Page 43 of Omega's Fever

And for a while, it was good. I fought twice a week, sometimes three. Won more than I lost. The money was steady. I got an apartment, a real one with a door that locked and hot water that worked.

But there were signs that I should haven’t have ignored. Girls who worked the upper floors with hollow eyes and track marks. Fighters who showed up looking scared instead of eager. The way certain people disappeared when they asked too many questions.

I told myself it wasn’t my business. I kept my head down, did my job, collected my pay. Like always.

I did try distance myself from it. I took other jobs but I struggled to get anything to last. I’ve just got the wrong look for anything honest. Whenever I was short on cash, there were always the fights and they were easy.

But then there was Penelope.

She was older than the other dancers, maybe thirty, with laugh lines that suggested she used to find things funny.

The first time we really talked was after a particularly brutalfight. I’d gone up against this Russian monster, six-eight and built like a refrigerator. He’d nearly taken my head off with a haymaker in the second minute. I’d won, barely, but my face looked like hamburger meat.

She’d found me in the alley after, trying to stop the bleeding with my shirt.

“Wow,” she’d said, not sounding particularly shocked. “You look like hell.”

“Feel worse.”

“Come on.” She’d taken my elbow, gentle but firm. “Can’t have you bleeding out in the alley.”

She’d led me to a storage room upstairs, away from the noise and smoke and produced a first aid kit from somewhere, then went to work with surprising skill.

“You a nurse or something?” I’d asked, wincing as she cleaned a particularly deep cut.

“Or something.” She’d smiled, sad and knowing. “I used to be an EMT. Before.”

“Before?”

“Before a lot of things.”

She’d patched me up in silence after that, professional and efficient. When she finished, I’d caught her wrist gently. “Thank you.”

We’d chatted regularly after that. She was good people.

Movement catches my eye. Someone approaching the bench. Not just someone, it’s an omega. Even from here, I can see Milo’s relief as he stands to greet him. They hug.

They’re talking now, the omega’s hands moving animatedly while Milo nods. Probably telling him what an idiot he is for getting involved with me.

He’s not wrong.

I watch them for another minute, noting details.

I’m about to turn away, give them privacy, when movementon a bench behind them catches my eye. A man reading a newspaper, except he’s not. His eyes track Milo and the other omega.

Ice floods my veins.

I know that profile. Know the way he sits, casual but ready. Know the expensive leather jacket he thinks makes him look like a businessman instead of what he is. The same easy posture he had when he counted out bills for fighters who’d never be seen again. The same false casualness when he’d pat someone’s cheek and seal their fate with that shark’s smile.

Cobb fucking Sewell.

My body moves before my brain catches up. He’s not here for me. He’s here for Milo.

14

Milo

What on earth does he think he’s doing?