Quinn
There was a basket of clothes at her door when she awoke hours before dawn, drenched in the scent of caramel, gooey with musk. One sniff and she knew without a doubt that the shirt and slacks were Helios's — soft-cotton and warm wool. It fit snug upon her skin, and something in her shivered in delight at the cocoon of his scent.
But a quiet knock on her door later, an unknown servant's outreached hand, and there were other things from the other Omegas.
Too many things.
Leather coats and oversized fits from Zen, shoes and socks from Solar—he'd somehow identified the size of her feet. Then a mountain of satin and silks from Rowan—buttoned shirts that fell to her thighs, soft towels for her hair. Even Icarus had contributed to the amount, with cotton turtlenecks and pants drenched deep in his whisky.
It was enough for a nest, enough soft comfortable things to splay out around her in a bed for an Omega.
They'd each provided clothes enough to last for a week, had even gifted her underthings from their own personal collection. She'd pressed her lips together and splayed out the boxers and underwear —clean, not stained, but smelling so deeply of them it had a shiver running up her spine.
The items did not seem to come from careful discussion. A group of Omegas who were gifting her clothes as a pack. No. These were done secretly, without the knowledge of the other. And soon she found her wardrobe filled to the brim with Omega. It had warmth dancing up from her chest, a generous swell in her heart. She was luxuriating in scent soaked garments that kissed her glands.
But still a tremble remained in her hands, and her lungs seemed to struggle to inhale. Fear remained haunting her, and last night it felt as if she'd crossed the line of death with her crazy tongue. There were moments when she was sure Icarus would kill her, and yet she'd exploded into a rant, determined to rip open Band-Aid from a metaphorical leaking wound. It was insanity for her to speak to him in the ways she had, but in her cornered terror, her mind had broken into rage, had spilled back into her true self, uncaring of consequence, betting on Euodia's memories.
She held herself then, eyes closed. Quinn would be safe in a year.
James, the housekeeper, was there to greet her when she left her room, closing the door.
The Omega was creased from a lifetime, ashy with age, hair all peppered silver. He had a bony skeletal figure, but stood tall, thickly dressed in black velvet and starched clean formal garb. His eyes were hard as they regarded her with a fierceness that she knew. The prejudice against Alphas was burnt deep within him, seared upon his mind. And she didn't need him to tell her that to know that he hated her.
"There is much to be done, girl," were the first words out of his mouth. His gums were raw, puddled in blood from a deficiency, but the sharpness of his fangs showed his species—vampire. There was pride on his face, and a sneer in the flare of his nose. He must be about 50 or so, perhaps younger, perhaps older. "You were good at cleaning?"
"Yes," she straightened herself. "Kitchen work was a part of my duties at Hemlock."
"Did I ask?" James snapped—cold, frosty, awfully hostile. "No collar," he spat, nose wrinkled into a sniff, swept over the bareness of her neck, and immediately Quinn wondered if she should have worn Icarus's turtlenecks. He walked down the halls with a straightened back. "Scrawny and weak," he hissed under his breath, a strange glance her way that seemed almost pitying.
She followed.
The kitchen was small for kings. A marbled island with highchairs, a gas stove, an open space with inlaid oak wood cabinets, a spice rack of limited stock, and an old refrigerator that hissed with age. It was quaint stucco, earthy with terracotta and stone. The throngs of servants that Kings should have only lingered at the doorways to a distant backyard to deliver goods and accept dirty laundry. She saw them from the corner of her eye, whispering with their hands wrapped in cloth as if to prevent the stain of their scent on the kings' soiled linen.
The space was relatively clean; the stove lacking in soot, utensils arranged cleanly, spotless where cooking begun. Still, at the corners there was dust, spots with stringy threads of lard, and grease that oiled grounds where it should be scrubbed with more vigour. It did not take long for James to nod towards the filth, an expectant look on his face, and Quinn was on her knees scrubbing with her sleeves rolled up.
There wasn't much that needed to be said. He had chores for her to do, and she had to do it.
Quinn polished the tiles until it sparkled, fingers pruning through a solution that burned at her flesh. And James spent an hour staring from how own little corner, calculative and awaiting mistakes. He did so while busying himself with a ledger. Pen scratched over the paper, glasses perched on his nose that only made his eyes murkier.
But there was nothing he could do, really. For Quin was a professional, and she had decided to be relatively obedient in the eyes of the Omegas. It was safer that way to be obedient and good. And so for an employer, there really wasn't much to be angry about when work was done at a good pace. He'd merely griped on her methods, a remark on how every tile should be of equal quality. A snappy hiss about spending far too long on a spot.
But micromanaging wasn't something she'd never seen before from a boss.
Quinn was here for the gold. She wanted to horde a good wad of cash that would fatten her wallet so that she could purchase goods from Float and survive in the wild. For that, she would keep an amicable relationship with the seven, and then leave. Quinn would survive. She'd survived this long after all.
There was no reason for her to be extra nice to them, not if she wanted them to rescind her offer and force her to stay. And they could, if they enjoyed her presence far too much. There was a balance that Quinn needed to strike, perhaps even a wall she had to carve between her and them. A wall between death and being able to leave freely. It was a dangerous tightrope that she had to play. Quinn sighed.
The growing Hearts from the seven were useless to her, Quinn decided with a scowl. The list of new strange abilities she could purchase had confused her. Things like Alpha perfume and Better Sense of Smell. She'd scoured the list for something useful like Search, but there were only skills that seemed to push her to become some sort of fake Alpha. Skills that would only turn the seven against her, Quinn was sure of it.
There was a reason the seven liked her, and Quinn was certain it was because her scent was mild and she was all Beta. She rose from the ground, brush splashing into her bucket only to pause, eyes wide at the figure that stood at the counter, watching her with beautiful eyes.
Elysian.