1. Tristan

1

TRISTAN

"You're not going to fuck up this time, are you, Tristan?" Father asks, glaring at me from his seat in the limousine.

He phrases it like a question, but it's actually a command—and a veiled warning. What he really means to say is, Fuck up, and I'll marry you off to the oldest, grumpiest, ugliest alpha I can find and never look back. He's said those words before, and he'll inevitably say them again. They've been repeated more and more frequently since that night with the vase and Mister Whatever especially. The threat follows me like a shadow, hovering over everything I do.

One of these days, he'll make good on it.

I almost drop the buffing cloth from my shoe-shine kit. My cheeks burn, and I can barely bring myself to look him in the eyes. "N-no, Father. I won't."

Dane snorts and crosses his beefy arms over his chest. I'm almost surprised the seams on his tux don't burst from the motion. "Yeah, right."

Father ignores this. He ignores everything Dane and Blaise do to slight me. Always has, from the time we were children. And he's been especially keen to forget how it was Dane and Blaise's mistake on our last job, not mine, that led to Mister Whatever being home the night I robbed him.

See, in our family, not all brothers are created equal. There's me: small and skittish. Dane and Blaise: big and brutish. Me: Papa's favorite. Them: Father's prized baby boys, no matter how large they grow.

These distinctions are something they—Father included—never let me forget. While Dane and Blaise attended a private academy, I went to the public school down the street. On weekends, Father carted them around half of Arden to their sporting matches; I stayed home and did chores. When Dane sprained his ankle at a football game, he got a new gaming system to keep him occupied while he recovered. When I broke my arm, I was doing dishes by dinnertime.

You get the idea.

At least when we were little kids, I had Papa. His soft, kind words. His gentle hugs. The strawberry candies he'd carry in his pocket and give to me when no one was looking. Papa made everything better—every one better, too. Father included. He was gentler back then. Happier. More playful. Less tense. Now, I can't remember the last time I saw Father smile.

I take after Papa. Father can't stand it … Or the fact that I'm an omega, unlike him and my saintly brothers.

"Then let me hear you say it again," Father orders, fussing with his platinum cufflinks. "I want to be sure you understand."

"And keep buffing while you talk. I want to see my reflection in the tips of my shoes." Hovering over me, Blaise nudges me with his foot and circles the tip of his index finger in the air impatiently. He, Dane, and Father all look so much alike—silky waves of jet-black hair, sun-bronzed skin, and a strong, square jaw—they could almost be brothers instead of me. Only the flecks of gray at Father's temple give him away as their parent.

My shoulders slump. I wish I could sink through the floor of the limousine. Still, I obey them both.

"First, I walk three blocks north to the Dawes estate. Then, I find my way to the back with the rest of the staff and blend in with the catering crew. I work the fundraiser like any of them would. When no one's watching, I slip away, find the painting in Senator Dawes's study, and swap it with the reproduction."

Father gives me a curt nod. "And after that?"

"After that, I disappear without drawing attention to myself and make sure I'm back here by midnight, where you'll pick me up again."

He gives a small grunt, as if he's disappointed that he's not disappointed in me. "All right, Tristan. Off you go, then. We can't have you running late."

"No, Father."

He scowls.

"I mean, yes , Father."

I give Blaise's shoe a final buff, then scramble to get off my knees and pack up my kit. It's hard to move, though, with a painting hidden beneath my waiter's uniform, strapped to my chest like a corset, and I drop the box before I can latch it.

"Oh, for fuck's sake," Father snaps as brushes and tins of polish scatter over the floor. "Just go, Tristan. Blaise will pick that up."

Like hell he will.

Surprisingly, my brother rolls his dark eyes and reluctantly scoops up a fallen shoe horn. I'll pay for inconveniencing him later, I'm sure. Hands shaking, I reach for the handle to the closest door. I can't get away from my family fast enough, and the feeling seems entirely mutual.

Arden Heights is the wealthiest part of the city. It's filled with street after street of sprawling mansions, in-ground pools, and decadent landscaping—all tucked behind tall hedges and gates, safe from the rest of the city. Naturally, such decadence makes it the neighborhood Father most aspires to live in.

It's also the neighborhood where Senator Mason Dawes already does.

Wiping my damp palms down the sides of my waiter's uniform, I swallow hard and force my feet to move. The memory of my final moments at my last job—watching the news about the senator in Mister Whatever's living room before I stole his vase—haunts me like a ghost. I never imagined my next gig would be stealing from the great Mason Dawes himself. It figures. Father's ambition knows no bounds, and he already has a buyer lined up this time. If we can pull this off, it'll be our biggest heist yet.

My stomach is churning with guilt already.

I'm sorry.

I already have my scrawled-out note stuffed into my sock, along with a small set of tools, lock picks, and a signal scrambler.

While the sun sets behind me, I retrace the route in my mind, remembering all the hours Father made me spend reviewing maps and the floor plans of the senator's estate. There are security cameras at the main entrance, one by the back gate. And a pair of guards walk the perimeter, each taking a full fifteen minutes around. The fundraiser tonight means there will be more people milling about than usual. That means more chances to get caught … But also more ways to blend in.

This could go either way, and since I have no intention of being promised to be an alpha today, there's no room for error.

I'm sorry.

Before long, the senator's house is in view. I recognize it from the photos on the news and the reconnaissance Dane and Blaise shared. Also, the catering trucks and florist vans lined up along the side of the house are a dead giveaway. I moisten my lips with my tongue and take a deep breath.

It's showtime.

"Oh good. Another waiter."

I've barely reached the back gate before an omega in tortoiseshell glasses holding a clipboard weaves through the crowd of men carrying floral arrangements and wheeling carts topped with polished warming trays and cloches. He seems panicked and rushed, but when he reaches me, he pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose and sighs with relief.

"I'm so glad you're here. We had someone call out sick. Everything's running behind. Name?"

"Henry Harris," I say. Not my real name again. Obviously. But it's the one Blaise used when pulling the strings required to get me this so-called job. Eventually, someone is bound to realize the rare painting in Senator Dawes's study is a fake. Hopefully, by the time that happens, it will be halfway around the world with Father's client. Still, we can't make it too easy for the police to trace the theft to me. That would undo everything.

"Henry, Henry, Henry …" Tortoiseshell's mouth quirks to the side as he runs a fingertip down the roster on his clipboard, searching for my name.

My palms start sweating again. Father and I never discussed a contingency plan for what happens should another omega become suspicious of me. I suppose I could take the same route I would with an alpha—the way I did with Mister Whatever—but that all depends on the omega. Some are only attracted to alphas.

I'm not. But some are.

"Ah. Henry. Found you at last." Tortoiseshell marks a small check by my name with his pencil, then glances up at me and chuckles. "I was worried there for a moment."

Me, too , I think as the knot in my gut loosens.

"Looks as though you've been assigned canapé duty. Follow me. I'll show you around."

Canapés? Somehow, I've survived nineteen years without knowing what one is. It appears I'm about to find out.

As it so happens, canapés are tiny snacks. Hors d'oeuvres. Toast points with caviar and tartlets with foie gras mousse. The idea of burly alphas nibbling such tiny, delicate foods almost makes me laugh when Jack—which turns out to be Tortoiseshell's real name—takes me and about a dozen other waiters to the kitchen.

"When your serving tray needs refreshing, you can pick up a new one here," Jack tells us. He points over his shoulder to a stainless steel counter where chefs in striped pants and white jackets fuss over arranging chives and pomegranate garnishes on round platters. "Then, you head this way."

He walks backward, anxiously watching us jolt into action and follow dutifully like a duck with their hatchlings. Our shoes clatter against the marble floor tile in an impossibly long hallway, making us sound more like a herd of horses than meek omega servants, and Jack has to ask us at least twice to pick up our pace. Between the floor-to-ceiling windows and glass chandeliers, there's so much to see.

But I'm not interested in those. Only in the location of Senator Dawes's study.

Then, I spot it. Third door on the left, beside a potted Ficus. It's more out in the open than I'd hoped it would be. Sneaking in will be more difficult than we'd planned for. I bet it's locked, too, especially on a night like this. The lock I can pick. The exposure is another story. I'll have to find another route inside entirely.

"Henry, keep up with us, please. There's much more to cover, and guests will begin arriving soon."

I turn in the direction of Jack's voice. Have I been too obvious? Does he sense I'm up to something?

He keeps charging forward, though, turning our small group past a pair of alphas carrying cocktail tables and into a sprawling space that can only be a ballroom. One of the other omegas gasps as he stares at the high ceilings and stately columns. He's taller than the rest of us, though he slouches to hide it, and his uniform is a bit shabbier, with a patch at one of the elbows—secondhand, probably. Wherever he's from, it's clearly a long, long way from Arden Heights.

Beside us, a couple of the other omegas snicker at his reaction. The boy's cheeks redden, and he takes a step backward, as if trying to find a place to hide. Immediately, memories of all the times Dane and Blaise have mocked me flicker through my mind. My hands curl to fists.

"What's so funny? Last I checked, none of us are kept omegas. You're working the same job he is, aren't you?" I give the rude omegas as hard a glare as I can manage—which, admittedly, is benign compared to Father's—but it shuts them up quickly enough.

"Thank you," the boy whispers to me, leaning closer while his bullies move on to their next target. "I'm Gus, by the way."

I grin, hold out my hand, and remind myself that tonight, my name isn't Tristan Turner. "Henry."

"Pay attention, please," Jack interrupts as his eyes land on us. He gives a slightly exasperated sigh, marks something else on his clipboard, then continues.

I get the feeling the goodwill I earned with him when I arrived earlier is running out.

"Now," he continues, "offer your tray to the senator's guests subtly, trying to stay invisible?—"

Invisible. Father would like that.

"You are to be neither seen nor heard. If a guest waves you away, give a polite nod and step back. If a guest complains about the refreshments, give a polite nod and ask what can be done to improve their experience. If a guest?—"

Whatever scenario Jack outlines next, I'm reasonably certain our response is meant to involve polite nodding, but I don't hear him explain this directly because the other omegas are snickering again.

My eyes dart toward them, ready to defend Gus, yet it's not him they're muttering about. One of the waiters points toward the wall of floor-to-ceiling Palladian windows overlooking the patio, garden, and pool, and I understand immediately.

Senator Dawes.

Their excitement is no surprise. Every omega I know follows Mason Dawes's career closely. He's our highest-profile champion. How can we not? And, sure, we've all seen photos and videos of him before—in news interviews, on magazine covers, across social media. We already know he's handsome. But none of that has prepared any of us, myself included, for seeing him like this.

The truth is impossible to ignore: in person, at this close distance, Mason Dawes is downright breathtaking.

Like Father and my brothers, there's no mistaking the senator for anything but an alpha. As he steps out of the pool, water rolls down his broad chest, emphasizing the lines of every lean muscle stretching across his bare arms and chest. The swells and curves look so soft, but I know they'd be firm and unyielding to the touch.

Gods, how I wish I could find out for sure.

The senator's skin almost seems to glow bronze in the last rays of the setting sun peeking through the hedges, and the broad smile he offers his middle-aged, omega assistant when he hands him a towel is twice as warm. I watch, unable to look away, while he blots his face and chest dry, then runs a hand through his golden-blond hair. Wrapping the towel around his waist and over his teal swim trunks, he says something none of us can hear from indoors. Mason and the assistant laugh, and he grasps the man's shoulder affectionately as they head inside.

How long was he out there? How did I not notice him the second I stepped into this room? Now that I've seen him, it seems impossible to focus on anything else. My heart keeps tripping over its beats, and my mouth's gone dry. And my hole …

No. Not tonight. Not now.

I swallow hard and take a shaky breath.

This has been happening more often lately—the dribbles of slick, the subtle discomfort of being empty, the longing. It's not only physical; it's emotional, too. Every time I'm attracted to an alpha nowadays, my body reacts more strongly than it ever did before. They say omegas in heat are irrational, consumed by desire and unable to think of anything else but breeding. Growing up, I never believed those rumors. Now, I'm starting to.

And even though it's too soon—the doctor said so when I went for my annual checkup this spring; I won't have my first heat for at least six more months—I have a terrible feeling it's coming.

I should go home and get ready. I've had a heat kit assembled for a year now, just in case. Father insisted. He didn't want to pay for me to have an alpha aide, so he went the less expensive route: a basket of dildos and plugs, vibrating eggs and fake knots—even clamps for my nipples. Anything I can use to soothe the ache in my body so I can get through the heat alone. The only thing worse than knowing he refused to invest more in my comfort and safety was having to watch him point to each item and instruct me on how to use it, should I have to.

And I'd thought lessons in how to be an art thief were miserable.

Leaving the fundraiser is not an option, though. I can't mess this job up. Father said so. His chilling words in the limo before he and my brothers drove off replay in my mind.

New plan: swap the real and fake paintings, and then get out of the mansion as soon as I can.

I don't have until midnight.