9. Aria

9

ARIA

Restless energy surges through me as I glance at the text from earlier one more time, my fingers twitching like I’ve had way too much caffeine.

Willow : I know exactly what you need. Meet me on level three at four. Bring your game face, sweetie.

I snort, tucking my phone away. Game face? More like try not to punch the next alpha I see face. It’s been my default expression lately, right up there with world’s most exhausted omega and one sarcastic comment away from losing my shit .

At 3:55, I cave.

Patience has never been my strong suit—just ask my dead houseplants. I make my way to the elevator, my heart doing a weird tap dance in my chest. As the doors slide open on level three, I step out into a dimly lit corridor that smells vaguely of disinfectant and… is that adrenaline?

I spot Willow leaning against the wall, looking like the cat that ate the canary and then some. “Took you long enough,” she remarks, pushing off the wall with a grace I’d kill for. “Come on, I have a surprise that’ll knock your socks off and possibly a few other things.”

She leads me to a set of double doors, pausing for dramatic effect before throwing them open. “Welcome to Omega Fight Club. First rule? We absolutely talk about Omega Fight Club.”

The room that greets us is nothing short of spectacular. It has gleaming equipment, padded floors that look softer than my bed—although that’s not saying much—and wall-to-wall mirrors make me feel like I’m in some kind of omega funhouse.

“Holy shit,” I whisper, my eyes as wide as saucers. “This is… Are we even allowed in here?”

Willow’s grin is downright wicked. “Honey, we built this place. It’s all ours.” She raps her knuckles against the wall. “It’s soundproofed tighter than my gran’s Tupperware. You could scream bloody murder in here, and no one would bat an eye.”

She points to some futuristic-looking gizmos near the ceiling. “And those? Scent diffusers for when things get a little… heated.”

The implication isn’t lost on me. I remember all too well the overwhelming scent of alpha that permeated Pack Clarke’s dojo—cedarwood and amber, leather and sandalwood, lavender and bergamot, citrus and ocean breeze. This… This is different. This is ours.

Willow tosses me a pair of training gloves, and I catch them on reflex. The familiar weight settles something within me.

“Ready to punch out some of that tension?” Willow asks, her eyes glinting with challenge. “Or should I say, ready to imagine Malachi’s face on these pads? Maybe Zane’s?”

I slip the gloves on, muscle memory taking over. “Bold of you to assume I need to imagine anyone’s face to want to punch something.”

We start with basic drills, the rhythmic thud-thud-thud of fists meeting pads filling the air. It feels good—no, it feels fucking fantastic. With each punch, I feel some of my pent-up frustration bleeding out of me like I’m a human stress ball.

Willow won’t let me off that easily, however, because she’s like a dog with a bone when she wants something.

“So,” she says casually, blocking my jab with infuriating ease, “want to spill about what went down with Malachi? Or do I need to beat it out of you?”

I throw another punch, channeling a bit more of my frustration into it. “What’s there to talk about? He showed up in my safe space, and I reacted.” With a roll of my eyes, I add, “What did they expect? A welcome mat and a fruit basket? Maybe a nice thanks for the trauma card?”

The words taste bitter on my tongue, memories of that day with Pack Clarke flashing through my mind. I push the thoughts away, focusing on the present.

Willow arches an eyebrow, dodging my next swing like she’s auditioning for the fifth Matrix movie. “And now that you know why he was really there?”

My split-second hesitation costs me. Before I can blink, Willow sweeps my legs out from under me, and I hit the mat with a thud that rattles my teeth. The impact knocks the air from my lungs, leaving me gasping like a fish out of water.

“Sorry, champ,” Willow says, not sounding sorry at all. Her smirk could cut glass. “You left yourself wide open there. In more ways than one, I might add.”

As she helps me up, the double meaning of her words isn’t lost on either of us. We go back to sparring, and slowly, like a dam cracking under pressure, the words start to flow.

“I just don’t get it,” I say between punches, each impact punctuating my frustration. “Why would Pack Clarke suddenly give two shits about helping omegas? What’s their angle? Because there’s always an angle with alphas.”

Always. Like with Noah. The thought sends a chill down my spine, memories threatening to surface. I remember the way he’d use his scent to overwhelm me and make me feel small and powerless. I push the memories down, focusing on physical exertion instead.

Willow pauses, taking a long swig from her water bottle. The silence stretches between us, broken only by our heavy breathing and the soft whir of the AC.

“People can change, Aria,” she says, her tone thoughtful. “Especially when they have a reason to.”

I scoff, rolling my eyes so hard I’m surprised they don’t fall out of my head. “You mean me? I’m not that special.”

Yeah, right. Just a runaway omega who managed to turn a pack of alphas on their heads. Totally normal Tuesday.

Wait, is it Tuesday?

“Aren’t you though?” Willow counters, her gaze sharp enough to draw blood. “You stood up to them and challenged their alpha bullshit. You made them see omegas as actual people, not just walking incubators. That isn’t something everyone can do, sweetie.”

Her words linger in the air as we ramp up to more intense sparring. The slap of skin on skin, the squeak of feet on the mat, and the harsh rasp of our breathing all blends into a symphony of exertion and emotion.

“I get it,” Willow says, effortlessly dodging my roundhouse kick like she’s dancing instead of fighting. “You’re scared, and honey, that’s valid as hell, but what if they are genuinely trying to make amends?”

“Then why didn’t Malachi just tell me that?” I retort, blocking her counterattack with more force than necessary. The impact sends shockwaves up my arm, a physical echo of my inner hullabaloo.

“Did you give him a chance to? Or did you go full omega rage on him before he could get a word in edgewise?”

The question hits harder than any punch, and I falter. Willow takes advantage, pinning me to the mat with a swift maneuver that leaves me breathless and more than a little humbled.

“Okay, okay,” I rasp, tapping out. “Point taken. I might have… overreacted a smidge.”

Willow helps me up, her expression softening. “I’m not saying you have to trust them right away. Hell, I’m not even saying you have to trust them ever, but maybe give them a chance to explain. It doesn’t have to mean anything more than that.”

We cool down in companionable silence, the gentle stretch of muscles a welcome distraction from the weight of our conversation. As we finish, Willow nudges me gently.

“You know, Pack Clarke has a fundraiser coming up. It’s for omega rights. They’ll be there, talking about the new support program.”

I freeze, my hand hovering over my water bottle. “And you’re telling me this because…”

Willow shrugs, her expression carefully neutral. “Just thought you’d want to know in case you decide you’re ready to hear them out.” She pauses, then with a hint of steel in her voice, she adds, “But remember, you call the shots here. No pressure, no judgment. You say jump, and I’ll ask off which cliff.”

I nod slowly, not quite ready to commit but not dismissing the idea either. As we leave the dojo, I glance back at the space—its polished surfaces and open layout a testament to the strength and resilience of omegas everywhere. Maybe it’s what I need too.

“I’ll think about it,” I tell Willow as we step into the elevator, and to my surprise, I actually mean it.

That night, I lie in bed, my muscles singing a pleasant ache from the workout. The scent of lavender lingers from my evening tea. I replay the day’s events—the confrontation with Malachi, the cathartic ass-kicking in the dojo, and Willow’s words about change and second chances.

The anger and mistrust are still there, simmering under the surface like a pot about to boil over, but they are now tinged with something else—a glimmer of curiosity and a small, stubborn hope that maybe things aren’t as black and white as I believed.

I roll over, burying my face in my pillow. Tomorrow, I’ll decide what to do about Pack Clarke, but for tonight, I’ll let the day’s exhaustion pull me under into a deep, dreamless sleep where, for a few hours at least, I can escape the weight of everything that’s still unresolved.

As consciousness fades, one last thought flits through my mind as sharp and clear as a bell.

If I let Pack Clarke in, will I be opening the door to allies or inviting in the very danger I’ve been running from all along? And more terrifyingly, am I ready to find out which?