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alpha daddy
THE HONEYVERSE
R.K. PIERCE
 contents
Playlist
Content Warning

Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Epilogue

Acknowledgments
Author Note
More Books by R.K. Pierce
About the Author
Alpha Daddy: A Honeyverse Novel © Copyright 2023 R.K. Pierce

Check out other books by this author at www.amazon.com/stores/R.K.-Pierce/author/B09P44TZST

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or
mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the
publisher/author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used
fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Warning: the unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including
infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in prison and a fine of $250,000.
Cover Design: Marie Mackay
Interior & Formatting: Marie Mackay
Editing: The Fiction Fix
For everyone who’s ever dreamed about getting railed by their hot older boss.
This one's for you.
And for Marie Mackay, without whom the Honeyverse would not exist.
 playlist

Cinderella’s Dead - Emeline

Use Me (Brutal Hearts) - Diplo ft. Dove Cameron
Guys My Age - Hey Violet
Dirty Thoughts - Chloe Adams ft. Nationhaven
Rock My Body - R3HAB, INNA, Sash!
Secret Love Song - Little Mix ft. Jason Derulo
React - Switch Disco ft. Ella Henderson
Dusk Til Dawn - ZAYN ft. Sia
Devil Doesn’t Bargain - Alec Benjamin
Shameless - Camila Cabello
The Heart Wants What It Wants - Selena Gomez
We Go Down Together - Dove Cameron and Khalid
Rewrite the Stars - Anne-Marie and James Arthur
 content warning

Alpha Daddy is a sweet contemporary omegaverse romance with a seventeen-year age gap, knotting,
heat, daddy/babydoll nicknames, violence, mentions of partner loss, and mentions of mental/physical
abuse.
one
JESSA
Picking yourself up from rock bottom doesn’t happen overnight, and I remind myself of that simple
fact over and over as I brush my wet hair in front of the truck stop bathroom mirror. I’ve been using it
since I moved into my car three weeks ago, a low I never thought I’d sink to as an omega.
Unfortunately, here I am.
I have no money, nowhere to go, and I’m definitely not running into the arms of another pack just
to have the same thing happen again.
Nope. Love’s a bitch who can kindly go fuck herself.
I’ll figure this out on my own, disguised as a beta in a big city, where I’m sure to be overlooked
among all the other beautiful women. As long as the scent blocker does its job, I’m safe.
I'll be nothing special and perfectly average, just like my exes always said I was.
You might be a fucking omega, but there's nothing special about you, Jessa. You're a waste of
space, just like every other bitch in this town.
Their insults still haunt me. They plague my dreams, making it difficult to close my eyes at night.
Despite countless attempts, I can't keep their cruel words from running marathons through my brain.
Words are weapons, and they hurt most coming from the men I loved. From the pack who claimed
to love me more than the air they breathed. The mates I was supposed to spend forever with.
Now, they're all gone, and I'm left with their ghostly voices imprinted on my mind.
Love made me take their words to heart, clinging to them like an undeniable truth. Love made me
try to prove them wrong, to show them just how special and worthy I was. Love made me blind to the
dark truth that my life wasn’t the perfect fairytale I wanted it to be.
It was all in the name of love.
I gave my ex-pack every part of my heart, body, and soul. I did everything I could to earn their
affection, went above and beyond what any omega should ever have to do for their mates, and
somehow managed to disappoint them anyway.
I don't deserve to be an omega. They told me so many times, it sank in down to my marrow,
altering something crucial at the cellular level of my makeup. Now, I doubt I'll ever be the same.
An alpha's word is law. Everyone knows that, especially omegas like me.
What they command, I must do, per my designation.
With so much power, their opinions must have merit. Right?
It's amazing how I started to believe the words they spit in my face every day for years, no matter
how badly I wanted to ignore them. They whittled away at the unbreakable mask I'd built up, then
chipped away at my self-confidence. Once they'd slashed their way to my soul, that's when the real
damage was done.
I'm shattered.
A broken omega.
A fractured version of my former self, and I don't know if the damage can ever be undone.
The only thing I can do now is pick up the pieces of my old life and do my best to reassemble
them into something new. Maybe I’ll become something better, but it’ll take time.
Lots of time. Luckily, I have plenty to spare, since I’ve lost everything that would have otherwise
consumed my attention.
 I shove thoughts of my old pack away as I focus on my upcoming interview. It’s the first one I’ve
been able to land after putting in dozens of applications around the city, and it couldn't come at a
better time. My funds are running dangerously low.
Normally, working isn’t something omegas ever have to worry about–their status earns them
everything they could ever need or want in life. They're resigned to a life of luxury, never having to
struggle or wonder where their next meal is coming from.
That’s what I could have, should have, but my exes are proof that not all alphas are what they’re
cracked up to be. Some are cold, callous monsters who take more than they give, who destroy instead
of protect.
If working my ass off means I never have to deal with another alpha like that again, so be it.
I’ll pose as a beta until the day I die.
However, despite my conviction, doubt is already creeping its way up my spine, muddling my
thoughts. Am I even good enough to work at Jarvis & Jerald, the state’s largest law firm, in the heart
of the city?
As if never having had a real job isn’t bad enough, I'm not even sure what I'm capable of anymore.
I question my abilities daily, and I’m constantly reminded of the countless times I let my alphas down.
I wonder if this will just be a repeat in different packaging.
What if I’m not cut out to work and this is all I’ll ever amount to? An omega in hiding, barely
scraping by, or a doormat for undeserving alphas.
The image of my exes threatens to creep into my thoughts again, and the voices I thought I'd grow
old listening to twist into taunts that cut me to the core.
You look like a slut with your hair up like that.
Who'd want to hire you with no real work experience?
Someone so useless should have been born a beta and not have to play pretend.
"Shut up," I hiss as I smooth my hair back into a high ponytail before I attack it with hairspray to
keep it in place.
Doubt can’t get in the way today. I won’t let it. I don't have another option.
I need this job and everything it promises. The little money I had saved from my babysitting job
has nearly run out, and if I don't find something with a consistent paycheck soon, I'm going to starve.
After touching up the black liner around my eyes, I step back to give myself a sweeping glance in
the mirror–only the top half, since there are no full-length mirrors in gas station bathrooms. My
features are too soft against the harsh lines of my black suit, but it's the most professional thing I own.
My old alphas always said I needed to be more serious, to look sophisticated whenever we went out.
They didn’t approve of the bright colors and fun clothes I prefer to wear. I should have known it
was a red flag, that it went much deeper than dressing a certain way and trying to act more serious,
but I was blinded by those storied rose-colored glasses. They made those warning signs look way
more attractive, but I learned my lesson.
I’ll be avoiding all rose-colored things like the plague from now on.
Even though my suit is a little stiff, I have to admit, I look good. I look like I could work the front
desk at any upscale office, and as I hurriedly pack my things into an oversized shoulder bag and rush
out to my little red sedan, I can't help but feel a little bit hopeful.
A strange sense of calm, the feeling of knowing things are about to change for the better, washes
over me. I'm going to get this job, and things are going to start looking up.
They have to.
I don’t have a backup plan.
 Driving downtown is the fucking worst, especially around lunch, but I finally find a parking spot a
block away from the Jarvis & Jerald office building and nervously check the clock on the dash. I still
have twenty minutes. That’s plenty of time.
I take a deep breath to calm my anxiety then check my makeup again in the rearview mirror.
The only job I've had in the last four years was as a nanny to a couple who lived down the street
from us with four kids. I took care of them when they were small, but once they started school, I was
let go. I don't have any office experience, but the listing said that wasn't required, and I meet most of
the other qualifications.
I open my texts and scroll to the automated message I received to double check the details.
Everything seems right, which I already knew, but the prickly nerves trying to suffocate me makes it
easy to second guess myself.
I’ll be able to breathe again when I’ve secured the job. Until then, I’m going to be a mess of
jitters, so I might as well get a move on.
No amount of sitting in my car and psyching myself up is going to make a difference.
I lock the doors, tossing a glance at the overflowing backseat. Between it and the trunk, everything
I own fits in the car, a visual reminder of how little I have left. There are some clothes, toiletries, a
pillow, and a blanket. My scent blocker and de-scenting spray are buried underneath it all–I can’t risk
anyone finding them.
If this plan is going to work, no one can find out I'm an omega.
I’d carry the scent neutralizers with me to keep them safe, but despite the taser I carry in my bag,
there’s no guarantee my purse won’t get stolen while I’m out, and I can’t risk losing either. I don’t
have enough money to replace them.
Leaving them is also a risk, but one I’m willing to take.
I throw my purse over my shoulder and head down the sidewalk toward the office, running
through common interview questions and responses I researched as I go. I’m ready for almost
anything they can throw at me, and I’ve done everything I can think of to prepare.
There’s no way I’m not getting this job.
It's the first step to getting my life back to a semblance of normalcy.
Everything else will fall into place afterward.
I just have to nail this interview first…
two
JESSA
The building is huge, stretching up at least a dozen stories, with an all-glass exterior that gleams in the
sun. It’s striking, impressive, and exactly where I’d expect a bunch of big-shot lawyers to work.
I step through a revolving door into a wide, elegant lobby and pause beneath a glittering
chandelier to take it all in. There’s a sitting area of black leather couches to the left, and a black and
white marble floor stretches out beneath me. A reception desk sits to the right, behind which a
brunette woman wearing square glasses and a black dress taps hurriedly at a keyboard.
Aside from a set of gold elevator doors, there’s nothing else worth noting.
The receptionist perks up at the sound of the door and glances in my direction. “Good afternoon.
May I help you?”
Not wanting my voice to echo across the wide space, I stroll up to the desk and fold my hands on
the edge.
“My name is Jessa Morrow,” I say, putting on my most professional-sounding voice. “I'm here for
an interview.”
I expect her to offer a smile and tell me to have a seat, but the look of confusion that crosses her
face instead has my stomach turning. For a fraction of a second, I worry I forgot to take my scent
blocker, that my omega scent is seeping through the suppressant and tipping her off somehow, but I
know that can’t be it.
I took them this morning when I repacked the car after sleeping in the backseat.
That can’t be it.
“An interview?” One of her thinly-drawn brows arches upward.
I nod. “With Mr. Crossman.”
“One moment please.”
She turns to the monitor on her desk and begins clicking away at the keyboard, eyes scanning the
screen intently. I work my bottom lip between my teeth before remembering the matte lipstick I’m
wearing; instead, I resort to bouncing on the balls of my feet while she does…whatever it is she’s
doing.
Finally, when I don’t think I can wait any longer, she looks back up at me over the thin rim of her
glasses. “I don't think we have any interviews scheduled for today.”
My stomach sinks, pitching toward the floor, and I reach for my phone nervously.
“No, no, I have the information right here.” I scroll with trembling fingers to find the message
from their office and turn my phone around so she can look at it. “It says I have an interview at noon
today.”
She adjusts her glasses on the bridge of her nose and squints at the text on my phone, nodding
slowly as her eyes drag across the screen.
“Uh huh. Interesting,” she says, pushing her rolling chair away from the desk and rising to her feet.
“Take a seat right over there, and I'll speak to my supervisor.” She gestures to the sitting area.
“Thank you very much.” With a curt nod, I turn on my heel and head toward the couches, stomach
cartwheeling with nausea. If I don't have an interview today, that means I won't be any closer to
getting out of my car and into a place of my own.
It was hard enough to get this interview in the first place. What happens if I have to reschedule?
 I wait.
The minutes tick by slowly, and I glance up at the clock several times before the receptionist
returns. Rather than heading for her desk, her heels click methodically against the marble floor as she
makes her way over to me, and she pauses next to me, her hands folded politely in front of her.
“I do apologize for any confusion, but apparently it wasn't written down that there was an
interview today,” she says, a somber look in her eyes.
“Crap,” I mutter under my breath, quickly talking to cover it up. “That’s okay. I can come back
another time if that’s better.”
She frowns sympathetically, her brows knitting together. “I’m sorry, but there won’t be a need for
that. The position you applied for has already been filled.”
My shoulders sag. I try not to feel completely defeated as I stare up at her and force a smile. No
matter how upset I get, I don't like people to see it. I don’t want them to know what's going on inside
my head.
I don't want them to think I'm weak.
“Oh,” I say, not sure how else to respond.
It’s obvious I’m not needed, and every second I sit in the place that just crushed the last of my
dreams makes my skin crawl. However, it’s hard walking away from something I’d invested so much
hope in.
This was supposed to be my ticket to a better future, the job that kicked off my new life. I’d been
so confident I’d get hired, but now, I don’t even stand a chance.
Pain resounds in my chest, and I clear my throat to prevent my voice from cracking.
“Thanks for checking.”
She smiles and heads back to her desk, and I mask my disappointment the best I can as I make my
way outside. Numbness crawls up my limbs, making them heavy, and the corners of my eyes burn as I
step out into the warm summer air.
What the fuck am I supposed to do now?
Mind whirling and fighting the urge to cry, I follow the sidewalk away from the office, frantically
trying to come up with another plan.
No interview.
No job.
No money.
Nowhere to go.
The no-s are mounting, crushing me, making the yeses feel even more impossible and farther away
than ever.
I sigh, my breath shaking a little. I’ve hit a dead end in the middle of a maze, and no matter which
path I take, it’ll just end with another barricade.
What I need right now is a drink. Something strong. Something to soothe my hurt feelings and
help me relax for a little while.
It’s been months since I last drank, and for good reason. Last time, I got so shitty that I passed out
drunk in the yard trying to run away from my pack. I woke up with scratches and bruises decorating
my body with no recollection of how they got there.
I try not to think about it, even though I have a good idea where they came from. The truth is too
painful, too embarrassing.
After that, I decided not to drink anymore because I wanted to remember everything; no blacking
out, no holes in my memory.
 If my exes did anything to me, I wanted to have proof.
But they're gone now. I’m not hiding from them anymore.
I shouldn’t be afraid to sit down at a bar and lose myself in a dark glass of comfort. I might not
have much money left, but one drink isn’t going to make things worse than they already are.
Putting more distance between myself and the job that will never happen, I keep walking and
make a right onto a side street. A glowing neon sign catches my eye to the right. It reads SAL’S
ITALIANO, and in smaller, neon green letters: restaurant and bar.
A smirk lifts the corner of my mouth at the convenience. Think of it and it shall appear… or
whatever the saying is.
I don’t care, so long as there’s a barstool inside with my name on it.
Pulling my shoulders back and lifting my chin a little higher, I make a beeline for the front door
and fall in line behind a pair of gossiping women with big boobs and even bigger hair. They’re betas,
dressed in clothes so tight, they look painted on, and they’re both doused in delicious body spray.
One look tells me they’re enough to tempt any man, regardless of his designation. More power to
them. I wish I could pull off the look of sex personified, but I lack the curves and angled features.
I’m cute. Pretty. Sweet, even, but never sexy.
I can’t imagine where they could be going at noon on a weekday that’s deserving of being so
dolled up, much less this small, simple-looking restaurant. Maybe there’s a gig in town I’m unaware
of–after all, I’ve been living under a rock for the last five years–or maybe they’re trying to impress
someone.
Or maybe they’re on a date with each other and I’m reading way too much into this.
Way to be a judgmental cunt, Jess.
But as I step through the door and up to the hostess stand, I can sense him. Smell him. I’m not even
sure how I know, because I’ve never been able to scent a singular person in an overly-crowded room
before, but the sharp smell of rich bourbon and smoky, charred wood assaults my senses.
There’s definitely an alpha lurking somewhere in this building, and it kicks my pulse up.
An alpha being present doesn’t necessarily mean anything for me, especially with the scent
blocker smothering my perfume to undetectable levels, but if there’s one here, I should get eyes on
him.
It’s important to know the hierarchy of any room you’re in, especially when there’s an alpha
involved. That truth has been drilled into my brain since I first awakened as an omega.
In some situations, it could be the difference between being bound or not.
In others, it could be the difference between life or death.
My eyes travel through the bar, roaming aimlessly over the faces gathered in the dining area,
searching for the elusive alpha. Will I recognize him just by looking at him? Or will I need to get
closer to scent him? I can’t say I’ve encountered many alphas, especially alone, and my galloping
heartbeat is a clear reminder of that.
Get a grip, Jessa.
My eyes finally land on the bar, noting a singular vacant seat that’s calling to me, begging me to
sidle over, but then they crawl up and land on the bartender.
He's older, his dark brown hair streaked with gray. Salt and pepper stubble traces his jawline and
curls over his lips in a thin mustache. Even from this distance, I can see his dark, warm brown eyes,
blazing like beacons, and the way he moves fluidly behind the bar is a nod to his power.
Goddamn, if he isn’t the sexiest man I’ve ever laid eyes on.
When he moves, everyone watches, and no one seems to speak to him unless spoken to. I’ve never
seen someone command so much respect without having to do anything, and that’s when it dawns on
me.
He’s the alpha.
Fuck.
I thought stumbling into this bar was my lucky break, that after an absolutely shitty morning, things
were finally starting to go my way. How foolish that was. It seems the unlucky punches just keep
coming.
I could turn around and leave before he notices me. There are plenty more restaurants on this
strip–I could just as easily choose one of those to mope in. I could also cower in a corner away from
him, pretending to ignore his existence, even though that would be an impossible feat.
“How many?” the hostess asks, a kind smile gracing her angular face. She has a spill of red hair
and bright green eyes.
“One, but I'm just going to sit at the bar if that's okay.” I might regret that decision in ten seconds
when I take a seat across from the alpha bartender, but that’s a problem for future Jessa.
Present Jessa feels confident, nonchalant, like a bit of a rebel, which is something I've never been.
I've always followed the rules, kept quiet and stayed in my own lane.
Considering I spent nearly every second of being an awakened omega under the scrutinizing eyes
of my old pack, always instructed on what to say and how to act, the taste of rebellion is sweet and
well-deserved.
That, and I’m just out of fucks to give after everything that’s happened. I’m tempted to play with
fire, to see how close I can get to the flame without getting burned.
“Of course.” The hostess turns to gesture behind her, ever polite. “You can seat yourself.”
Then, as though I have nothing left to lose–which I don’t–I turn and head toward the bar.
three
ALESSANDRO
I see her straight through the crowded room of regular patrons, and my stomach drops.
She's young, at least fifteen years younger than I am, with soft features and a tall, thin frame.
My eyes drip down her body, taking in the black tailored suit that seems a little too harsh for her
and wondering how the hell she’s walking in those impossibly high heels. She's breathtaking, and the
more I stare, the more I want her to turn around and march right back out the door.
Her presence here is like dangling a piece of meat in front of a shark and expecting it not to attack,
but I'm not looking for trouble.
Sometimes, my alpha impulses are a little difficult to control, especially since I’ve gone so long
without finding an omega to bond with, but this is one line I don’t plan to cross.
At least if she sits somewhere on the opposite side of the dining room, the other customers will
block her from my view. I won’t have to stare at her the entire time, admiring her delicate, angelic
features, and I can pretend to be unbothered.
Pretend, because as it stands, I’m already bothered. Unnerved. Curious. Things I’ve never felt for
anyone who’s walked through the restaurant doors in all our years of business.
Just when I think my luck can't get any worse, she turns and heads directly toward the bar, and the
only seat available is directly in front of me.
Fuck.
Looks like I'm not going to get away so easily, but at least she isn’t an omega.
I’d be in deep fucking trouble then.
Still, even as a beta, she drowns out everyone else in the room, turning conversations to white
noise and the women sprinkled around the dining area to colorful blurs. For a moment, I don’t see
anything but her, and I think I’ve lost my mind.
I probably have after all the years of bartending, but that’s beside the point.
Maybe she'll eat and be gone quickly.
Or maybe I can take my lunch break and let Damon run the bar.
That’s probably my best bet, even though he’s never covered for me during lunch rush. He might
struggle a bit, but I think he’ll be okay. Much better than me as I try and fail to drag my eyes away
from the drop-dead gorgeous woman approaching the bar.
I don’t even have time to signal for the front-of-house manager before she sits down across from
me, and I can see for the first time how weary she is. Her eyes are soft, saddened, and the corners of
her mouth sag into a frown. It might only be lunch, but I can tell she's already had one hell of a day,
and my bartender muscle memory kicks in.
If people come in having a shitty day, it’s my job to make them feel better, regardless of how much
distance I want to put between us. Calling Damon suddenly doesn’t seem so urgent. For now.
Maybe, if I’m lucky, I can survive this interaction without gawking like an idiot.
“Something strong,” she says.
I laugh, caught off guard by her odd request. Most pretty ladies who come in here order something
fruity or frozen, and I can’t help but wonder if she’s ever drank before at all.
“Like a margarita?” I ask, trying to maintain a straight face.
Her eyes narrow on me, her mouth hardening into a line. I hate how much I enjoy her obvious fire.
As if I needed another reason to keep my distance.
“I said strong,” she says, running her tongue across her top teeth. “Or do you just assume I can't
handle my liquor?”
Speechless. For the first time today, I'm speechless, and it wasn't one of the older gentlemen
making crude comments about politics or the waitresses that’s done it. It’s this tiny little spitfire who
thinks she's more grown than she really is that has me at a loss for words.
Does she not know who I am?
She has to.
Even as a beta, my alpha scent must be obvious. Am I losing it as I get older? Is that something
that ever completely goes away?
No. I know the answers to my questions, but that doesn't stop me from doubting everything for a
split second.
She knows I'm an alpha. She just doesn't give a fuck, and for some unknown reason, it only flames
the fire burning in my chest.
Who would have thought I’d be so attracted to defiance? Yet, here I am, swooning over her smart-
ass remark.
Maybe she'd change her tune if I fucked the attitude out of her.
"What's your definition of strong then, babydoll?" I entertain her, already knowing I can whip up
something that’ll knock her out until tomorrow night. Something about her attitude tempts me to do it,
but I refrain.
"Whiskey on the rocks," she says with a straighter face than most men who order the same thing.
Damn. She's definitely had a bad day.
If she's looking for something strong, something to drown out the pain of whatever she’s facing,
even that's not going to cut it.
"You got some ID?" For all I know, this young woman could be an undercover cop sent in by the
Department of Health to see if we’re giving drinks to underage kids.
Can't go losing my liquor license over some doe eyes and a tight ass.
She pulls out the ID and slides it to me, and my eyes immediately dart to the birth year.
"You're 23," I voice, handing the piece of plastic back. Not so close to illegal that it makes me
want to turn and run away with my tail between my legs, but a seventeen-year age gap is enough to
make even this old man blush.
"Yeah, I know. Everyone says I look younger." She rolls her eyes and throws the ID back in her
purse.
"I was actually going to say you look older,” I assure her, even though it might just be my wishful
thinking. It's a stupid thought that I need to put to rest, regardless of how my blood races through my
veins being this close to her.
She’s off limits, to myself and everyone else in this restaurant, because if I can’t have her, none of
these unworthy fucks can either. I’ll make sure of that.
What the hell is wrong with me?
I don't look back up as I start to make her drink, ignoring her request and making her something off
our secret menu instead. I scold myself for not checking her name before handing her the ID back. I
was too concerned with retaining my liquor license and making sure flirting with her won’t end up
with me in handcuffs to notice.
It's probably for the best, though.
Knowing names forms connections, and this is not a connection I need or want. At least, I don't
need it. The want is driving me insane.
When I push the drink across the counter to her, she raises an eyebrow at it and then at me.
"You must be new," she says without malice in her voice. "This isn't a whiskey on the rocks."
"I'm aware." I set my palms on the counter and lean forward, dropping my voice. "You wanted
strong. That’s called a Charming Alpha. Two of these will put you on your ass."
She holds my eyes with hers while she leans to take the straw in her mouth, sucking long and slow
on it, and fuck if I don't imagine her doing the same thing to me.
My cock twitches in my slacks as I watch her sip on the drink, and I know for a fact that it's much,
much better I don't know her name.
It must be because I haven’t gotten laid in a while. How long’s it been now? Five, six months?
Too long.
"What do you think?" I ask, forcing my gaze away from her pouty lips up to her baby blue eyes.
"It's okay,” she says with a shrug that has me smirking against my will.
Babydoll has spunk, I’ll give her that.
“Well, finish that, and if you still want your whiskey, I'll give it to you."
"Thanks," she mumbles, then turns her attention to her phone.
I take it as my opportunity to walk away and attend to the rest of the customers sitting at the bar,
who’ve grown a little restless over the past few minutes. I fill their glasses, take their dirty dishes,
and offer idle conversation, all while my eyes keep finding their way back to the young woman.
Beta.
Babydoll.
Off limits.
She sips her drink in silence, her thumbs working fiercely across her phone screen, and I can't
help but wonder what's got her so down.
Why come to a bar in the middle of the day to take the edge off?
Why not hang out with other people her age? Go shopping? Take a nap?
Time drags by and the lunch rush dies down, everyone leaving their tips and waving goodbye
before heading for the door.
Most of them will be back tomorrow. Some, the day after that, too.
The people who come here tend to come back frequently, and I don't blame them. It's a pretty
badass place to take a break from work or enjoy your afternoon. Relaxing, classy, everything I
imagined it would be when I opened it eight years ago.
Finally, babydoll is the only person remaining at the bar. If she's looked up from her phone at all, I
haven’t noticed. It doesn't matter, though, not really, but for some reason I want her eyes on me again.
When I can't pretend to wipe things down or polish glasses any longer, I stride up to the counter
and gesture to her nearly empty glass.
"Would you like another one?" I ask.
"Don't bother." She meets my eyes over the top of her phone. "I can barely afford this one. Thank
you, though." She looks down again.
Ah, so there are manners buried somewhere under her brash exterior. That's nice to know.
"That wasn't what I asked," I say, reaching for another glass beneath the bar and filling it with ice.
"I asked if you'd like one."
She pauses again, her eyes climbing up to meet mine and making my heart stutter.
For fuck's sake, Alessandro.
"I'll never say no to a free drink," she answers, finally setting her phone aside and giving me her
full attention. "As long as there aren't strings attached."
I'm embarrassed the first thought that crosses my mind is to ask what she considers strings, but I
scold myself and reach for the half-empty bottle of gin to start pouring her second drink.
"No strings. You just look like you could use it."
"Damn, I look that bad?" She purses her pouty lips, and I can tell by the pale blush warming her
cheeks that the alcohol is kicking in. One more and she might not be able to drive home, but I'll make
sure she gets there all right. No one leaves my place a bigger threat to society than when they came in.
"You look like life's been kicking your ass and you need a chance to unwind."
"Pretty much," she mumbles, downing the rest of her drink and pushing her empty glass back
across the bar.
Don't ask. Don't fucking ask.
Despite my inner voice telling me how bad of an idea it is, my mouth doesn't get the memo, and
the words spill out anyway. "How so?"
She leans back in her seat, considering me while I finish mixing her drink. Bartenders are here to
listen to those who confide in them. We hear some of the most depressing shit daily, so I guarantee
whatever this girl could tell me won't be that bad.
After all, I've probably heard it once before. Maybe twice.
However, this time feels different.
I worry about what will happen if she spills her heart to me right now, with her cocktail playing
devil’s advocate. Will I be able to shake it off and comfort her like I do everyone else? Or will my
alpha instincts, already vibrating and restless under my skin, have me attempting to fix whatever upset
her?
She hesitates, shifting on the barstool before responding. "I broke up with my piece of shit ex and
I'm just trying to get back on my feet."
Anger knots in my chest at the mention of her ex, and I don’t know how well I keep it off my face.
How dare anyone treat this woman as anything less than the goddess she is?
Fucking imbecile.
My instinct is to protect, to comfort, although I’m not sure when I got so fucking defensive of
betas.
This one is obviously something special, even if I don’t understand why. I’d kick her ex’s ass and
drag his face across the pavement outside just to make her smile.
"Is that who you've been talking to?" I ask, gesturing to her phone with my chin. It's a stupid,
invasive question that I have no business asking, but fuck, do I want to know.
She shakes her head. "I'm filling out job applications."
"Oh?" Not what I expected, and I'm not sure what to say. "Job not treating you right?"
She chuckles, a dry noise full of bitterness. "I had an interview earlier, and when I got there, they
said they weren't hiring. Go figure. So now I have forty-three dollars to my name, which isn't going to
last more than a couple of days between gas and food."
"I see." I grab the towel on the counter behind the bar and reach for a wine glass to polish. It
doesn't need polishing, but it makes me feel better to be doing something with my hands. It also keeps
me from staring, which I'd be more than happy to continue doing if I knew she wouldn’t call me out on
it. "How far do you live from here?"
If she winds up too drunk to drive home, I guess I'll be calling her an Uber since she can't afford
it. It's my fault, after all. Probably not one of my smartest moves, but I'll take care of her.
Her gaze falls, and she shifts in her seat, stirring her drink with her straw. "I live in my car right
now, so I stay wherever I can park it without getting a ticket."
I nearly drop the glass, catching it by the stem before regaining my composure.
What the fuck did she just say?
Surely I misheard her.
There’s no way she said she lives in her car…
And yet, as I stare across the bar at her, studying her unwavering expression, I get the feeling I
heard her perfectly.
Fuck.
This just got so much more serious than I bargained for.
four
ALESSANDRO
The knot in my chest twists painfully, tension building behind my ribs. At this rate, I’ll need a drink
myself to tamp down the alpha urges gripping me, demanding I offer my strength and protection to this
woman. This beta.
I can hardly wrap my mind around it.
Alpha instincts do crazy, unexpected things all the time, but this is a new one for me. I don’t even
know her name, but the draw I feel to her is almost tangible.
I want to load her into my car and take her back to my place, assuring her that everything is going
to be okay.
I want to pull her close, staring down into her hypnotic baby blue eyes until she believes every
word of my promise, that I won’t let anything happen to her.
I want to drag my thumb across her bottom lip, hear her stuttered breath as I close the distance
between us.
I want to…
Yep, it’s definitely time for a drink.
Grabbing a glass from behind the bar, I forego ice and fill it halfway with my favorite bourbon,
knocking it back. It’s creamy with a nice bite that burns the back of my throat, cutting through the
prickling rage threatening to tear me apart. It’s not enough to completely get control of my urges, but
it’s a start.
"You live in your car?" I ask, needing her confirmation before I blow things out of proportion.
"Yep." She nods and stirs her drink with the straw some more, knocking around the ice cubes
inside. "It's better than where I used to be, though, so I can't complain."
My mouth goes dry, and it’s suddenly hard to swallow. No, I hadn’t misheard. She’s homeless and
staying in a car. What the fucking hell?
Her words ring in my head again. “It’s better than where I used to be…”
No wonder the girl can drink liquor like a man.
I don’t know what could possibly be worse than living in a car–and I don’t think it’s wise for me
to ask–but she's obviously been through some shit.
I shouldn't care; I know I shouldn’t. After all, people who come in here upset or broken are a
dime a dozen. Still, something about this beautiful, delicate woman ignites a protective fire in my
chest that can't be extinguished, despite the amount of internal reprimanding I do.
"Damn," is all I let myself say, even though I want to press for more.
Nope. Do not get attached, Alessandro. Caring only ever gets me in trouble, and trouble is
something I can’t afford right now.
I’m a businessman at the height of my career, and the restaurant has been having its best year yet.
With plans to expand into a second location about an hour north of the city, I don’t need things going
to hell anytime soon.
Everyone goes through shit; it's part of life. This might just be part of her growth, part of what
molds her into who she becomes.
She's young. She has a lot of growing left to do. Hell, we all do. It shouldn’t be any of my
business where she lays her head down to sleep at night, but–
 "You're staring at me.” Her accusation slaps me across the face.
I clear my throat and pretend to be cleaning again. Now that the restaurant is mostly empty, it's
much quieter. My words travel farther across the space, and I’m not keen to be overheard.
“My apologies. I was just thinking,” I say, keeping my voice low.
“About staring at me?” She cocks an eyebrow over the rim of her glass, and I chuckle at her gall. I
can’t tell if it’s the alcohol or her natural combative nature, but either way, it’s sexy as hell.
“I’m just wondering whether or not you’ll be able to walk out of here after you’ve finished that
drink,” I shoot back. Not the whole truth, but the thought is still weighing on my mind. “How far away
did you park?”
She lifts one shoulder in a shrug. “Not far.”
My jaw hardens. It’s too vague for my liking and not what I want to hear.
I want to know exactly how far she’ll have to walk when she leaves, how far away she’ll be if
she needs help. If she needs me.
There’s always some level of risk to living in a car, regardless of who it is. A young woman alone
in the middle of the night poses a temptation for far too many sick fucks out there, and I don’t like it.
Not one bit.
"I’ll be fine,” she assures me, which I find hard to believe.
I’m tempted to argue with her, to tell her she’d be way safer with someone looking after her. She
could come back to my place and sleep in one of the spare bedrooms–at least she’d be off the street
and have a roof over her head.
Who the hell am I kidding? She could take my king-sized bed and I’d sleep on the floor if it
meant she’d be safe.
I pour another half glass of bourbon and take a swig, determined to drown the unwanted thoughts.
This whole thing is absurd, and I need to put it to rest before I convince myself to do something
stupid. Like take her home.
That would be catastrophically stupid.
Maybe it’s time for Damon to relieve me after all. Getting away from her piercing blue eyes that
watch me with increasing intrigue might be what it takes to break whatever spell she’s placed on me.
Unfortunately, knowing my dumb ass, I’d find a reason to come back just to watch her until she
leaves.
“What’s your name?” she asks, and I know I’m done for.
Names form connections, and despite my best efforts, this is clearly a connection I can’t avoid.
Not that I want to, it just makes sense to keep my distance, especially since I’ve already toyed with
the idea of taking her back to my place.
This whole thing smells of good intentions and tragic letdowns, but I can’t ignore her question
when her eyes are burning their way straight through me.
“Alessandro Costa, but most just call me Alex.”
“Alessandro. Alessandro.” The name rolls off her tongue like honey, especially when she mimics
my accent. “I like that.”
And fuck, I like it when she says it.
“What’s yours?” I ask, wishing more than ever I’d peeked at it earlier, but I’d been too
preoccupied. I can deny it all day, but it’s much too late to pretend like I don’t want to know it.
“Jessa Morrow.”
A beautiful name for a beautiful beta. Fitting.
I’ve lost track of how much bourbon I’ve consumed over the last couple of minutes, but I can feel
the effects teasing the edge of my mind, making my thoughts fuzzy. This is going to go south quickly if I
don’t get away, but she’s making it impossible without trying. She has me in a chokehold, trapped
behind the bar with far too much space between us.
I clear my throat, focusing my thoughts.
I need to put some distance between us. Now.
“I’m going to head to the office for a bit, but my manager Damon will be over to check on you,” I
force out, not wanting to go but desperately needing to clear my head. “Is there anything else I can get
you before I go?”
A wicked smirk upticks her lips as she teases her straw with her tongue. “Not unless you’ve got a
job hidden somewhere behind this bar.”
Is she propositioning me?
No, that’s the alcohol attacking my rational thinking. Still, it sounds sexual.
“A job?” It takes me a moment to reel in my thoughts careening out of control and remember why
she’s here drinking in the first place. She needs money, and the place she’d been applying to just
slammed their door in her face.
We aren’t hiring by any stretch of the imagination–in fact, despite us being relatively busy most
days, I probably need to start cutting people’s hours a tad to allocate funds to the new restaurant’s
budget–but the idea is too tempting to let go.
If she works here, I can always make sure she’s taken care of. I can make sure she gets into her
own place quickly and always has food to eat, but she doesn’t have to know those are my intentions.
No one has to know.
“Do you know anything about bartending?” My guess is no, but she’s been full of surprises so far.
What’s one more?
“No.” She shakes her head. “I’ve never worked in a restaurant before.”
That’s a shame. Bringing in someone with no restaurant experience can be difficult, especially
considering how testy some of our customers are. They don’t have a lot of patience, especially during
lunch rush, so that might be an issue.
However, she’s a blank slate. She can be taught and trained to be exactly what this restaurant
needs, whatever it needs.
And she’ll be close.
“Are you willing to scrub the floors? Toilets?” I ask, curious to know how serious she is about
working here. If she’s willing and up to the task, I’ll take her on, but I’m not jeopardizing the well-
greased flow of my restaurant for someone who just gets in our way.
“Sure. I’ll do whatever you want me to.”
For fuck’s sake. My thoughts immediately conjure a dozen different things I’d like her to do to me,
and I’m already regretting my offer. How the hell am I supposed to function with her constantly
around?
This is a terrible idea.
Such a fucking horrible idea.
But I’m in too deep to say no now.
“Come in tomorrow at three,” I tell her. “I’ll set you up an interview with Damon, our front-of-
house manager.”
“You’re not going to tell me the position’s been filled when I get here, are you?” She cocks her
head to the side, pursing her lips.
“Definitely not.”
 She works her mouth back and forth, as though she’s debating taking the offer, but I think we both
know how lucky she is to be considered. Who else can walk into a restaurant with no experience and
get an interview on the spot? Not many.
How many can walk in with no experience and get hired immediately? No one.
“I’ll be here,” she says.
I dip my head, the need to distance myself from her growing as the seconds race by. I need to
breathe and clear my head before the bourbon loosens my tongue and I say way too much.
I’ll come back to check on her and make sure she leaves okay–might even follow her discreetly
until she gets to her car–but I need to check myself before I put my foot in my mouth more than I
already have.
“Sounds like a plan. Enjoy your drink, babydoll.”
As I hightail it for the office, my head spins. Every fiber of my being is screaming at me to turn
right back around and march over to the bar, but I can’t let my instincts win.
They’ve done enough damage for one day. I’ve gotten myself into a pickle I could have avoided
had they not intervened, and now I’m royally screwed.
Tomorrow is going to change everything. I have no idea what Jessa coming to work at Sal’s will
mean, but I do know one thing.
I’m going to have to spend a lot less time here if I want to keep my sanity.
five
JESSA
Free drinks and a job offer weren’t what I expected to gain by talking to the alpha bartender.
I would have been content to sit here chatting for hours before heading back to my car and trying
to figure out this whole thing tomorrow. Even through the tipsy haze caused by my free alcohol,
though, I'm ecstatic. Relieved.
Maybe things aren't so hopeless after all.
My eyes dart toward the office where Alessandro headed several minutes ago, but he’s yet to
reemerge. I wish he’d come check on me so I could thank him for everything.
I want him to know just how grateful I am.
He could have waved me away. He could have easily decided that trivial beta issues were
beneath him, that he had better things to do than sit around entertaining me, but he didn’t.
He listened.
He paid attention to what was troubling me, and if I didn’t know better, I’d say he actually cared.
Definitely not what I’d expect from a complete stranger, much less an older alpha.
Given how trash my exes were, it’s hard to imagine alphas being anything more than cruel. They
probably all start out charming and sweet. How else would they have omegas and betas alike
throwing themselves at them, vying for their attention? They start out as everything you ever dreamed
they’d be, and then, bit by bit, they reveal the darkness hiding under their chivalrous facade.
That’s how I fell for the alphas in my old pack, Caleb, Sean, and Derrick.
At eighteen, right after I perfumed for the first time, they were everything I thought I wanted in
mates: handsome, strong, popular, the epitome of everything I thought alphas should be. And since
they were the first pack to set their sights on me, I fell for them hard and fast.
I fell for the allure, the flashy attitudes. I was swept up in the excitement of finding mates so
quickly, of chasing after the happily ever after I’d always wanted. The fancy cars and expensive
clothes they flaunted for everyone were nice, but I didn’t really care about any of that.
I just wanted someone to treat me like a queen, to love me like one. Someone who would consume
me and fill all the holes in my spirit. I wanted someone who would complete me, and even though we
weren’t scent matches, I thought they could be exactly what I needed.
Too bad I was fucking wrong.
When they knew they had me wrapped firmly around their fingers, that’s when the claws came out.
Their demeanors changed from protective to possessive, demanding, controlling. I wasn’t just their
mate. I was their property, and my self-worth slowly diminished over time.
It was grueling, painful, but there was no easy way out for me. Not only were we bonded, but I
had nothing outside of the pack. No family, no friends.
Caleb, Sean, and Derrick were supposed to be endgame for me… until they weren't.
I shake my head, chasing away thoughts of them as I stare at my reflection in the mirror behind the
bar. I can’t afford a mental spiral right now, and dwelling on the horrors of the past is liable to shove
me over the edge. I need to stay focused and think about what my next steps are, despite the alcohol
making my head swim and my limbs heavy.
I need to figure out how I’m supposed to keep my designation a secret while working for an
incredibly sexy alpha who I can’t help but drool over. If this is going to work, I’ll have to be more
cautious than I’ve ever been. Diligent with a metric fuckton of self-control.
Going through such a painful breakup once was difficult enough, and I won’t go through it again. I
doubt I’d survive breaking another bond anyway–breaking the last one had me in so much pain I
blacked out for hours.
I won’t survive that again.
The best thing I can do for myself is to keep Alessandro at an arm’s length, a perfectly safe
distance from me. Close enough to keep my job so I can dig myself out of this hole I’ve found myself
in, but not close enough to get attached.
I can’t risk it, not after what happened last time.
If there’s one thing I’ve learned from this shitstorm, it’s that I have to protect myself first. Think
first, feel later. It’s the only way I’m going to survive.
Now that my thoughts are flooded with Alessandro instead of my dickhead exes, I have to give his
bartending skills credit. These drinks were stronger than anything I’ve ever had, and the two I drank
have me feeling like I’m floating in a pool.
A warm, fuzzy feeling weighs down my limbs, drowning out any sadness or frustration I felt
earlier today. At least I got what I wanted by coming in here–temporary relief and distraction–though
I’m leaving with much more.
I try to pay the manager, Damon–a squatty beta with dark hair and dark eyes–for the drinks before
I leave, but he dismisses the offer.
“Mr. Costa has it covered,” he assures me. “Do you need someone to walk you out?”
“No.” I shake my head, which doesn’t help the swimming feeling. “Thanks though.”
As I make my way to the front door, I look around the dining area for any hint of the silver-haired
alpha, but he’s nowhere to be found.
Damn it.
I at least want to thank him again or say goodbye before leaving, which is probably silly, but it
makes sense to my inebriated brain. I bet he’s in the office, handling whatever bartenders handle in
their spare time.
Though it feels like it should be dark because of how drunk I am, the sun is still shining brightly.
That’s right. It’s only four in the afternoon.
I got drunk in the middle of the day because of my shitty luck and a snarky alpha.
I should probably be more careful from now on. No getting drunk until I have a place to stay that’s
not my car. Not that I’m a danger to anyone, nor do I plan on driving–it just doesn’t seem like a very
good idea to sleep drunk in public.
Probably illegal, but who cares.
Carefully abiding by street signs and blinking lights, I make my way back to my car. Getting run
over before my first actual job interview would be such a shame, and probably the lamest excuse to
get out of it.
Clearing out the backseat again to lay down and take a nap sounds exhausting, especially since I
just shoved everything back there this morning. It’s not even that comfortable; it’s hardly worth the
effort.
Instead, I pull out my window shades from the trunk and put them inside the windshield and the
front two windows for an attempt at privacy. Then, I lean my seat back as far as it’ll go with my pile
of belongings in the back and let my eyes drift closed.
Light still creeps in through the back end of the car, but not enough to bother me. I’m exhausted,
drained by all the emotions of the day, as well as the alcohol coursing through my system, and I know
a nice long nap is just what I need.
Tomorrow is a new day, and I’ll take it in stride, but for right now, I just want to sleep.
Curled up beneath a blanket without even bothering to take my makeup off, my mind floats with
hazy thoughts of Alessandro and his dark, gorgeous eyes. I think about the way they bore into mine,
making my skin flush with heat, watching me as I purposely teased my straw with my tongue.
I still can’t believe I did that.
As someone so completely turned off to alphas after my last relationship went up in flames, I sure
seem to like antagonizing this one. And if I didn’t know better, I’d say he enjoys it just as much.
The last thing I see before I drift off to sleep is Alessandro reaching across the bar and cupping a
rough hand behind my neck, dragging me forward as he leans in.
Then, I’m out.
six
JESSA
Somehow, even though I’m not sure how the hell I manage it, I’m able to sleep until early the next
morning. I was gifted over twelve hours of uninterrupted sleep with blissful dreams about a silver fox
who’s soon to be my boss.
Lovely.
Just what I need, another reason to be nervous about my interview today.
The sun is just beginning to creep from between the tall buildings around me, lighting up the jet-
black sky a little at a time. With several hours to kill, I head to my usual truck stop bathroom, which
has become way too familiar at this point, to change and get ready for my interview.
The gas station worker, a pretty beta girl with blonde hair and big hoop earrings, smiles at me as I
step inside. I’m sure she recognizes me–she has to–because she’s been here the last five times I’ve
come in.
Part of me wonders what she thinks about my frequent visits, but dwelling on them only stirs up
whispers of shame and guilt I’ve worked hard to bury over the last few weeks. I can’t change anything
about my situation yet, so worrying about it isn’t going to help anything. It’ll just add more stress,
which I’ve had enough of to last a lifetime.
I soak in a long, hot shower, savoring every second, considering I’m not sure how many more I’ll
be able to take before my money runs out.
If I wind up being dreadful at this restaurant gig, I’ll be broke before I can form another plan, and
I won’t even be able to pay the fee to shower here, let alone eat. The threat is there, lurking in the
back of my thoughts like a raincloud waiting to storm all over the bit of hope I’ve built up. I try to
ignore it–that’s not an outcome I should think about.
I will land this job, and I will be decent at it.
It’s the least I can hope for at this point, and the more times I say it to myself, the more I begin to
believe it. I’ll start to rebuild my life but into something new and exciting.
I can’t accept failure.
Not when it’s my life on the line.
I dress in front of the familiar mirror, scrunching my hair with mousse to let it fall in loose curls
around my face. I put on a pair of navy pants and a bright, floral top, which are much more my style
than the harsh suit I wore yesterday. Now when I look in the mirror, I almost recognize myself.
My eyes play off the blues and greens in my shirt, making them brighter, and I paint my lips pale
pink. I couldn't be farther from the two sexy beta women I saw at the restaurant yesterday, but I feel
pretty. I feel like Jessa, and that’s saying something, considering I lost her for a long time.
She’s finding her way back, slowly, a bit at a time.
I eat a muffin from the gas station as I head back to my car, not because it looks appetizing, but
because it’s one of the cheapest things I can find. I should probably find something to do to pass the
time, considering I have a while before my interview, but when you have no money and nowhere to
go, the options are harshly limited.
Mind-numbing solitude consumes most of my time, with nothing to do and no one to talk to.
I hate that it’s come to this, because it wasn’t always this way.
Once upon a time, I had friends–lots of them. Before I awakened, I was one of the most popular
girls in my grade at school. So many people vied for my attention, though I wasn’t sure why. When I
received my omega designation, it all made sense, and suddenly, there were even more people around
me.
It was nice but brief, because not long after, the Sorenson pack found me.
My throat tightens at the name.
Over the last five years, I became isolated from everyone but them. My old alphas saw to that.
They didn’t like how much time or attention I gave my friends, even though they were all beta women
who pined over them, so I cut everyone out one by one.
The last to go was my best friend, Deysi.
That hurt the most.
We’d been close ever since we were babies and lived next door to one another growing up. She
never treated me differently after I found out I was an omega. She never once held it against me. She
just wanted to spend time with the Jessa who made her laugh so hard she cried, who had belching
contests with her at two o’clock in the morning during sleepovers. Those were the best of times.
I’ve thought about texting her since moving out. I want to let her know I’m not with those assholes
anymore and see if she wants to hang out, but the pain is almost too much to bear.
What would she say?
Would she tell me she doesn’t want to be friends anymore?
Would she be angry I abandoned her so easily over some hot alphas, even though she knew they
were my mates and I had to do whatever they said?
The unknowns are too daunting, so I haven’t let myself text her.
Maybe this new job and new life will come with new friends, and I won’t feel so isolated
anymore. It seems like almost too much to hope for, considering all the other things I need to go right,
but nevertheless, I cross my fingers for luck.
At twenty minutes to three, I head down the sidewalk to Sal’s. I opted out of my heels today,
choosing a pair of silver flats instead, and my feet are much happier for it. I step through the front
doors to an almost empty dining room, much different from the lively atmosphere from yesterday.
My eyes immediately dart toward the bar, searching for any sign of Alessandro, expecting to see
his broad shoulders and gray-streaked hair bobbing behind the counter, but he’s nowhere in sight. As I
take a deep breath, searching for his tantalizing bourbon and smoky wood, I also come up short.
He isn’t here.
A slight sinking feeling starts in my chest, tumbling like a stone into my stomach.
I’d hoped he would be here simply to serve as a familiar face, although I did talk to Damon for a
few minutes yesterday. It’s not the same. Alessandro and I joked around for hours, bickering back and
forth like old friends, and I was looking forward to smarting off to him again.
Looks like that won’t be happening today.
I don’t know why he has that effect on me–I’ve never been a very vocal person, much less a
combative one, but for some reason, he draws it out of me, which I kind of like about myself. The old
me was soft and timid. She let men run all over her because she thought that’s what she was supposed
to do, and it got me nowhere.
Now, I’ll never let it happen again.
I’ll harness whatever confidence I can and speak my mind the way betas do, if not more so. I
don’t have to be shy and quiet and poised. I can be whoever I want to be without worrying about what
people think. All that matters is what I think at this point, so I’m going to focus on being exactly who I
want to be.
 And right now, that’s hungry.
The aroma of perfectly cooked Italian food hits my nose seconds later, and my stomach growls. Is
it really possible that all I had to eat today was the muffin this morning? My nerves must have
overridden my appetite, but now, it’s back in full force.
The same red-headed hostess from yesterday steps up to the hostess stand and greets me with a
warm smile. Her hair is slicked back into a bun, her lips stained red.
“How many?” she asks.
I dread my response, knowing it’s exactly what I said yesterday before everything came crashing
down around me, and I hold my breath. “I’m here for an interview.”
At the answer, her eyes light up, and she nods her head. “Oh yes. Mr. Costa said you’d be coming
in today. Right this way.”
My held breath comes out in a sigh of relief, and some of the tension melts from my body. Thank
fuck. This isn’t like last time after all. Alessandro held up his word and secured me an interview.
The hostess leads me to a table at the back of the dining area, to the darkest corner beneath a fake
lantern with plastic greenery climbing up a lattice wall. I hadn’t noticed the decor yesterday, but the
entire restaurant is adorned to look like a quaint Tuscan alleyway.
It’s beautiful, the attention to detail immaculate, and as I recall Alessandro’s slight accent, it all
makes sense. He’s clearly Italian, and this entire place must be an homage to his home.
“What can I get you to drink?” she asks as I slide into the booth, sitting my purse beside me on the
seat.
“Just water, thanks.” I return her kind smile. I’d absolutely love something tastier than water, but
since I know water will be the most filling, I settle for that. After this interview, I’m going to spend a
few bucks on dinner and stuff my face for sure.
Hopefully, this won’t take too long.
When the hostess returns, not only is she carrying my water, but she brings a basket of breadsticks
with butter, and I think I might cry. The smell is delicious, making my mouth water instantly, and I
snatch one as soon as they’re on the table before I can stop myself.
“They’re my favorite. I’m Sara, by the way.” A grin, which I’m beginning to think is part of this
place’s mandatory wardrobe, crosses her face.
“I’m Jessa,” I manage before I sink my teeth into the first breadstick without remorse. I hope she
heads back to the hostess stand soon so I can inhale these before the manager makes his way over.
I’m so hungry, I can hardly stand it.
“Did you want to start with an appetizer?” Sara asks.
I freeze, breadstick halfway in my mouth and look up at her, confused.
“I’m sorry, I said I was here for an interview,” I explain, regaining my composure. Haven’t we
established that already? “I’m not here to eat.”
“Oh.” She cocks her head to the side, and I worry for a second that I might have disappointed her.
If I’m not eating, that means she’s not making any tips, and now I feel bad for annihilating this
breadstick before I had the chance to clarify. Damn it.
I guess I have enough left in my bank account for breadsticks and water. I just might have to skip
dinner later, so hopefully these are all you can eat.
“I’m sorry for the confusion,” I say, cheeks warming with embarrassment.
“You’re fine,” she says. “Mr. Costa just said to make sure you treated yourself to anything on the
menu while you waited on Damon. I can let the chef know you aren’t hungry.”
I nearly gasp, a solid knot forming in my throat at the gesture.
 That generous asshole.
He treated me to free drinks yesterday, and now free food. I should have never told him I was
living in my car–I should have known his alpha instincts wouldn’t let him stand by idly while a
woman suffers. I should have known, and yet I did it anyway.
Is it in my goddamn DNA to expect alphas to take care of me as an omega?
Did I subconsciously hope he would offer something more than kind words, or did I really think
he’d gloss over the fact that I’m homeless?
Either way, I’m speechless, and I don’t know who I’m madder at–myself or Alessandro.
“He did?” is all I can say at first, but then I clear my throat to get rid of the lump in it. “I guess I
could eat something. Since he’s offering and all.”
“Let me grab you a menu.” Her smile returns. She’s obviously glad to see I’ve changed my mind.
Of course I have. I can’t turn down a free meal, not when I can barely afford one on my own. As
much as I hate to admit it, and as much as I hate taking handouts from alphas, I can’t say no.
seven
JESSA
After perusing the menu for a solid five minutes, I settle on baked ziti, and Sara sweeps away to the
kitchen to let the chef know. I nibble on a breadstick, staring around the dining area for any sign of the
alpha so I can thank him properly, or just give him hell like I did yesterday, but there’s still no sign of
him.
I’m sure he’ll be back shortly.
My food arrives with no sign of Damon either, and I’m beginning to suspect he’s waiting for me to
finish eating before he bothers me with an interview. Call it a hunch. Alessandro must have known I
couldn’t focus on an empty stomach and wanted to make sure I was at peak performance. That has to
be it.
Thoughtful bastard. Maybe there are such things as wonderful alphas. Or maybe that’s exactly
what he wants me to think, and I’m already falling for the fake charm.
Shit.
I’m going to feel bad about it later, when my stomach isn’t trying to eat itself.
Right now, all I can focus on is how thankful I am for his kindness.
The wait for my ziti to cool off enough to sink my teeth into it is excruciating. The smell of cheese
and tomato sauce spiraling around me invades my senses and makes my stomach growl in protest. The
anticipation is almost too much, and I’m tempted to risk scorching off my tastebuds, but I wait,
finishing another breadstick instead.
When I finally get to eat the ziti, it’s immaculate.
Probably the best thing I’ve ever tasted.
I don’t know if it’s because I’m starving, or because the chef in the back deserves his own five-
star restaurant, but it’s incredible. I eat until I can’t take another bite without throwing it all back up
and push the plate aside.
Damon sidles up with perfect timing and a cheerful grin, propping himself up by draping his arm
over the back of the booth. He smells like marinara and cheap cologne, and I can’t decide what part
of that is his faint, natural beta scent and what’s from the restaurant.
He clutches a menu in his free hand.
“It was good, right?” he asks, and I nod.
“Amazing. Compliments to the chef.” I hold my water up in a toast and take a sip.
“I’ll let him know.” Damon nods. “Mr. Costa told me to start training you on the basics today
since your position will be kind of broad–whatever we need on any given day is kind of what you’ll
be doing–so I’d like you to familiarize yourself with our menu. Get comfortable with what’s on it so
you can start taking to-go orders tomorrow night.”
“Wait–training?” I ask, my heart crashing painfully into my ribs. Did I miss something? Am I
confused? “There’s… no interview?”
He cocks his head to the side. “Mr. Costa said he gave you enough of an interview yesterday that
a follow-up wasn’t needed.”
My insides twist, but I try to look unbothered. “Right. I was… just checking.”
After the momentary shock wears off, it’s quickly replaced by mild irritation. That man is
definitely getting a piece of my mind.
 A drink? Fine.
A meal? Okay.
But handing me everything on a silver platter isn’t what I want. I’m willing to put in the hard
work, to learn what I need to learn, but he isn’t giving me a chance to prove myself. What if I’m
awful?
He has way more faith in me than I do.
Damon hands me the menu he’s been holding onto. “I’ll be back in a little bit to see if you have
any questions. You obviously don’t have to memorize everything right away; just get an idea of the
categories and things like that. If you want to take notes, I can find some paper.”
I shake my head. “No, no, I’ve got it covered.” I never go anywhere without a notebook and pen,
just in case I need it for random occurrences like this.
“I’ll be back. I have to check on the kitchen staff.”
I mumble a thank you as he walks away. My eyes fall to the menu in front of me, but my thoughts
are far away from fettucine and gourmet salads. They’re wherever Alessandro is, forming a million
questions I’m dying to ask him. There are so many things I want to say, and if he’s lucky, I might throw
in a thank you amidst the snark.
If only he’d show up.
Is he off today?
I think about the way he looked at me across the bar, his bold, intense eyes stabbing into me like
hot knives, the fierce, protective gaze of a true alpha. I recall the way his delicious bourbon and
smoke scent swirled around me, dancing along my skin, leaving goosebumps in its wake.
I’m pretty sure the image of him is branded on my memories at this point.
I can deny it all I want–he’s way too old for me to be thinking about this way–but the man is sexy,
all raw power and dominant energy, prickling sarcasm wrapped in a charming package. If he wasn’t
old enough to be my dad, I might be singing a different tune, but as it stands, Alessandro off limits.
That doesn’t mean I can’t harass him a bit, though.
Damon returns after several minutes and takes me on a tour of the restaurant. I've never been in a
commercial kitchen before, and it's way bigger than I expected; all stainless-steel appliances, gray
tile floors, and bright, florescent lights overhead.
The chef on the line is a young beta, probably a few years older than me, with dark tan skin and
shoulder length black hair tied back in a ponytail. There are a few assistants milling about, refilling
things and cleaning.
Damon shows me everything, from the refrigerator to the bathrooms to the upstairs storage area
where they keep their catering equipment, and I try to keep up with the information he's spilling along
the way.
"We're open from ten to ten every day, easy enough to remember, and you'll probably be on the
night shift, which comes in at four," Damon rambles. “Our uniform is all black–pants and shirt–and
slip-resistant shoes, so you’ll need to get those if you don’t have them.”
My stomach sinks. He’s just listing off simple articles of clothing, but all I see are dollar signs.
How much are these special shoes I need? Will the dwindling dollars in my bank account cover them?
Will they let me wait until my first check to get them?
That might be a problem.
“I-Is Mr. Costa here?” I ask, hoping I’ll be able to ask him my questions. Surely, he wouldn’t have
offered me a job knowing I didn't have the money for a uniform. Maybe he thought I was exaggerating
about not being able to afford my drinks yesterday?
 But then why did he make sure I had food to eat? This alpha is just getting more confusing with
every new revelation.
Damon shakes his head. “No. He took the day off.”
I frown. Well shit. That doesn’t help me at all.
“He did leave a folder with your new hire paperwork,” he says, gesturing toward the office. “You
can fill it out at home and bring it back tomorrow.”
At home. Alessandro didn’t tell Damon about my living situation.
Good. A respectable move.
I’m not eager for the entire world to know I’m homeless, much less that I’m staying in my car just
a few blocks away. I’ll have to thank him for that, too.
The favors I owe this man are piling up, and I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to repay him.
I wait in the doorway of the office while Damon retrieves a manilla envelope from the top drawer
of the wide, light wood desk. There’s a flat screen monitor and keyboard sitting neatly in the middle,
but aside from a few perfectly stacked pieces of paper, the rest of the desk is empty. It’s neat and tidy,
two things I’m definitely not.
There are two filing cabinets in the back corner, and a vibrant painting of an Italian orchard
straight ahead. Two chairs sit in front of the desk, and there's a single, lattice-covered accent wall.
When Damon hands me the folder, it has JESSA MORROW written in bold black letters across the
front, and I can tell by the weight that there’s a hefty amount of paperwork inside for me to fill out.
“So, we’ll see you tomorrow at four,” Damon says cheerfully.
I wish I could be as upbeat as he is all the time. He’s a good balance to Alessandro’s seriousness.
“Right.” I’m already stressing about showing up in the appropriate uniform, but there’s nothing
else for me to say. “Thank you.”
If I want to talk to Alessandro about the uniform, I guess I’ll have to come up here early tomorrow
and see what we can work out. Maybe he’ll let me work in regular clothes until I can afford to buy
everything.
I have some pants that would probably work. No plain black shirts, though.
“See you tomorrow,” I say, my thoughts still churning as I turn out of the office and head for the
front door.
Rather than heading back to my car to fill out all the paperwork, I head down the sidewalk to a
little coffee shop wedged between towering office buildings.
I spend enough time in the car as it is, and it’ll be nice to see something new, to sit in a
comfortable seat with legs outstretched, not worried about being cramped.
The shop is empty, aside from a couple in the corner, and the smell of rich, warm coffee assaults
my senses as I take a seat at a small table near the window. After I’m settled, I pull out my pen and the
modest stack of paper.
Since I’ve never done this before, I’m not sure what I’m getting myself into, but when my eyes
land on the address line, my throat immediately tightens. Embarrassment heats my cheeks, but there’s
nothing I can do about it except to put a big, fat N/A as the answer.
I flip through the rest of the papers, which include an employee handbook that I glance over
quickly and a smaller, sealed envelope with my name on it.
Without a thought, I rip into it and pull out a single piece of paper. I can tell before unfolding it
that it’s handwritten, and when I open it, my stomach drops through my ass to the floor.
Jessa,
This should be enough to cover your uniform. If it’s not, don’t hesitate to let me know.
 A. Costa
My heart nearly stops as I look inside the envelope again and see a rectangular piece of plastic.
“He didn’t,” I whisper to myself, barely audible.
I pull out the piece of plastic, flipping it over to examine it with shaky fingers, hoping my gut is
wrong.
It’s not.
I’m holding a pre-loaded gift card with no amount listed anywhere on it, and the realization has
my stomach turning and cheeks heating again.
The corners of my eyes sting painfully, and tears threaten to well in them for the tenth time this
week, but I furiously blink back the sensation.
I refuse to break down. There’s no point, especially in the middle of a coffee shop, alone.
How sad and embarrassing would that be?
Goddamn it. It’s official. I’m never going to be able to repay this man for what he’s done, and I
haven’t even started working for him.
I have no idea how much money is on the gift card, but I’m appalled that he trusts me this much.
Anyone else might take the money and disappear, never to be heard from again, but he’s confident I’ll
use it to buy black clothes and special shoes.
Does that make him too trusting? Or just stupid?
Does he feel the same fickle, strange connection I do after the hours we spent chatting at the bar?
Or does he just have so much money, he isn’t worried about giving away a hundred dollars?
If he knew what I really am, if he caught a whiff of my perfume, he’d probably be throwing much
more than a gift card at me, so I guess I should be grateful it’s not more. I bring the letter to my nose,
inhaling deep and catching a whisper of hearty bourbon that’s still enough to make my mouth water.
Damn it.
He’s not even here and I’m pining for him. What happens when we’re trapped in the restaurant
together for a long shift, and his scent gets stuck in my sinuses and makes me lose my mind? How did
I think this was a good idea?
Oh, right. I was drunk.
Huffing at my miscalculation, I stare back down at the gift card in my hand.
I’m appalled, utterly flabbergasted in a way I don’t think I’ve ever been, all because of a stranger.
Again, he’s given me something I didn’t ask for on a silver platter, but just like dinner, I can’t turn
this down. There’s no way I’d be able to afford everything otherwise, and once I start working, I’ll be
able to pay him back.
Who knows how long it’ll take, considering I don’t even know the wage, but I’ll pay him back
regardless. I refuse to be indebted to an alpha again.
I’m itching to throw the paperwork back in the folder and head for the store. Shopping seems way
more fun than filling out all my personal information, but it’s a little late for a trip to the mall. It’ll
only be open for a couple more hours, and I don’t want to be caught out alone at night.
Besides, it’s been ages, so long I don’t fully remember the last time, since I’ve been to the mall. I
don’t want to be rushed.
I want to stroll through the stores, get lost in the countless racks of clothes, and forget about my
mounting problems for a little bit. There’s just not enough time tonight to do everything I want to do
and see everything I want to see.
Tomorrow, I’ll go shopping. I’ll get the clothes and the shoes, and I’ll go by the truck stop to get
ready. The thought puts a smile on my face; it’s exhilarating to think about.
 My entire life starts over tomorrow. The promises that having a job brings are endless, and soon,
everything will look so different. I won’t be stuck staying in my car very much longer.
Soon, very soon, everything is going to change, and this time, I don’t just feel it.
I know it.
eight
JESSA
I’m up early the next morning, too eager for the shopping ahead to sleep in. I’m showered and dressed
well before any of the stores at the mall open.
Nerves bubble through me the way they always do when I go out in public, worrying about what
would happen if the scent blocker fails while I’m out.
What if someone scents me? What if someone recognizes me?
What would I do then?
The blocker shouldn’t fail–it never has before–but the fear of knowing just how coveted unbonded
omegas are won’t let me shake the anxiety. It might be something I live with forever, but I take
comfort as I swallow the little pink pill, trusting that it’ll do its job and keep me from perfuming for at
least the next 24 hours.
Before I broke the mate bond with my alphas, I was never allowed to go anywhere alone. Five
years of always having protection nearby, of never having to defend myself or run for my life; it
spoiled me to a constant sense of comfort. Now, without that permanent shield to keep alphas, and
even betas, away, I feel exposed.
Unprotected, weak.
I try to focus on anything other than my mounting anxiety, hoping thoughts of shopping and
sneaking by the food court will soothe the jitters. It works for a few minutes, until I decide to call the
number on the back of the gift card to check the balance and find out there’s two hundred and fifty
dollars on it.
I choke. I’m not sure what to say or do as I stare down at the infernal piece of plastic that’s going
to both change my life and doom it.
Where does this man think I’m shopping? New York City? Paris?
Nausea churns my stomach as Alessandro’s sweet gesture turns sour, leaving a bad taste in my
mouth. How will I ever pay this alpha back if he keeps throwing gifts at me and disguising them as
chivalry?
I won’t be able to, and the reminder puts a scowl on my face. As determined as I was to never be
indebted to another alpha, I’ve fallen right back into a dependent hole, and I don’t like it. I hate every
second of feeling like I owe him something, and it only makes me want to start working sooner.
The sooner the money starts rolling in, the sooner I can give Alessandro back every penny he’s
spent on me, and he can stop feeling so fucking sorry for me.
Despite my aggravation, though, I refuse to let it put a damper on my day.
I’ll buy my clothes, maybe a snack or two if I get hungry around lunch, then return the rest of the
money to him. It’s the right thing to do, and it’ll make me feel better about accepting any help from
him at all.
Then nothing else. No more gifts. No more help.
The only reason I’m accepting this is because I don’t have another option.
After seeing what I have of him, though, I don’t know if he’ll ever stop pitying me. I might always
be a charity case where he’s concerned, which makes heat prickle my cheeks and my jaw set.
I’ll show him just how independent I can be. I’ll prove I don’t need his help–or the help of any
other alpha for that matter. I’ll do it all… as soon as I can. As soon as I get my first good wave of tip
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