, reads his phone, leaves. Never talks to anyone."

"Why here?" Murphy's Law isn't exactly King Street material.

"Why do any of them come here?" She pockets her cash with practiced movements. "Neutral ground. Mo's made this place special—nobody's territory means everybody can drink. Even mysterious British billionaires with perfect hair."

Perfect hair. Trust Wanda to notice what matters.

I finish the last glass and drain the sinks, watching water spiral away like escaped secrets. My reflection in the steel shows what everyone's supposed to see—tired beta male, nothing special, nobody worth noticing.

But two alphas have noticed now. One with whiskey eyes who makes my omega nature sing murder ballads. One with careful stillness who makes my instincts check exits.

"You and your misfits gonna apply?" Wanda asks as we head for the back door. "To the Emperor?"

"Haven't decided."

"Decide fast. Word is they're only taking applications through tomorrow." She lights another cigarette, cancer stick number who-knows-what for the day. "Could be good for you. New place, new people. Less chance of running into old problems."

Old problems. Like Lakeshore wolves who now cross the street when they see me coming. Like a Venture alpha who owns half the city and might own the building I sleep in. Like suppressants running out and no money to replace them.

"I'll think about it."

We part ways at the corner—her heading north to an apartment she shares with three other people who don't ask questions, me heading south to a building that's improving too fast to be natural. The rain has stopped, leaving streets that shine like oil slicks under the streetlights.

I'm three blocks from home when I realize I'm being followed.

Not obviously. Nothing as crude as footsteps echoing mine. Just that prickle between shoulder blades, that certainty that comes from six years of running. I turn the corner and catch it—a shadow that moves when it shouldn't, there and gone before my eyes can focus.

My hand finds the knife at my ribs. Jules's gift, sharp enough to part air and whatever else needs parting. I keep walking, steady pace, beta male who doesn't know he's being hunted.

Another corner. Another shadow that doesn't belong. But this one smells familiar—fox and mischief and family.

"Ami?" I speak to the empty air, knowing she'll hear.

She materializes from behind a dumpster, red hair dark with rain. "Sorry. Didn't mean to scare you."

"What are you doing out here?"

"Walking you home." She falls into step beside me, small and fierce and glowing with purpose. "Things feel different lately. Charged. Like before a storm."

She's not wrong. The city itself seems to hold its breath, waiting for something to break. Pack tensions, territory disputes, or maybe just the weight of too many predators in too small a space.

"Find any leads?" Meaning suppressants. Meaning the pharmaceutical lies that keep me functional.

"Maybe. Puck knows someone who knows someone." She chews her lip, fox teeth worrying at winter-chapped skin. "But they want a lot. More than we have."

More than we have could mean anything. Money, favors, blood. In Toronto's underground, everything has a price and the currency is usually flesh.

"How much?"

"Five thousand. For a three-month supply."

The number sits in my chest like a stone. Five thousand might as well be five million for what we have. Even with all of us working, even with careful saving, that's more than we can touch.

"The new hotel's hiring," I hear myself say. "Double wages."

"I heard." She threads her arm through mine, casual contact that says pack without words. "Julie's thinking about it too. She's tired of 7-11."

We walk in comfortable silence, just another pair of nobodies navigating Toronto's supernatural maze. But my mind churns with numbers and necessities. Three pills left. Maybe four days if I stretch them, cut them in half, pray they hold.

After that...

After that, my body remembers what it was made for. Heat and need and the kind of vulnerability that gets omegas claimed or killed. Six years of chemical silence, and I don't even know what my heat would feel like now. What it would smell like.

Who it would call.

The building rises before us like a question mark made of brick and better plumbing. Three weeks of improvements have made it almost livable—hot water that lasts, locks that work, elevators that don't smell like death. All of it too good to be true, too convenient to be coincidence.

"Home sweet home." Ami's voice carries forced cheer. We both know home is a flexible concept for people like us.

The lobby is empty except for the usual suspects—dealers and dreamers and those of us too broke for better options. But something feels different tonight. A charge in the air that makes my omega instincts pace like caged things.

"You feel that?" I ask as we climb the stairs. The elevator works now, but old habits die hard.

"Yeah." She sniffs the air, fox senses parsing information I can't access. "Smells like... anticipation. Like the building itself is waiting for something."

We reach the fifth floor and the impossible apartment that fell into our laps like a gift wrapped in warning signs. Jules opens the door before we can knock, knife already in her hand.

"About time." She steps aside to let us in, but her eyes scan the hallway before closing the door. "Puck's not back yet."

"Dispensary run?"

"No. He went to see about..." She gestures vaguely at me. At what I need. At what we can't afford.

The apartment embraces us with its suspicious comfort. Real furniture, working appliances, walls that don't weep when it rains. I've searched for cameras but found nothing obvious. Doesn't mean they're not there. Just means whoever's watching is better at hiding than I am at finding.

"There's leftover Chinese," Hank calls from the kitchen. "And Jules brought home gossip."

We gather around our salvaged dining table, sharing reheated noodles and information like communion. Jules talks about the city's shifting patterns—Highland pushing boundaries, Lakeshore consolidating power, Venture playing some long game nobody understands.

"And there's a new player," she adds, stealing the last dumpling with casual violence. "That British guy. Hartford. Been around eight months, but suddenly he's all over the papers."

"I saw him tonight." The words slip out before I can stop them. "At Murphy's."

Everyone goes still. Pack attention focused like a laser, reading the things I don't say.

"And?" Hank's voice stays carefully neutral.

"And nothing. He drank whiskey. He left." I push lo mein around my plate, appetite gone. "But Lou's crew was talking. The Emperor's hiring. Good money."

"We could use good money." Practical Jules, always running the numbers in her head. "Especially if that lead of Puck's comes through."

The door opens and Puck slides in, smelling of wet dog and disappointment. He shakes his head before anyone can ask.

"Guy wanted more than money. Wanted favors. The kind that come with strings and teeth." He collapses into a chair, suddenly looking older than his twenty-three years. "I told him to f**k off."

"Good," Hank says firmly. "We don't trade that kind of currency."

But we all know the clock's ticking now. Three pills. Four days. Then whatever comes after.

"I'll apply tomorrow," I say into the silence. "The Emperor. If they're really paying double..."

"We all apply." Jules's tone brooks no argument. "Different positions, spread the risk. Maybe we get lucky."

Lucky. In our world, luck usually comes with a catch. But sometimes the devil you don't know beats the one breathing down your neck.

Puck produces a bottle of something that might be whiskey, might be paint thinner. We pass it around, each taking a sip of liquid courage. Tomorrow we'll walk into the Emperor Hotel and pretend to be people worth hiring. Tonight we're just five strays in an apartment that shouldn't be ours, watched by eyes we can't see.

"To new jobs," Ami raises the bottle.

"To staying hidden," Jules counters.

"To family," Hank adds.

I take the bottle last, feeling the weight of what we don't say. To suppressants that won't last. To alphas who see too much. To the storm Ami smells coming.

"To survival," I say, and drink deep.

The whiskey burns away the taste of expensive cologne and watchful stillness, but it can't touch the certainty settling in my bones. Something's changing in Toronto. Something's changing in me.

The city presses against our windows like a living thing, full of threats and promises and alphas who shouldn't notice dishwashers. Tomorrow I'll walk into Alex Hartford's territory and hope he's as human as everyone claims.

Tonight I count pills and try not to think about what happens when they run out.