Page 7 of The Bright Omega

I sit up slightly.

Okay. Okay. At least two full hotties, and I mean that in the most clinical, professional sense possible. The head alpha has this dimple situation happening that I feel deserves some kind of recognition. The profile says they're into hiking and live music and something about volunteering at the local animal shelter, which is doing numbers for them in terms of general appeal.

I swipe right with enthusiasm.

At worst I get a free drink and a reason to wear something amazing and leave my apartment. At best? Fingers crossed. No knots on a first date, obviously, but cock? Absolutely. Hell yes. That is definitely on the table.

I'm mid-scroll on a third profile when I hear the distant sound of a faucet running and decide Lark is probably alive and handling it and I don't need to go check.

I set my phone down and look at the donut box. Then at the packhouse kitchen around me. It’s warm and inviting. I think about what Lark has. I can't always help it, especially here, surrounded by evidence of it. There’s not one thing that screams it, but somehow this house feels like people who belong to each other.

It's the dream. Everybody knows it's the dream. Little girls grow up hearing about the scent match like a bedtime story. Your alpha is out there, you'll know him the moment you find him, your whole body will recognize him before your brain does. Some of them wait years for it to happen. Some of them find each other at seventeen in a grocery store parking lot and never recover. It's real. It happens.

It just doesn't happen to everyone. Or even very often, for that matter.

Even worse, more than two thirds of the female population emerges as something other than omega and never gets a shot at it, even though it’s sold as the ‘dream’. But all the little girls are taught to hope for the bond. The scent match. The whole fairy tale. It's a hard dream to let go of.

Cammie James is, however, nothing if not a realist. A realist currently in bright pink heels and wide-leg blue trousers at ten in the morning on a Wednesday, eating her second donut and swiping right on attractive strangers on her phone. But a realist nonetheless.

The scent match is the dream. Sure. Fine. Cammie James is not made of stone. But dreams are for sleeping. This omega’s awake, she's practical, and she has a heat coming and a dating app full of alphas who have working hands and, presumably, functioning knots, and that is more than enough. For now.

Lark reappears in the doorway, slightly less green, hair slightly more escaped from its bun. "Sorry," she says. "I'm fine."

"You are not fine," I say pleasantly, already closing the app. "But I love you anyway. Sit down. Tell me the latest about the Saint's Coffee trademark situation and I'll pretend none of that just happened."

She gives me a look that is equal parts gratitude and misery. Then she sits and we get back to work.

six

Camelia

Ilook good.

I’m not fishing for compliments. I’ll take them, though. And I deserve every single one that’s sent my way. I spent forty minutes on this look, and the result is: chef’s kiss.

The dress is orange. Dripping from a tree in Florida orange, not some cop-out burnt sienna. It’s one of those wrap dresses that does exactly what it was designed for. Cinches so my waist looks tiny. Meanwhile, my hips scream omega and my tits look like an entire situation. The shoes are YSL. Gold, open-toed, three inches I absolutely need because I am five-foot-two and the universe was stingy when it made me. Plus, they make my legs look so good. I almost texted a picture to my mother to show her that I can fight against her short-stack genetics.

I didn't. But I thought about it.

OmegaBox has had a good run lately. My salary has reflected that. I have invested wisely: art, good wine, fashion, and whatever Lark’s alpha, Silas, tells me to do with the rest. Because that man's financial brain is basically a superpower and I'm not too proud to benefit from it.

Silas did not sign off on the shoes. The index fund he pointed me toward is doing great though, so it evens out.

I pull open the door to Henley's and walk in.

It is exactly what I expected from three men whose collective hobbies, based on their dating profile, appear to be wealth management and being alpha. Upscale, quiet, lighting that's low enough to feel intimate but bright enough that you can read the wine list. Dark wood paneling. Leather banquettes. It’s exactly the kind of place frequented by investment bankers. My insurance guy dragged me here once for lunch and a very obvious attempt to upsell me on more life insurance.

I check my app.

Pack Albright: Hey. We grabbed a booth in the back corner.

Cammie: Just walking in. Orange dress.

I slide my phone into my clutch and move through the restaurant, past the bar, past several tables of people having what appear to be very serious conversations about very serious things, toward the back corner where a tall alpha raises a hand and waves me to their table.

I smile and head back.

There are three of them, standing as I approach, because whatever else they are, they have manners. They smile when I approach.