Another fact about betas that people have consistently, stubbornly wrong: everyone assumes we can't fight alphas. That the size and the biology make it a foregone conclusion.
What people forget is that can't and won't are two very different things.
On a regular day I can take down a few alphas at the fight club without breaking a serious sweat. Sport, mostly. Good for the joints. And on a good day I would absolutely not land a sucker punch on my manager's perfect jaw over an omega I barely talk to.
This is not a good day.
A week of that bastard's antics, a week of doubled overtime folded into a cubicle like a piece of furniture, I am wound tight in a way that the fight club would've fixed nicely if I'd been allowed to get there. The distinction between can't and won't gets thinner the longer this guy talks.
"Hey." He clocks me from across the alley, clicking his tongue like I'm an inconvenience he'll deal with in a minute. Runs a hand through his messed up hair — jet black,the signature Miller features. I'll give him this: he's objectively good looking. Broad shoulders, that alpha posture that takes up more space than strictly necessary. Shame about everything beneath the surface stinks like ass. "What the hell are you doing here? Can't you see we're busy."
"You probably didn't even catch the pheromones," he continues, upper lip pulling back slightly to a sneer. "Beta nose. No offense. This is between us, so why don't you go on, little pup."
I don't say anything. My eyes slide past him to Luke, pressed against the wall behind him, shivering from fear. His eyes find mine and I see it — the silent desperate please — but the kid is too well-mannered for his own good because he doesn't make a sound.
"Stop looking at him," Caleb growls. "And start walking."
Ah. This possessive bastard.
Here's the thing about pheromones and alphas: the biology basically gives them a free pass. Lose control, claim instinct, walk away free of any consequences. Cops don't touch Miller family anyway, and even if Luke pressed charges — which he wouldn't, because that's not how this world works — Caleb would skate on biological compulsion before the paperwork dried. Funny system. Really well designed.
I crack my neck. Feel the stiff muscles from a week at that desk finally start to loosen up.
"You know," I say, mostly to myself, "just because I'm not a slave to pheromones doesn't mean I can't have a shit day."
"What did you just sa—"
My fist connects squarely with his jaw before he finishes the sentence.
Caleb Miller — broad, alpha, powerful, heir to the whole ridiculous legacy — hits the pavement with a grunt.
I look down on his convulsing figure "And you just made my day even shittier."
I shake out my hand. My knuckles are bleeding. Punching an alpha is genuinely harder than punching a regular person, denser, and certainly more painful. Still. Deeply satisfying.
"YOU MUTT—" He lunges from the ground, grabbing for me, and I step sideways and put my foot into his stomach. He folds in pain.
"Yeah, you can do that tomorrow," I say, shoving my hands in my suit's pockets.
I turn to Luke, who is staring at me with his eyes the size of dinner plates.
"Come on. Let's go before he gets up."
I grab his wrist and pull him out of the alley before he can find words to protest.
***
"You want one?"
Luke holds out a cigarette from his pack as we walk. We're heading in the direction he described ,his place, apparently. I offered to walk him. Wasn't sure if that alpha would pull himself together and try something else tonight. Better be safe than sorry.
I'll be damned. This omega is not nearly as meek as he looked back there.
"No thanks. Makes it harder to pick up scents."
He glances at me sideways but doesn't push it. Takes a long drag instead, exhaling slow, the smoke catching in the cold night air between us.
Betas can still smell, just duller than the other two. Basic things — weather, food, whether someone's been running. Nothing like what alphas and omegas pick up from each other. I have no interest in dulling it further.
We walk in silence for a bit. He's shorter than me by a fair margin, reddish-brown hair slightly disheveled from earlier, green eyes catching the streetlight when he glances ahead. Objectively he's a handsome man. Beautiful, even, in the particular way omegas sometimes are, something almost unfair about it.
"You're really obsessed with keeping up with the rest of us, huh," he says eventually.
I slow my pace to match his. I'd been walking too fast.
"Something like that." I nod toward the cigarette. "That's bad for you, by the way. I didn't take you for a smoker."
He scoffs. "Why — because I'm an omega?"
He says it like he's ready for a fight, chin slightly up, like an irritated rabbit. It's kind of funny. I press my lips together to keep from smiling.
"You got me there. Sorry."
He holds my gaze a moment longer, checking for sincerity, then looks away. Takes another drag.
"The only reason I looked like prey back there," he says, quieter now, "was because of his pheromones. The bastard was trying to forcefully subdue me." His hand tightens into a fist briefly at his side as he says it. Then releases.
I drop my eyes to the path ahead.
I don't have anything useful to offer on that. I genuinely wouldn't know what it feels like…to have your own responses hijacked at someone else's biological command, your personality switched off like a light. From everything I can read in him right now, Luke hates it. Hates that it works. Hates that it almost worked tonight.
"I'm sorry," is all I can say.
He exhales.
"It's alright." A pause. Then, so quietly I almost miss it: "...you got hurt because of me."
I look down at my knuckles. Still a little bloody, already starting to crust over. I grin.
"This is nothing. Don't worry about it."
It is true, this does not even come close to when I go to the gym for a good match.
"Still — you should let me treat it at least—" He's already squirming, frowning up at me with this look.
I reach over and ruffle his hair without thinking.
He goes very still.
I realize what I've done about two seconds after doing it. Pull my hand back.
"Sorry. Couldn't help it." I clear my throat. "Truly, it's fine. And we're at your place anyway."
He's looking slightly to the side now, not quite meeting my eyes. Something in his expression I can't fully read, he's gone quiet in a different way than before. I really wish I could read his pheromones now, because he doesn't really look angry, yet still is looking at me very strangely. I can't decipher that emotion.
"..."
I think he is trying to say something, but it is impossible to hear so I lean a little closer.
"I'm sorry, what did you—"
"T-THEN LET ME TAKE YOU FOR DINNER." He squares his shoulders immediately after, adds in a much more controlled voice: "As compensation. Obviously. Nothing more."
His ears are a little pink.
A free dinner. After a week like this one, with whatever disciplinary conversation is definitely waiting for me at the office on Monday. Honestly, who am I to say no.
"Sure," I say, and hand him my phone to put in his number.
He looks like he wants to say something else as I pocket it and turn to leave. I catch it in my peripheral vision — that half-open expression, something sitting at the tip of his mouth.
But it's late, and he's had enough of a night. Better to let him rest.
I raise a hand without looking back.
"Goodnight, Luke."