Mrs. Nepine peers at me over the cat. “And you are?”
“Claire. I live at fifty-one.”
She blinks. “Fifty-one? Well, I wondered who was in there. I see lights on at all strange hours and assumed you must work shifts. Are you a nurse, dear?”
“Oh. No.” My face warms. “I’m a writer. And a chef. Sort of. I mean, both. I’ve been there for over a year, actually. I just… keep to myself a lot.”
Her eyebrows climb. “Over a year?”
“Apparently very successfully.”
She turns to Brody, and her entire demeanor shifts. Her posture straightens, she pats her hair, and then she tugs her dressing gown tighter with one hand. “Oh, Brody, hello again.Lovely to see you. I hope this one hasn’t been giving you trouble.” She nods at me, then at him, then at me again, and her expression settles into the very specific look of judgment.
“Oh, you know him?” I ask, slightly surprised. “He’s only lived here less than a month.”
“I do like to leave my house now and then,” Brody says, raising an eyebrow.
“I went to the café today, for your information.”
His mouth twitches. “Proud of you.”
I narrow my eyes at him, even though a small, traitorous part of me preens like I’ve just won a certificate for basic social participation.
Mrs. Nepine strokes her cat, and the princess immediately goes boneless against her chest, all innocence and stolen kibble. “Well, dear, a fine Alpha right on your doorstep and you’re rattling around alone in that house? That’s not how it works. An Omega needs an Alpha, a pack. Needs connection. You can’t just hide from the world and expect it to come find you.”
The words dig deeper than they should, mostly because I’ve heard some version of them my entire life. From my parents, aunties, and strangers with opinions and too much access to my designation. As if being an Omega means I’m supposed to arrange my whole life around the empty space where an Alpha should go.
But what if I want other things too?
A career. A home that feels like mine. Quiet mornings. Recipes that carry my grandmother’s voice. A life I choose before anyone else gets to claim a place in it. Since my designation came in at sixteen, people have treated me like my future was already written in someone else’s handwriting. An Alpha. A pack. A home built around everyone’s needs but mine. They talk over me, smile like they know better, and then wonder why I’d rather stay inside where the walls don’t give advice.
Even Louis used to make little comments, soft enough to pass as teasing but sharp enough to remind me of my place.You’d be happier if you stopped trying so hard to be impressive, Claire.OrNot every Omega needs a big career. Some of you just need to feel useful.
He always said it with a smile as if the cruelty didn’t count if he kissed my forehead afterward.
Apparently, that makes me strange. Or sad. Or broken.
Some days, I’m not sure which one people believe more.
My stomach gives a strange little dip, because it’s ridiculous and intrusive and none of her business, but it’s also way too close to the soft, bruised place I try very hard not to poke. Especially in front of Brody. I force a laugh, aiming for light and probably ending somewhere near medically concerning. “I’m not hiding. I’m… just busy.”
Brody’s gaze slides to me, a soft grin as if he understands, and I narrow my eyes in his direction.
“We’re just neighbors,” I finally answer her, keeping the smile bolted on.
“Nonsense. I can see the way he’s?—”
“Mrs. Nepine,” Brody interjects, and his voice drops into this low register that somehow conveys both charm and finality. “We’re taking excellent care of each other. Don’t worry.”
She softens immediately, the way people always do for Alphas who know how to use their voice. “Well. Good. And please remember what I told you.” She glances down at the cat now draped over her arm. “Princess Anastasia Snowdrop is a purebred Persian. She is delicate. Refined. Emotionally complex. If your enormous beast so much as breathes in her direction, I will be filing a formal complaint with the neighborhood committee and possibly the council.”
Brody nods once, grave as a man receiving military orders. “Understood.”
“And if she ends up pregnant,” Mrs. Nepine adds, lowering her voice, “I will faint first, then sue.”
I make a strangled sound that I try very hard to turn into a cough.
Brody doesn’t even blink. “Damien is neutered.”