Page 5 of Claiming the Pack’s Omega (Riverwell Omegaverse #2)

Reyna

T urns out whatever Daisy got sick with is an actual bitch.

I know this why? Because now I’m sick.

If I had anything in my system, I would’ve thrown it up all over the stage after finishing my dance routine. Spinning on a pole will do that to you, I guess.

I slump against the wall in the wings of the stage and Roxie, one of Dom’s other omegas, comes over to me, her brows drawn down in concern.

“You look like you’re gonna be sick, sweetie,” she says.

She’s a bit older. Around my mom’s age. She’s a single mom with three kids a few years younger than me.

Fifteen years ago, there was a huge riot where unhappy Southside alphas and betas stormed the Northside, looking for omegas they felt they were entitled to. The Northside’s wack ass solution to a problem that stemmed from people’s frustration that they didn’t have access to an omega?

Register and regulate them.

Personally, I think the solution is bullshit.

Roxie avoided the entire registration process because she was worried they’d take her from her kids.

There were horror stories floating around of Alpha packs from the Northside throwing around crazy amounts of money to get newly registered Southside omegas to come join their packs, and then not letting them bring any of their family, including their kids, with them.

Sure, registering guarantees “safety,” and if I were to register myself, I wouldn’t have to worry about food again, but I’d also have to abandon my family.

They wouldn’t be able to get by without me.

I’d be reliant on the goodwill of whatever stupid pack bribed their system enough to get me in order to send money back to my family. That’s too big of a risk for me.

“I think you should take the night off,” Roxie says. “You should talk to Dom.”

I press the backs of my hands against my cheeks, feeling how feverish I am.

“Yeah, that’s probably a good idea,” I say, standing and wobbling on my sky-high stripper heels.

I’m usually at Dom’s Club one night a week, unless someone specifically requests me. I get the money from tips and my cut of the fee he charges for my time. Hopefully, he’s feeling nice tonight.

I knock on his door, but there’s no response. I knock again.

“Fuck off, I’m busy!” Dom yells through the door.

I freeze. Damn. Well, there goes my chance of him being in a good mood.

I knock again because obviously, I have no survival instinct. That and I really just want to go home. I feel like shit.

“Who the hell is it!”

“It’s Raine, I have a question,” I say through the door.

It’s wrenched open and Dom scowls down at me.

“What,” he growls.

His tobacco-heavy, cigar scent wafts out of the room. He’s not wearing a shirt, revealing his physique, which, like many alphas out there who step foot inside the gym for at least five minutes a week, is unfairly ripped. His belt is also hanging open and the fly to his jeans is unzipped.

I glance past him to see one of the club betas on her knees in front of the couch.

“Sorry to, uh, interrupt,” I say. “I’m not feeling great, can I skip the rest of my shift?”

His scowl only seems to deepen.

“Fuck no.”

“What? Why not? It’s just an open floor shift tonight, right?”

“No, some guy booked you for the entire night. Midnight till 8AM. I was gonna pull you in here to tell you after I was done.”

I blink in shock. The entire night? I get about a hundred an hour, but I know Dom barely gives me 30 percent, so someone is paying well over two and a half thousand dollars for the eight hours he’s buying.

No one’s ever done that before. Most guys who buy my time are done after four, maybe five hours max.

“But—But I’m sick,” I say, my brows drawn down in concern.

“That’s something he gets to worry about then,” Dom shrugs. “You’ve got a client, so you do your job. Or are you going back on our deal? You’re due for another round of suppressants soon.”

I swallow hard before shaking my head. I instantly regret the movement because the world seems to start spinning.

“Fine.” I close my eyes and try to steady myself.

The last thing I need is for Dom to stop giving me my supply of suppressants.

They’re not full suppressants, meaning I still smell like an omega to everyone who meets me, but they keep my heat at bay.

The full suppressants are harder to come by and I’m pretty sure they have really nasty side effects. Plus, I could never afford them.

Hell, part of the reason my cut with Dom is so small is because the heat suppressants I take are already expensive.

But it’s worth it. Fuck my heat. I never want to experience that sort of helplessness again.

“The dude wants you for eight hours, I’m sure you’ll find some time to just lay there,” Dom shrugs.

“You can be a real dick,” I mutter.

“Yeah, well, this dick saved you from that silly boyfriend of yours and his friends raping you in a park.”

I grit my teeth, my hands clenching into fists by my sides.

“This dick also used that as a fucking opportunity to start pimping me out,” I hiss.

“You mean gave you an opportunity to afford suppressants and put food on your table?”

“Shut the fuck up and get off your high horse. You know the reason you do the shit you do and it isn’t ‘cause you just wanna save girls,” I huff.

“Yeah, you’re right,” he shrugs, taking a step back and starting to close the door. “It’s ‘cause I like money. Now go and make some, Raine. That man’s throwing around some serious cash. Requested you specifically. Keep him happy.”

He shuts the door in my face.

My jaw starts ticking at the memory of the night. It’s what shoved me down into this rabbit hole of a life.

First, that whole bullshit panic attack I had in front of Obsidian, seeing the way the blood of that sleazy beta splattered on the concrete, and now this bullshit with Dom.

Too many god damn reminders of shit I don’t want to think about.

He really is an asshole.

But he’s right. He did “save” me. If it weren’t for him, Nate and his stupid friends would have raped me that night my heat first snuck up on me.

Come on, Reyna, it’s me! We’ve had sex plenty of times before. Why is this any different if my friends are here?

Why the hell are you fighting us, Reyna? You’re an omega, isn’t being a slut for alpha cock in your DNA?

Stop screaming that I’m raping you, you whore, I’m your boyfriend, I can’t rape you.

Dom beat them bloody. We were eighteen, so they didn’t stand a chance against someone twenty years older and harder than them. I still remember the sound of knuckles on flesh, the blood splatter on my body as my clothes lay in a tattered pile around me.

That blood. Fuck. For some reason, the blood of that night is what haunts me. There was so goddamn much of it.

After it was all over and Nate and his friends lay in a bloody pile, their chests barely rising and falling anymore, Dom tossed me his hoodie and asked me if I wanted my heat.

When I said no, he said he had something to fix it. For a price. And that price was my body. But this time, I’d get to choose.

And this was the life I chose. For better or for worse.

I lean my forehead against the cool wood of the door, trying to get my boyfriend—well, I guess he’s technically my ex-boyfriend—out of my fucking head. If I think about it too hard, that feeling of betrayal, that self-loathing, soul-consuming shame will start to eat me alive.

Nate and his stupid friends called me a whore that night.

Well, look at me now.

I let out a sigh as I check the time on the clock on the wall. Eleven forty-five. I should get ready. I’ve got a fucking eight-hour shift to prepare for.

Once I’m all dressed in the outfit I wear for nights like these—lingerie and a lace robe—I stumble into the room this client has bought. Bought along with me.

Shit, my vision is starting to go hazy around the edges.

The room is the fanciest room we have here, with a huge Alaskan king-sized mattress on a four-poster bedframe. There’s a bar in the corner full of a bunch of different booze that the customer will be charged for, of course, and an ensuite bathroom.

All things considered, it’s one of the nicest rooms I’ve ever spent time in. Maybe because, half the time, it’s Northside alphas in here and they’re used to a sort of luxury I can’t even fathom.

Normally, I’d make more of an effort to be ready for this client to enter the room, maybe be sitting up in my lace, see-through robe or standing in front of the door.

Tonight, all I manage is collapsing onto the bed.

I do my best to arrange myself so my curves are on display, but the silk sheets are so comfortable that I can’t help but close my eyes.

I feel like shit.

Hopefully this new client is into the whole “Sleeping Beauty” vibes I’ve got going on.

There’s a knock at the door before I hear the handle twisting.

I guess I’ll figure that out soon.