Pack Darling Part One Read online

  First Published by Lola Rock in 2021

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  100 Commons Road, Suite 7-303

  Dripping Springs, TX 78620

  thelolarock.com

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  ISBN 9781943858842

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  Copyright © 2021 by Lola Rock

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  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof

  may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

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  Cover design by Lola

  Contents

  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

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Also by LOLA ROCK

  Content Warning

  This story contains references to past physical and sexual assault. Lilah has a traumatic past, and the emotions are intense. Please take care of yourself and avoid if this content will be disturbing.

  If you object to cursing, knotting, or MM action, this is not the series for you.

  Happy reading wherever you land!

  <3 Lola

  One

  LILAH

  With five deadbolts and a chain locking my door, it should be clear that I’m avoiding all things omega. Bra off, spicy Cheetos, and a TBR pile like whoa, I’m set for the perfect Friday night.

  But Trainer Marc keeps knocking like I haven’t spent the past minute plugging my ears. “Lilah Darling! You will not blow off another dance team practice.”

  “I’m not on the dance team!” I call through the thin wood, wishing I could reinforce it with steel bars.

  “Yes, you are,” Marc growls, trying to channel some alpha, but he’s just as beta as every other power-tripping ass of a trainer at the Omega Cultivation Center I’m so unlucky to call home.

  “Not since I was like seven years old, Marc.”

  “Lilah,” his growl deepens in a threat I’ve heard a hundred times.

  A threat I know he’ll deliver on.

  My heart picks up, reminding me that it’s a terrible idea to talk back to trainers, but at least when Marc punishes me, he’ll follow OCC rules.

  No blood or disfigurement.

  Maybe he’ll cane my ass, send me to solitary, or reduce my rations again, but even if he serves up a beating, it’ll be a joy compared to what Rachel and the others’ll do if I show up for that practice.

  They won’t follow the rules.

  Anything’s fair game when we’re competing for the same alphas.

  I keep telling them I don’t want to compete.

  I’m happy alone, locked in my dorm with books, blankets, and a stolen streaming subscription. I’m not after their packs or their futures because I’m just another sad ward of the OCC, and no decent pack is ever going to make me an offer. No decent pack will ever have the kind of cash it’s going to take to repay my almost twenty years of room, board, and training fees.

  Plus the massive wad that the Center paid to buy me from my mom.

  What kind of packs does Rachel think we’re competing for?

  When I used to go to socials, the only alphas who ever gave me a glance were from the shadiest, nastiest packs—the kind who saw a little omega girl with no parents and no real guardian as the perfect opportunity to go buck wild with zero consequences.

  I would love to not compete.

  To hide in my room forever and let all the other omegas steal the spotlight and affection they so desperately desire.

  But Marc keeps knocking and knocking. “Rachel rolled her ankle. Evgenia needs a soloist for tomorrow’s showcase.”

  Soloist? I jump, tipping over the precious Cheetos that I only snagged because someone punched the wrong button on the vending machine.

  “You have ten minutes.” Marc rattles the doorknob. “Be dressed and in the studio, or I’ll have your locks drilled and your Wi-Fi access revoked.”

  I’m willing to go without food.

  I’m even willing to go without locks thanks to the toothbrush shiv under my pillow.

  What I’m not willing to go without?

  Fucking Wi-Fi.

  Is he a demon?

  I tug my hair, but there’s no time to waste. I have to run, even knowing the hell I’ll catch for showing my face at the studio.

  Putting my bra back on feels like the worst kind of surrender.

  I whip on baggy pants and an oversized shirt, barely able to move around the tiny cupboard of a room that only has space for my bed and the built-in desk/closet/shelf unit.

  I can’t remember living anywhere else, although I try on a daily basis. All I have left of the before-time is the memory of a hard-eyed woman who looks like the face I see in the cracked mirror.

  My mom had rosebud lips like mine, but hers were always pressed together in annoyance. We have the same tiny build, the same light brown hair, and the same grey eyes.

  So much the same, and yet she still sold me off the second my blood tests came back omega.

  I tie my hair into a messy pony and rush to the studio. I have to sprint to make it to the dance building before Marc delivers on his stupid threat. I cut across the perfectly green lawn, sprinting past spas, salons, gyms, and teaching buildings.

  Everything a budding omega needs.

  But nothing this omega wants.

  Panting, I bust into the dance team’s practice room just before my ten minutes are up.

  “Ah. Miss Lilah. So nice of you to join.” Trainer Evgenia, smug ballerina bitch she is, offers me an emaciated smile.

  Nodding, I slink to the back of the room, wanting to go unseen.

  No way is that happening.

  Sitting at the front with her ankle propped on a silk pillow, Rachel glares like she already has my blood under her fingernails. Resentment sharpens her scent until it’s wedged in my sinuses like a serrated blade.

  Beckah, Jovie, and the rest of Rachel’s clique whisper in their huddle, not even pretending to stretch while they’re so busy party-planning my funeral.

  “Not back there. Come to the front where you belong.” Trainer Evgenia grabs my elbow while I’m distracted. She pulls me dead center in the front row, giving me the perfect view of the mirror and the dance team’s firing squad glares.

  My shoulders hunch. This is so not ending well.

  Evgenia does a little clap. “Now, my doves. Let’s run through the routine for our star. She’ll only need to watch it once.”

  The room’s resentment level ratchets up until I’m choking on sour barbs of omega rage.

  I want to strangle past Lilah, who thought showing off was the answer to our problems. If I proved I was the best, I’d be snapped up by the good a
lphas and escape the OCC to be pampered as some pack’s princess.

  I saw it happen to other girls. Why not me?

  I was eight when I learned that answer hard.

  Darlings are literal OCC property. The rules that keep the other omegas safe do not apply to us because instead of us paying to be here, the OCC pays for us to attend.

  Other omegas have backers. Supporters. Families. They have eyes looking out for them, ready to speak up when alphas cross lines that shouldn’t be crossed. They have resources, money, and extra tutors. They form friendships and alliances, little omega cliques that never include me.

  All I’ve ever had is hard work.

  Even when I was young, Evgenia wasn’t one to take bribes. I busted my ass and fairly won the lead in the junior dance showcase.

  I busted my ass all over the OCC, taking top rank in class after class, earning the trainers’ recognition in academics, etiquette, combat…

  Noelle was the first omega to remind me of my place.

  Just before the showcase, she and five other faceless mean girls from the teen section cornered me, kicked the shit out of me, and left me tied up in a closet.

  A janitor found me three days later.

  Since then, I’ve never come first in anything. I never show off, always blending at the back, never ever outshining the current queen bee and her court.

  They come and go.

  After Noelle was placed with her pack, there was Juniper who shaved my head, Mya who threatened to have me sold to her drug lord Daddy’s enforcers, and Penny who ripped out my earring and split my lip.

  Eve. Samantha. Madison.

  Rachel is the flavor of the week, stewing with a tension that promises she’s going to follow in the footsteps of all the bitchy omegas who came before her.

  I zone out as the team runs through their hip-hop routine, deliberately not paying attention because fuck me sideways, I will remember the steps after I see them once.

  My brain’s a sponge for dance.

  The team’s talented and totally in sync. They throw themselves into the fast-paced routine, moving with such desperation it looks like passion if you don’t know what you’re seeing.

  They know the game.

  You’ve gotta work to catch a pack of alphas worth mating.

  If you graduate, heat coming on with no forever offers coming in?

  Welcome to life in rotation.

  You’re pimped out to the highest-bidding pack for sex and surrogacy, popping out pups until you could field your own football team and half the marching band. You never mate. Instead, it’s a new pack every heat until you’re finally dried up, sexed out, and begging for menopause to take you into retirement.

  As far as I’m concerned, mating is just as shitty.

  I’ve spent my entire life at the mercy of people who take pleasure in hurting me, and I’m supposed to want to be bite-bound to a pack of neanderthals who see me as an easy target?

  No fucking thank you.

  When the girls finish their routine, breathing hard but looking flawless, perfect smiles and perfect makeup, I shove down every instinct that has me bouncing, replaying the choreo in my mind and adding my own twist, wanting to join and move and feel the music, ignoring all this omega bullshit.

  But life is better since I learned the truth.

  There’s a third option, and I’m not ditching my winning strategy for one catchy song.

  So when Evgenia motions me to join, I do what I always do.

  I deliberately fuck it up.

  The problem is, Evgenia’s been at OCC forever. She’s not like the other trainers, in and out, here maybe a year. They play a girl to earn her loyalty, then weasel their way into a spot as a pack beta, and a ticket to the sweet life.

  It leaves me safe, flying so low under the radar I’m practically an earthworm. But Trainer Evgenia has known me since I was an abandoned preschooler bumbling my first arabesque.

  As I clumsily recreate the routine, pretending to forget steps, turning the wrong way, and moving so the other girls fall out of their positions, Evgenia watches with a lifted chin and an arched, manicured eyebrow that distinctly says you think you’re getting away with this shit?

  It’s painful to hold myself back, but every time the girls sniff or scoff at me instead of flashing their fangs in jealousy, I chalk up a win. Let them think I’m an idiot who can’t remember the choreo. Let them think Evgenia’s just pitying me.

  I’ll never show them the truth.

  Jealous bitches give you stitches.

  After half an hour of awkwardness, Evgenia finally caves. “Enough. Enough. Girls, you’re dismissed. Not you,” she hisses when I try to sneak out with the crowd.

  Rachel crutches to the door on a swollen ankle, already sizing up how she’s going to cube me into little Lilah pieces.

  A few years ago, I would’ve been terrified, knowing what’s coming.

  I’ve taken enough beatings that I know how to handle myself, and if Rachel wants to hurt me, she’ll at least hurt back.

  But I’m exhausted.

  So tired of fighting this fight with every single omega. Dabbing foundation over my bruises, waking up aching with an empty stomach, wondering if I’ll have to fight just to get breakfast. Wondering how the trainers will punish me for fighting. The same cycle every day, over and over and over again.

  The clawing. The backstabbing. The hate.

  All I want is to be left alone until the OCC realizes I’m never going to awaken, and they’re going to have to let me earn back my debt by working the old-fashioned way instead of shipping me off to be some mafia pack’s sex doll.

  Evgenia folds her arms. “You want to explain that performance?”

  “Nope.” I rock back on my heels, glancing wistfully at the door.

  “Are you taking suppressants?”

  “What?” I jerk forward, almost falling over.

  “You’re twenty-three and not even in pre-awakening. Most omegas have a pack and a brood of babes by your age. Knowing your…tricks…I’m not the only trainer who suspects you’re sneaking drugs. If you’re caught—”

  “I’m not taking anything,” I say quickly.

  “Are you not?” She tilts her head to the side in an elegant, bird-like motion.

  Oh, I’m for sure sabotaging my body, but management will never figure out how. I’m just fucked either way if they think I’m on drugs. “I swear.”

  “Not everyone at the Center is blind to your shine, my little Darling. You’ll end up with a pack eventually. Make sure it’s one you can live with.”

  I shudder.

  There’s no pack I can live with, and I strive to keep my shine on matte. I know Evgenia thinks she’s doing me a favor by throwing me under the spotlight, but she’s actually throwing me under the city bus. “You should let Jovie take the solo. Her turns are super sharp.”

  So are her fingernails. Long acrylics she keeps bedazzled and filed into claw tips. Now there’s a girl who wants some attention. My nails are bitten-down stumps.

  “The solo is non-negotiable. You were requested, Lilah.”

  “By who?” My stump nails cut into my palms, and I’m already planning how to get out of this bullshit.

  “That’s not important.” She waves me off, moving to the sound system. “I want to see the routine from the top. Cleanse my soul after forcing me through that horror show.”

  With a sigh, I take my spot.

  Later, I’ll figure out how to earthworm my way out of the dance. It’s been a while since I gave myself food poisoning.

  So many options for self-sabotage. Anything to keep my ass safe and off that stage.

  Since I can’t go back in time and erase my childhood, Evgenia already knows my truth.

  Just this once, in the semi-safety of the dance studio, I let loose. For two-and-a-half blissful minutes, I feel free, spinning, whirling, twirling, and pretending I’m some other girl.

  “Flawless.” Evgenia claps. “You’re wasting your tal
ent.”

  My chest heaves, but I could dance for hours. I would dance for hours every day if not for the threat of being seen, measured, and sold.

  Never again.

  Evgenia walks me through a few of the advanced moves, and I’m ready for a second run from the top when I catch the twisted face peeking through the narrow strip of window in the door.

  Rachel.

  If the past has taught me one thing, it’s that retribution will be swift and catty.

  And stupid me. I forgot to pack my shiv.

  Two

  LILAH

  Since I’m already screwed, I stay and dance until the end of the day when Evgenia kicks me out so she can go home and watch her K-dramas.

  The campus is quiet.

  Everyone’s at dinner, sharing fake smiles, playing fake friends, and gossiping over the hottest alphas and the dreamiest packs.

  If I walk in now, Rachel and her minions will have the perfect chance to lock onto me. Instead of gift-wrapping myself for the bitch squad, I head to the pool building where the bite of chlorine burns my throat like chicken soup for my battered omega soul. I’ve spent enough nights in the water to memorize the schedule, and no one will be here until tomorrow morning’s swim classes.

  I change into my suit and plunge into the heated water, setting a grueling freestyle pace. When my heart’s pumping, I dive deep underwater, folding my knees in lotus position at the bottom of the pool.