Page 11 of Sold to the wrong Alpha
He observed the dark house. He glanced at the street behind him.
What if something worse was waiting for him behind that gate? What if Rocco worked for someone who wanted to skip the auction, get an omega without paying?
Pursuing him, closing in, was certainty. Reznov. The casino. The stage. The hands of the man he’d just knocked down, which would multiply tenfold, twentyfold. They’d put a permanent collar on him, not like the soft leather one he wore now. They might even tattoo a number on the back of his neck, marking him—as long as it wasn’t permanent.
He had no phone. No money. No shoes. In this city, he didn’t know anyone who could help him. His own family had turned him in.
The gate had an intercom built into the right pillar. Ren pressed it. The electronic beep sounded loud in the street’s silence. He waited three seconds. Four. Five. Water was running down his face and trickling down his body. Every drop was a reminder of how exposed he was there, standing, visible to anyone who turned the corner.
He pushed it again. He kept his finger pressed against the button.
“Go to the guardhouse. Five meters to your left.”
Ren started walking.
Beyond the gate stood a three-meter-high wall of gray stone, crowned by an almost invisible row of cameras that Ren only noticed because one of them swiveled—a minimal, mechanical movement—as he approached. Behind the wall, the tops of several trees peered out like silent sentinels. And embedded inthe structure itself, like an organic extension of the stone, a security guardhouse. Thick glass. Dim light inside. And a man.
Ren watched.
The guard was a beta. He knew it before he was close enough to sense his neutral scent; he knew it by the way he occupied the space: without the territorial tension of an alpha, without the instinctive wariness of an omega. Just a large, functional body, comfortable in its own skin. He had broad shoulders and large hands. He wore a pistol on his right hip. The black leather holster lay unfastened.
Ren swallowed. The metallic taste of adrenaline had filled his mouth for some time, so constant that it had almost become normal.
The guardhouse had a glass window facing the street and a side door. Inside, a chair, a panel of monitors, a thermos. Nothing else. The guard was reading something on a tablet and occasionally looked up toward the avenue with the professional disinterest of someone who had seen no movement in hours.
Don’t go in there.
The inner voice was distinct, precise, and logical. The same voice that had told him for years to train, not to trust, that an omega who depends on others is nothing but property. The exact voice which had screamed at him to run when the lights went out in the casino.
You don’t know Rocco. You don’t know this mansion. You don’t know who lives behind that wall.
Then, cutting through the night, a shout.
Remote. Three, maybe four blocks away. But unmistakable. A man calling to another. Coordinating. Tightening the perimeter.
Ren closed his eyes. He squeezed his eyelids shut until colored spots appeared behind the darkness.
Seven hundred thousand dollars.
He’d seen the figure form on Reznov’s lips before the auctioneer repeated it. He’d seen the man raise his hand with an almost theatrical laziness, as if the amount were a minor whim, a round of champagne for the table. But his eyes—calculating and hungry in a way that had nothing to do with food—hadn’t stopped watching him for a second. Despite the other bids going up. Not even when Malachi tried to provoke a bidding war. Reznov looked at Ren the same way a collector looks at a piece he already considers his own: with the calm patience of someone who knows no one is going to outbid him.
Seven hundred thousand dollars for a blue-eyed omega with delicate bones.
Ren’s eyes widened.
In the guardhouse, the guard was still present. The street, however, remained empty. But the screams drew nearer. Maybe two blocks away.
He decided, for better or worse. With his feet numb from the pain and his right hand now clenched around the paper Rocco had given him, he stood in front of the security post. His soaked hair fell over his eyes.
The guard looked up from his tablet. His appearance did not startle him. He didn’t reach for his gun. He looked at him.
And something changed in his expression.
It was subtle. A blink slower than the previous one. A slight tension in his jaw. The guard’s eyes scanned Ren from head to toe and returned to his face with something Ren couldn’t quiteplace. It wasn’t pity. Wasn’t surprise either. Recognition was what it was.
As if he’d been expecting him.
Ren’s stomach clenched.
