Page 9 of The Violence of Love (The Black Market Omega #2)

Rhett

Oli stares out the window, arms crossed, legs spread wide like he owns the damn space. His body is big—impossible to ignore—and his minty scent fills the car like a challenge. I’m thankful he’s kept his mouth shut since we left the house, but the silence doesn’t make him any easier to be around.

He’s not family. He’s not even a friend. He’s just… here.

I exhale through my nose, jaw tight.

Between Brock, his fucking friend, and the stress of selling the company, my nerves are frayed. This may not be the ideal moment to claim an omega, but I’m done waiting. My life has been on hold for too long.

There’s a flash of an orange plastic tie wrapped around a tree. It’s the third one in the last mile—at least I’m still on track. According to the flier, that’s all I’m supposed to go by. Follow the markers. No address. No coordinates. Simply cryptic directions and implied discretion.

I understand the secrecy. After all, claiming an omega is highly regulated, they’re a protected class, with special needs and medical considerations that alphas and betas don’t have.

But the governance board in the north is a joke.

They don’t care who you are or what laws are broken as long as they get their cut.

It’s one of the many reasons my family never expanded our company up north—the lack of regulations is too risky.

Turning the wheel, I pull off the main road right next to a small orange square tacked to a tree. It’s no bigger than a piece of paper. I’m not sure if it qualifies as a sign, but I hope it is. The ground is wildly uneven, making the car rock and pitch.

Fuck, I hope I’m going the right way.

“Are you sure this is it?” Oli cranes his neck, looking back at the tiny sign behind us.

“Yes.” I don’t look at him. I focus on the trees ahead, on the bent branches and tire-rutted mud. “Something big came through here.”

Oli doesn’t look convinced. “Or it’s from someone as lost as we are.”

I snap my head toward him. “Do you want to get out and walk?”

His mouth curves into a smirk. “Nah, man. I’m good.”

I hate everything about this asshole. His smug face. His overwhelming minty scent. Even his voice grates on me. He’s just a dick.

Or maybe I’m bitter….

I get that it’s not technically this asshole’s fault, but it’s a fucking gut punch that after everything I did for Brock—the support, the sleepless nights, and the repeated failed trips to rehab—my brother turned to some random alpha, instead of family, to get clean.

It’s like my brother couldn’t bother to get his life together when Myrick or I begged, but he was more than willing for some punk with a cocky smile and no roots.

Why didn’t I just leave this fucker at the airport?

“Is that it?” Oli leans forward.

I squint through the low branches, the sinking sun flaring off the windshield. There’s movement ahead. Smoke. Canvas. Tents. People. I spot the edges of concrete barriers and a flash of white dress shirts in the fading light.

“That’s it.” Excitement fills me, and I press the gas.

A wide field opens on our right, packed with vehicles—SUVs, trucks, even a few modest sedans. Betas in black slacks and crisp white shirts guide cars into rows.

“This way!” A young beta waves, stepping into my path. I turn sharply and join the line.

We find a spot a good mile from the main camp. I throw the car in park, and Oli practically jumps out. I watch him take several deep breaths, before raking his nails through his shaggy hair. Clearly, my scent was getting to him as much as his was getting to me.

Good .

Stepping out of the car, I smooth down my dress shirt, then glance into the backseat.

My briefcase sits next to the duffle bag Myrick packed for me.

Nervous, I press the lock button three times on the key fob.

I don’t want to leave the briefcase—it’s filled with cash—but I don't want to carry it around with me either.

Oli walks silently a few feet behind me as we weave between the cars, making our way through the makeshift parking lot.

The market looms ahead—massive velvet tents, a stage strung with harsh industrial lights, smoke curling from a central bonfire. It’s more polished than I expected. Concrete barriers. Portable floodlights hooked to generators. Dozens of security betas patrolling with stun batons.

Somewhere behind all this? The omegas.

“Hey!” Oli calls out to a beta in uniform up ahead. “I’m looking for work.” He rushes up next to me, keeping pace as we get closer. “Who’s in charge?”

“Um.” The young beta turns and points to the far west side of the market. “You can ask at the claiming desk.” He looks back at Oli, giving the alpha an apologetic smile. “But they don’t usually take on unknown alphas,” he warns. “They’re real picky.”

Oli shrugs, unaffected. “Thanks, man.”

This whole thing feels weird—Brock’s relationship with this guy, my brother’s willingness to give up his inheritance to give his “friend” a lift, even Oli trying to find a job at the Morder. All the employees here appear to be betas.

What’s this alpha really doing?

I glance at Oli, trying to get a better feel for him. He doesn’t look stoned, and he doesn’t have any marks or bruises on his arms or face. His shirt and jeans are clean, and his boots look expensive. They’re made of leather with a steel toe.

He looks like any twenty-something alpha with a gym habit and a cocky streak.

But still—I can’t help myself.

“Be honest,” I say. “Is this about money? Do you owe my brother something? Or are you trying to game the system for an omega?”

Oli frowns, confused. “What? Brock doesn’t owe me shit. And what do you mean, game the system?”

“It’s hard for broke alphas to find mates,” I say matter-of-factly. “Are you trying to get a job here so you can get close to the omegas? Maybe snatch one up for yourself? ”

Rage flashes in Oli’s eyes, but to his credit, he doesn’t lash out. I can’t tell if it’s self-control or basic submission.

“I don’t mean to offend,” I say with a lazy lift in my voice. “I’m curious as to why you’d want to come here to find a job.” I give the market a sweeping look. “It’s a long way to travel for work.”

He huffs a bitter laugh. “Of course you don’t get it.” He steps closer. “Hard to understand how the world works when you were born with a silver fucking spoon up your ass.”

I meet his glare, unfazed.

“For people like me?” He jabs a thumb toward his chest. “If you don’t have a fancy education or family connections,” he bites out the word like it’s an insult, “then you’re stuck taking whatever shit job you can get.

There are no angles. Just long hours, low pay, and fighting for scraps.

This gig? Might be my best shot at something steady. ”

I nod slowly. “So why not ask Brock to get you a better job? He’s got connections.”

Oli’s mouth twists. “He had connections. He’s done with all that. That life nearly killed him.” He steps away again like he’s said something noble. Like that ends the conversation.

But it doesn’t.

“But why here ?” I ask again. “What kind of alpha wants to work at the Morder?”

He whirls back around, jaw tight. “One that needs to eat. One that’s not lucky enough to hide behind daddy’s fucking company.”

I keep my hands in my pockets, trying to look relaxed despite the fury burning beneath my skin. “You think that’s luck?”

He scoffs. “It’s definitely not about merit. ”

Before I can reply, a female beta in a tie yells loudly, waving us over. “This way, gentlemen.” She’s standing at a narrow podium, clipboard in hand, her voice rehearsed and polite.

Done with Oli’s shit, I move to her, ready to find my future mate.

“Welcome to the Morder,” the beta says, all smiles and fake warmth. “The auction begins shortly. Display and showroom details are in here.” She hands me a folded brochure. I tuck it into my back pocket.

“Quick reminder,” she adds, her tone dipping into something steelier. “Any violence—verbal, physical, doesn’t matter—means you’re out. No second chances. No refunds.” She looks at me, then at Oli, waiting for us to acknowledge the rules.

“Yes, ma’am,” I say. “Thank you.” I give her a small bow of my head and she gestures us in.

“Enjoy yourselves.”

The crowd inside the barrier is a bizarre mix—alphas in suits and Rolexes, rubbing shoulders with roughnecks in ratty boots and stretched-out shirts. All of them looking for the same thing.

Omegas .

As we walk, Oli glances sideways. “You should cut Brock some slack. He’s trying.”

I stop dead in my tracks. “And you should mind your own fucking business,” I say, low and even. “My family’s problems have nothing to do with you.”

Oli shakes his head, then turns and marches off. I glare at his back, not looking away until the alpha disappears into the crowd.

Asshole .

The music swells—something orchestral and haunting—and the crowd shifts like a tide. Alphas move as one, drawn toward the stage like they’ve been summoned. It’s subtle but primal, the way everyone reacts to the sound.

I glance at my watch.

7:02.

Right on schedule.

The auction's about to start.

My fingers dig into the brochure as I tug it free from my back pocket. The paper is warm from my body heat, slightly wrinkled from the walk. I unfold it with care, eyes scanning the bold text under the section marked SHOWROOM .

Excitement pumps through my veins as I skim the fine print at the bottom of the brochure. Legal status, documentation, public registration—it’s all laid out. Clean. Simple. Transactional. Exactly the way I like it.

It’s time to stop thinking about my brother and his fucked-up friends. After all, I didn’t come all this way to babysit. I’m here for a reason.

To get an omega.

To build something solid. Complete my pack.

Finally start living life on my own terms—with someone who fits where she’s meant to.

Someone soft. Loyal.

Mine .

I fold the brochure in half and stuff it back into my pocket, my eyes locked on the crowd shifting toward the stage.

Let the others posture and circle like dogs—I came to claim.