Sama Arthur

"Can I get a vodka and grapefruit?"

The voice was sweet, almost syrupy, but Sama heard the steel under it. A Beta used to getting her way. Sama’s hands worked without thought, reaching for the Grey Goose, scooping ice into a chilled glass. She slid a smile across the polished bar, confident, unhurried. "Coming right up."

"You always make them perfect, Sama," the woman said, leaning closer, perfume cutting through the scent-neutral air. "Timothy knows how to pick ‘em."

Sama let a low laugh slip, the kind that felt real enough to pass. "Glad to hear it. Keeps the tips coming."

Delights wasn’t just a club. It was her safe zone. The relentless pace, the noise, the blur of strangers—it kept her grounded. Timothy had hired her without fuss, thanks to Alex Henry’s casual introduction, no questions asked. The tips were good enough to make her salary feel like pocket change.

"These Omega clubs are electric," the Beta said, gesturing toward the packed room. Alphas and Betas mingled in slow, calculated circles. Most eyes drifted toward the Omegas—behind the bar, on stage, in the shadows.

Sama adjusted the glittery fishnets under her skirt, fingers brushing the snug line of her corset top. Uniform, armor, and disguise all at once.

"It’s a good kind of crazy," she agreed, sliding the drink across. "Everyone leaves happy. Wallets lighter."

Happy. Free. Nothing like the suffocating eighteen years before this. Here, she could choose her hours, her clothes, her company. She’d take this dangerous freedom over her father’s gilded prison any day.

A hand brushed her lower back. She flinched, twisting.

"Behind you, slowpoke," Alex Henry grinned, snagging a tequila bottle. Her blue eyes scanned Sama’s face. "You alright? You seem… off."

Sama gave her a genuine smile. "Better than good. Feeling free."

Alex’s grin turned sly. "Good. Because there are some seriously hot Alphas in here tonight. Work your charm, girl."

"Oh, I plan to." Sama pivoted toward a new customer, the practiced smile sliding into place. Every etiquette lesson her father had drilled into her now made her purse heavier.

Delights had rules—strict ones. Proof of suppressors, scent blockers in the vents, security armed to the teeth. For all its chaos, Sama had never felt safer.

Until Alex elbowed her again near midnight.

"You got this one," Alex murmured, nodding toward the far end of the bar. "Trust me."

Sama followed her gaze. At first, she saw only shadows. Then the scent hit her.

Earthy. Rich. Unmistakably male.

Her pulse kicked. It was faint but deliberate, a thread of primal instinct threading through the filtered air. Her eyes found him—and she forgot to breathe.

Dark brown hair, wavy and too perfect in its imperfection. High cheekbones, sharp jaw. His suit fit like it was made for him, deep grey, clean lines. He sat with the stillness of someone who didn’t need to prove he owned the space. His eyes—impossible to pin down between blue and green—locked on her.

Every warning bell in her head screamed.

Still, she moved forward, smile in place. "What can I get you tonight?"

He didn’t answer right away. He looked at her like he was reading something under her skin. Like he already knew.

"Whiskey," he said at last. His voice was low, rough, with an edge that brushed against her nerves.

She broke his gaze, turned to pour the drink, aware of how fast her heart was beating. He couldn’t be here for her. He couldn’t know. She’d left the East Coast months ago. No one knew she was here.

She almost collided with Alex. "Please, take this one for me," she hissed under her breath.

Alex raised an eyebrow. "Why? He’s gorgeous."

"Exactly the problem."

But Alex was already flipping a lighter for a flaming shot, lost to the roar of the crowd.

Sama took a breath, set the whiskey in front of him. "Anything else?"

He slid a card across the counter, his fingers brushing hers. The touch was a spark—violent, magnetic. Her breath caught. Was he trying to Influence her? No warm, dreamy haze followed, but the pull was there all the same.

"You look like you’ve seen a ghost," he said, smirk curling his lips.

"No," she lied, forcing her voice steady.

"Sure about that?" His eyes dipped to her name tag. "Sama. Interesting name."

"It’s the one on my tax forms," she said lightly, shoving his card back. She didn’t take strangers’ cards. Not from men like him.

His smirk faltered, just a fraction. "Careful, bartender. You never know who’s thirsty for more than a drink."

Her spine stiffened. "If you need anything else, Alex will take care of you. She’s the blonde."

She turned to leave, but his voice stopped her.

"You’ve gotten good at running."

The words hit her like a punch. Her hand tightened around the tray. She didn’t turn back.

"Wrong girl," she said.

"If you say so."

She forced herself to serve the next customer, but her pulse wouldn’t slow. When she finally risked a glance toward the corner, the seat was empty.

Relief washed over her—until she noticed something on the bar where he’d been.

It wasn’t his card. It was a folded napkin, neat, deliberate. She opened it with numb fingers.

We need to talk, Omega. Midnight. Out back. Don’t make me come find you.

Her breath caught. The ink was fresh. The scent clung to it.

She crumpled the napkin and shoved it into her apron. The walls felt closer, the air thinner.

Alex leaned in. "What did he say?"

"Nothing I’m going to repeat," Sama said, forcing a smile. But inside, she was already calculating her exits.

And wondering how the hell he’d found her.

.Dean Wason

“You changed your hair.”

The words slid out of Dean before she could set his whiskey on the counter. He didn’t blink. Didn’t smile. Just let the truth sit there, between them, like a loaded gun.

Her fingers hesitated on the glass. For a split second, her mask slipped — not the flirty bartender, not the girl moving like she owned the air around her — but the one from the surveillance photos, guarded, calculating.

Then it was gone. “Must have me confused with someone else.”

Dean leaned on the polished wood, his gaze pinning her in place. “Doubtful.”

He drank slow, letting the burn roll down his throat while he studied her. The hair was a deep wine color now, framing sharp cheekbones and gold-flecked eyes that caught the club lights like molten metal. Her scent hit him — honey, caramel, warm skin — and his Alpha stirred hard, pressing against his jeans.

He’d told himself he wouldn’t come here for this. That he was only in Delights to bait Crayons Arthur out of hiding. But up close, Sama Arthur wasn’t just a mark’s daughter. She was temptation wrapped in stubbornness.

And she was afraid. He could smell it. See it in the flicker of her gaze toward the exit.

He wanted to chase that fear. Bite it. Taste it.

Instead, he slid his payment across the counter, fingers brushing hers longer than necessary. “Don’t stay up too late,” he murmured, voice low enough for only her to hear.

Her jaw tightened. “Enjoy your night, sir.”

Dean let the corner of his mouth curl — not enough to be called a smile — before walking away. But he didn’t leave. He lingered in the crowd, watching her work, watching her pretend she wasn’t scanning for him between orders.

When he finally slipped out the rear door, he already had her address in his phone. Alex Henry, the bubbly roommate, had been an open book on her smoke break. One glance at her license plate and a quick database pull had done the rest.

The drive was short. The apartment complex was tucked behind sagging trees and the carcass of an old gas station. Perfect for disappearing. Perfect for trapping someone.

The lock on her unit was laughable. He was inside within seconds, the quiet swallowing him whole.

Her scent was here too — sweeter without the alcohol and perfume of the bar. He followed it to the bedroom.

Warm light from string bulbs draped over the bed, movie posters peeling at the edges. A bookshelf crammed with paperbacks leaned against the wall. This wasn’t the sterile penthouse he’d once raided. This was… lived in.

For a moment, a pang hit him low in the chest. It almost felt like intruding. He shut the thought down.

He flipped her pillow. A small knife lay tucked beneath. Cute. The kind of thing that would buy her a second or two before he broke her wrist.

The nightstand drawers were a treasure trove — suppressants, scarves, a pink vibrator. His jeans tightened. He shoved the image away.

In the bottom drawer, a black case. A gun, small enough to hide in her palm. He liked that she was armed. Liked imagining her pointing it at him, hand shaking.

A pile of towels in the closet hid a duffel stuffed with cash. And under that, a crumpled piece of paper.

Dickson’s name. Dickson’s number. Six digits. The price for vanishing.

Smart girl. Slick. Competent. And doomed.

Dean put everything back exactly where it had been — except for one thing. He took the knife from under her pillow and replaced it with a neat stack of bills. One thousand dollars. His tip.

Let her wonder how it got there. Let her think about him when she found it.

He left as silently as he’d come.

---

Sama Arthur

When Sama unlocked her front door, the air felt heavier than it should.

“You are not going to believe this!” Alex’s voice shot from the couch, making Sama’s heart kick hard in her chest.

Alex sat cross-legged in pajamas, hair in a messy bun, grinning like she’d just been handed a diamond ring.

“What?” Sama asked, forcing her voice steady.

“That guy — the one in the suit with the whiskey? Dean Wason? He tipped you a thousand dollars.”

Sama froze halfway out of her heels. “What?”

“Left it for you special. I told him I’d give it to you when I got home.”

Her stomach turned. “You told him we live together?”

“Yeah, but not where,” Alex said quickly. “I wouldn’t give out our address, Sama. You know that.”

She did. Alex was kind, almost to a fault. She’d taken Sama in with no questions asked, found her a job, never pried into why Sama paid rent in cash. But kindness didn’t cancel out danger.

“Keep the money,” Sama said.

Alex’s eyes widened. “Are you insane? It’s a thousand dollars!”

“Then keep it. I don’t want it.”

Alex groaned, but Sama was already moving toward her bedroom.

The second she stepped inside, her skin prickled.

Nothing looked different. But something felt different.

Her gaze swept the bed, the shelves, the closet door ajar by an inch. Her pulse thudded in her ears. She yanked her pillow over — and froze.

The knife wasn’t there.

In its place sat a neat stack of cash.

The same amount Alex had just mentioned.

Her mouth went dry.

Someone had been here.

She tore through her nightstand drawers. Everything was there, untouched. Or maybe not untouched — maybe moved just enough that she’d never be able to prove it.

She checked the closet next. Towels, clothes, duffel bag. Everything seemed in order.

Her heartbeat wouldn’t slow.

She slammed the door shut and sat on the bed, staring at the money.

Dean Wason’s face filled her mind — the way he’d looked at her, as if he knew something she didn’t. His voice, low and certain. Don’t stay up too late.

A hot cramp curled in her lower belly. Heat. Of course. Perfect timing.

She clenched her jaw, breathing through it, but every inhale brought his scent back to her. Whiskey. Warm skin. Male.

Her thighs pressed together before she could stop herself. She hated the way her body betrayed her.

Focus. Count the money. Count her own stash. Remember the plan.

Four thousand dollars saved. A few more months and she could disappear for good. Maybe even take Alex with her.

She shoved the tip into the nightstand drawer without touching it again.

Back under the covers, she kept her hand curled around the hilt of her knife — a different one, hidden in the mattress seam.

She would not think about him.

She would not think about the way he’d said her name without saying it.

Sleep was starting to pull her under when something shifted outside her window. A shadow. Slow. Deliberate.

Her eyes snapped open.

The faintest trace of whiskey and caramel drifted through the cracked pane.

And then, in the dark, a voice — low, almost a whisper, but close enough to hear.

“Sweet dreams, Sama.”

Heats aren't enjoyable when they're solitary.

She'd know.

She had her first one at sixteen, sobbing into a pillow, pinching her thighs together in agony. Her father, Crayons Arthur, had hired a tutor for her, but it only made things more terrible since the woman was trying to explain to her what was happening to her body.

And even now, years on, it's not the hurt that hurts so much as the loneliness.

It befell some, not others. While the arousal is the thing that ignites the delirium to start, it's the loneliness, the sense of loss, that sends her under, never wanting to emerge.

When she asked Alex Henry about it, her friend just raised an eyebrow and shook her head.

No, it's only her that dramatically dies of loneliness.

Wonderful.

Now, however, there is a financial advantage to her biology. All Omegas smell incredible when they are about to go into Heat.

And tonight, she knows she smells fantastic because the cash is coming in faster than she had expected.

She's been at work for just one hour and already made several hundred-dollar bills.

Just on drink orders.

"You should go on up there," Alex Henry tells her, glancing over at the other side of the stage. "You can use my shoes."

She hesitates, then shakes her head. It's a tempting thought, but she hasn't been courageous enough to do it yet. Even if the pay would be great.

"One day," she smiles at her friend. "But not tonight."

Alex Henry clucks her tongue, her blue eyes sparkling. “Fine. But one night. Maybe if Dean Wason comes back.”

Sama Arthur scowls. “You’re insane. He’s not coming back.” She finishes filling a glass with ice, then turns toward the top shelf of liquor. “And he’s a weirdo.”

“He liked you.”

Alex Henry doesn't blink, and Sama Arthur cuts a look at her. "Well, I don't like him. I don't have room to like anyone. You know that."

And she doesn't. She doesn't know if she has a heart, let alone if she can ever possibly maintain a normal relationship. At least not anymore at this point in her life, when she's barely trying to survive.

No room for Alphas.

Or anybody, for that matter. Except Alex Henry, who gives her a sympathetic smile and smacks her on the back.

"Sorry," she breathes, edging away to the opposite end of the bar. "You know I love you."

The night goes on, with liquor flowing endlessly. Laughter, chatter, and dance music fill the air as Sama Arthur's gaze sweeps the corridors. She reminds herself it's not to find an Alpha with perfect bone structure and sea-colored eyes.

She was correct.

He wasn't there.

He was just passing by.

She ignores the disappointment that stings her chest and flashes a beaming smile at a blond-haired, grey-eyed man when he purchases a beer.

He is easy to fool, which brings about an oversized tip.

By midnight, she has endured enough pretending to wear her false mask.

She goes to the back room and takes her black peacoat, which she drapes over the leather skirt and black corset that she wears to cinch her waist. She drapes a scarf around her throat and ensures that she is warm enough before she steps out into the cold night air outside the back of the club.

The stars are out tonight, and she's in awe at being able to just step outside, dressed in makeup and heels, looking up at the sky.

Freedom tastes good, though so bitter for ruining her past.

She's here. She is here.

A laugh explodes from her, free and soft as she takes in the frigid air, feeling the chill burn her lungs.

She's going to sit on a bench before something diverts her attention.

Against the outside wall, flyers and posters are hung, most probably nightclubs or concerts.

There's one that catches the eye more than any of the rest. This is the new one, freshly posted up, the face of a young, not-smiling girl with black eyes.

Missing.

Sama Arthur.

$100,000 Reward.

It's her.

It's her goddamn face on the poster.

Her legs feel numb as she robotically walks over to the flyer, peeling it off the wall and holding onto it tight within her fists.

Her father, Crayons Arthur, got her reported missing.

"No." She whispers, her trembling hands as she reads and rereads the missing person's poster.

She cries when she tears the paper into tiny little pieces, observes as they scatter to the floor, and sees the wind sweep them away.

She didn't expect him to get her reported missing.

The less people that are on Crayons Arthur, the better.

If anything, she assumed his men would find her and drag her back to him.

She didn’t expect him to get the authorities involved.

It’s not what he does.

How many more flyers are out here?

She should start wearing wigs. She should wear colored contacts—

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” a silky voice murmurs.

She jumps at least a foot.

The low, resonant voice came out of darkness, in the shadows where no one would ever tread.

But Dean Wason appears, dressed in a long-sleeved black shirt and pants, arms crossed, his black booted foot hooked casually against the wall.

The businessman of the night before has disappeared.

This man melts into shadows, his ghostly face illuminated by moonlight.

Her memory did not serve his face well. His stubborn jaw now wears dark stubble that is sprinkled all over it, and his eyes are as keen as they used to be.

His voice was accusatory.

In a matter of seconds, he takes another step in closer, so that she finds herself having to tilt her head back just to catch sight of him. His scent envelops her, a warm embrace against her senses.

"No, I'm just cold." She's lying, doing her best to sound stubborn. "And I'm not used to people hanging around at the back when I think that I am alone."

His scent, so close to her, is sufficient to make her womb ache. She wishes he couldn't smell how close she is to being in Heat or how embarrassed her reaction to him was.

At least he doesn't carry on like the guys who work for her dad, Crayons Arthur.

He's not sleazy, but he is intimidating.

She needs to step away from him.

"My apologies. I thought customers could be out here."

He's goading her, based on the quirk of his lip.

"Who are you?" She cries out. All of her is screaming to turn around and flee back into the security of the building, but her legs won't move. She's stuck on small talk with him until she unsticks herself from the spot where she stands.

Her inner Omega frets, unwilling to leave the intoxicating, heady scent of spice and leather.

He tilts sideways, eyeing her cautiously. "Dean Wason," he tells her, as if to a child.

She scrunches her face. "Dean Wason who?"

"Just forgot Dean Wason."

She breathes out, her gaze flicking down to his boots once more. His gaze is so intense that she can't stand its look for longer than a moment.

"What are you doing here?"

"The same as all the rest here." She can hear the roll of laughter in his voice, and it makes her angry.

"Having a drink and flirting with nice Omegas.".

No. What are you doing around here? I've never seen you around, and you're definitely from out of town."

Her flash of anger cuts back to him and recedes when she sees the threat there.

She should stop him and go back inside.

"Hm. Why's that?"

The arrogance seeps with every word he utters, and she snaps.

She doesn’t do well with Alphas looking down on her, and this one is no exception.

“The thousand-dollar suit from last night, the perfectly styled hair, and the permanent, cocky smirk on your face,” she spits.

He looks taken aback, but then he chuckles. “Well, you’re correct in that, Sama Arthur. I’m here on business.”

His eyes soften and her breath catches.

No, he shouldn’t be this attractive.

It’s her cue to leave.

“What kind of business?” She asks instead, cursing herself inwardly for not going back inside.

It doesn’t matter what he does, as long as he doesn’t know who she is.

As long as he’s not here for her.

He takes a step back from her, leaning back against the stucco wall. “I’m a contractor,” he says simply, sighing. “Self-employed.”

His reaction is wrong, and he still treats her like there's a joke she doesn't get.

As if he knows something that she doesn't.

"Just Dean Wason, then," she says. "You can creep around in the shadows. Have a drink if you like, you know where to find it." She makes a final effort, gets the cardboard, the nauseating sweet smile onto her face once more before she turns and heads away, out through the doors and back into the club.

He grunts something in her ear, but she doesn't hear and hurries inside, attempting to calm the frantic thudding of her heart.

After going back into the bar, she wipes the path of slick off her legs.