Chapter 2: The Mask

The gala was held at the Ashford Tower—sixty stories of glass and steel that pierced the city sky like a silver needle, its tip lost in low clouds that glowed orange from the light pollution below. Leo arrived through the service entrance at 5:45 PM, fifteen minutes early, wearing a cheap black vest that was slightly too large and a bow tie that kept coming loose no matter how many times he tightened it. His shoes were polished but cracked at the toes. His pants were pressed but faded. He looked like what he was: a poor boy playing dress-up for the amusement of the rich.

A harried woman with a clipboard and a name tag that read "MARLA – EVENT COORDINATOR" shoved a silver tray into his hands before he could even sign in. The tray was heavier than it looked, polished to a mirror shine, and already smudged with fingerprints from the last person who'd carried it.

"You're on the west balcony. Champagne only." Marla didn't look at him while she spoke. Her eyes scanned a clipboard filled with names and assignments, her pen moving constantly. "Don't talk to guests. Don't make eye contact. Don't breathe too loud, don't sneeze, don't exist unless someone needs a drink. Understood?"

"Yes, ma'am."

She sniffed the air around him—a quick, unconscious gesture that all Betas and Alphas did when assessing someone's secondary gender. "Beta?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Good." Some of the tension left her shoulders. "Omegas are distractions. Last year, one went into heat mid-event. Right there on the dance floor, in front of the mayor and three network news crews. Disaster. Absolute disaster. Cost me my bonus." She pointed toward a service elevator with a chipped brass button. "Go. Move. West balcony. Don't screw up."

The service elevator was small and hot and smelled like old food. Leo rode it alone to the fifty-fifth floor, watching the floor numbers tick upward. At the forty-second floor, the elevator stopped and the doors opened onto a hallway that led to the main ballroom.

He caught a glimpse of it before the doors closed again. Crystal chandeliers. Flowers everywhere—roses and orchids and something white and fragrant he didn't recognize. Music from a string quartet. And people. Hundreds of people in gowns and tuxedos, their laughter rising like birds startled from a field.

Every face wore a mask. Feathers and gold leaf and painted porcelain and velvet and silk. Some masks covered only the eyes. Some covered entire faces. Some were simple and elegant. Some were elaborate works of art that must have cost more than Leo's entire wardrobe.

Leo's own mask was a plain black domino, issued to all staff. It had a thin elastic strap that dug into his hair and left red marks behind his ears.

Hide your face, the rules said. You're furniture. You're scenery. You're nothing.

The west balcony was cold. The city spread out below him like a circuit board, lights twinkling in every direction. Leo stood by the railing with his tray, offering flutes of golden champagne to passing guests. Most ignored him. A few grunted. One elderly Beta man took a glass without looking at Leo's face, his attention fixed on someone across the room.

Then, an Omega woman in a diamond mask touched his arm.

Leo froze. Physical contact was dangerous. Physical contact meant scent transfer. Physical contact meant exposure.

But she only smiled at him, her eyes kind above the glittering mask. "You have kind eyes, young man."

Leo's throat tightened. His eyes—his forgettable, tired, dark-circled eyes. No one had ever called them kind before.

"Thank you," he managed.

She walked away without another word. Leo watched her go, something painful twisting in his chest. He didn't tell her that kindness was a luxury he couldn't afford. He didn't tell her that the last time someone had been kind to him, he'd ended up owing the Pharmacist two hundred dollars and three favors he still hadn't repaid.

Two hours passed. His feet screamed inside his cracked shoes. His back ached from holding the tray at the correct angle. His jaw hurt from smiling the way staff were supposed to smile—small, polite, invisible.

And the ache behind his navel had grown from a whisper to a dull roar, from a dull roar to a persistent throb that made his thighs tremble.

Not now, he begged his body. Please. Not now. Not here. Not in front of all these people. Not in front of all these Alphas.

He checked his scent patch by touch—a quick press of his fingertips against his collar. Still intact. Still stuck. Still working. But the skin underneath was hot. Too hot. Burning hot, like a fever concentrated in one small patch of skin.

Leo excused himself to the staff bathroom, a narrow closet with a toilet and a sink and a flickering fluorescent light. He locked the door, set down his tray, and pressed his forehead against the cool tile of the wall.

The tile was smooth and cold and slightly damp. He focused on the sensation—the cold against his flushed skin, the small points of pressure where the grout lines pressed into his forehead.

"You're fine," he panted. "You're fine. You're fine. You're fine."

The mirror above the sink showed a boy coming undone. Sweat on his brow, beading along his hairline. Pupils just slightly too wide, the black eating into the brown. His hands were shaking. His chest was heaving.

The patch was peeling at the corner. A millimeter of exposed skin. A millimeter of honey-and-jasmine scent leaking into the air.

One hour left, he told himself. One hour, then you go home, you pack, you leave this city forever. You never have to do this again. You never have to pretend again.

He pressed the patch back down, hard enough to sting, hard enough to leave a bruise. Then he straightened his vest, wiped the sweat from his face, picked up his tray, and returned to the balcony.

That's when he saw him.

The man stood alone at the far end of the balcony, away from the crowd. No mask—just a sharp, unsmiling face that looked like it had been carved from stone and then left out in the weather. Silver at the temples, threaded through dark hair. Broad shoulders in a black suit that cost more than Leo's yearly rent, the fabric so dark it seemed to absorb the light around it. He held a glass of whiskey, not champagne, and he wasn't looking at the city spread out below.

He was looking at Leo.

Their eyes met across the marble floor. Leo's heart stopped. Then it started again, twice as fast, pounding against his ribs like a caged bird.

Don't make eye contact, Marla had said. Don't. Don't. Don't.

But Leo couldn't look away. The man's eyes were dark—so dark they were almost black—and they were fixed on Leo with an intensity that made his skin prickle. It was the look of a predator who had just spotted prey. It was the look of an Alpha who had caught a scent.

The man tilted his head slightly, like a wolf hearing a rabbit in the brush. His nostrils flared once. Twice. Then he lifted his glass—a slow, deliberate toast—and smiled.

It was not a kind smile. It was a hungry smile.

Leo dropped his champagne tray.

The crash was deafening. Glass shattered across the marble floor. Golden liquid pooled at his feet, soaking into the cuffs of his pants. Guests turned and stared. Conversations stopped. The string quartet played on, oblivious, but no one was listening anymore.

Marla was already marching toward him from across the ballroom, her face purple, her mouth open to scream.

Leo didn't wait to hear what she would say.

He ran.

Not toward the service elevator. Not toward the exit. He ran down a dark hallway, past kitchen doors and storage closets, past a walk-in freezer and a room full of stacked chairs. He turned left, then right, then left again, until he found a narrow corridor lined with linen shelves stacked high with white tablecloths.

He dove behind a stack of tablecloths and pressed his hands over his mouth.

Breathe, he told himself. Breathe. You're fine. He didn't see anything. He didn't smell anything. The patch is fine. You're fine.

But the ache in his belly had become a fire. And the scent patch on his neck was peeling off, millimeter by millimeter, like a Band-Aid over a wound that refused to close.

And somewhere behind him, in the dark hallway, he heard footsteps.

Slow. Deliberate. Getting closer.

***Download NovelToon to enjoy a better reading experience!***