Chapter 4: Personal Omega

I took the cup.

I filled it at the urn, extra hot, two sugars.

I walked back up the steps with half the dining hall watching through the windows.

Then I held it out to her standing up.

Peyton didn't take it.

"I said kneel."

"The roster says serve," I said. "It doesn't say kneel. I read it twice."

"It's implied."

"Then get the board to write it down. I'll kneel the day it's in ink."

One of her friends snorted into her hand.

Peyton's cheeks went the color of her cardigan.

She took the coffee, and tipped it out on the step, an inch from my boots.

"Too sweet," she said. "Make another one."

I made her four.

She poured out three.

I wrote all four in my head, to put down later.

By lunch I knew the job.

The varsity ate at the long table under the big MADRONE RIDGE WOLVES banner.

Personal omega meant I stood behind Peyton's chair with a tray, refilled her water, and got called "you."

Nobody at that table looks at the girl with the tray.

That was the first useful thing I'd learned in Madrone Ridge.

They talked like I was furniture.

Who'd gotten drunk at the quarry. Whose dad was buying whose truck. Who was a bad kisser.

Then a heavy man in a gray suit sat down at the end of the table beside Rhett.

Peyton's father.

The table went a little quieter. Not much.

"Book's open," he said to Rhett, low. "Fifty a head this year, double for a catch at the river."

"Who's the favorite?"

"The new one. Five to one she doesn't make the trees."

Rhett laughed.

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