Chapter 1

The closet felt like my only sanctuary, its narrow walls a fortress against the outside world. Inside, the scent of my nest, the mixture of coconut and vanilla, wrapped around me like a comforting shroud. I had crafted this refuge with my own hands, a secret place where I could be myself, if only for a fleeting moment. The clothes hung high above, obscuring the view from the door, while beneath them lay the soft nest that cradled me.

I clutched the burner phone in my trembling hand, my heart pounding like a drumline in my chest. The time for my appointment with Dr. Parsons was drawing near, and the anticipation was a living thing, clawing at my insides. I had to be cautious; my father’s voice echoed in my mind, a snarl reminding me that nests were for mated omegas, not for the likes of me. But here, in the dim light filtering through the cracks, I allowed myself this transgression.

Both the closet and bedroom doors were locked, and I had wedged a chair under the handle for good measure. Paranoia was a constant companion these days, its icy fingers whispering warnings of discovery. My father, with his political aspirations, would never understand the need to talk to a psychiatrist. He saw omegas as possessions, not people with their own desires and needs.

Dr. Parsons was amazing. Not only was she a psychiatrist, but she also worked with the Omega Underground. She gave up everything to assist omegas like me in navigating the harsh realities we face. Like a drowning person reaching for a lifeline, I clung desperately to our conversations. She was my solace in a crumbling world.

Josephine, a long-term housekeeper and the closest thing I had to a mother, bought the burner phone for me. Well, I paid for it. I wasn’t allowed to use my father’s funds, but over the years, I would take odd internet gigs until I figured out I was pretty good at coding. Then, I would code in the safety of my closet night after night until I could build up a reputation and client base, but no matter how hard I tried, it wasn’t nearly enough where I could live comfortably off the income. The irony wasn’t lost on me, though. My coding skills were in high demand among those who wished me barefoot in the kitchen or solely strapped to a bed.

The phone rang, and I answered with a whisper, “Hello?”

“Darcy,” Dr. Parsons’ voice had a calming effect, like a soothing balm on my frazzled nerves. “How are you holding up?”

“Thank the Gods that you can talk to me twice this week, Sloane. I am losing my mind.” I said, curling up in the tight nest of crocheted blankets I made myself. My finger popped through a loose stitch, and I wiggled it.

“You know, I’m only a phone call away. If you need me, I am here for you. You don’t have to wait for our sessions. I am a resource for you any time the need arises.” Dr. Parsons said.

“I know, but I always feel like I am being dramatic or stepping on toes. I don’t want to burden anyone.” I explained.

On the other end, Dr. Parsons huffed into the receiver, “You aren’t stepping on toes. In fact, it is almost my job to be there for you. I’d hate for you to suffer in silence when there may be help a phone call away.”

I sighed and tucked the blanket closer around me in a guilty hug. I hated how true that statement felt. I felt like I definitely suffered in silence a lot of the time.

“Yeah, I know. I just… I don’t want to be seen as weak.” I may be honest, but am I too honest? It didn’t seem right to tell a psychiatrist I wanted to hide from the world. I needed to be less obvious with my shame.

“You aren’t weak, Darcy. I think it is normal what you are going through. You are in a tough spot. Do you feel like you can tell me more?” Of course, I wanted to tell her more, but there was risk involved with that, too.

“I don’t think I can right now.” I managed a weak breath into the phone instead of continuing.

“We can go at your pace. Is there something you do want to talk about? How about work?”

“Well, I’ve spent the last few days buried in work. Coding, reading, and trying to find ways to seclude myself for as long as possible. Sometimes, it feels like the only place I belong is when I’m either lost in a book or lines of code, where no one can come knocking or demand anything from me.” I sighed into the phone, feeling the weight of my words pressing against my chest.

Dr. Parsons hummed in acknowledgment. “If you feel comfortable discussing it, Do you want to tell me more about what’s causing all of this anxiety?” she asked gently.

I hesitated for a moment before answering her. Part of me wanted to keep things bottled up, to pretend like everything was fine, but another part craved the relief that came with confiding in someone who wasn’t going to use it against me or judge me.

“Well, I’m supposed to go to lunch with my father tomorrow.” My voice came out hushed, like admitting an unspoken truth. “He’s invited a ton of his political cronies, and I’m expected to play the part of the doting daughter.” My hands started to shake as I pictured myself sitting across from yet another stranger, forced to smile and make small talk while my father leered at me from across the table.

“That sounds incredibly stressful, Darcy. Are you okay?” Dr. Parsons’ tone brims with concern, making me feel a little less alone.

“I… I don’t know. I’m just so tired of being treated like I’m some prize to be won or traded. And it doesn’t help that I hadn’t allowed myself to have a heat yet.” My throat was tight, and my eyes stung with tears that I refused to shed. “It’s like he’s disappointed that I’m not conforming to his fucked up ideals of what an omega should be, so he just locks me in my room when I’m not catering to his campaigns so he doesn’t have to look at me.”

The second I even recognized what I said, I immediately apologized. It wasn’t just an apology to  Dr. Parsons but also to myself. We’ve had this discussion before, more than once. It was a mental spiral I trapped myself in. If I dwelled too often on my current situation, my depression would get worse, which would make me not have the motivation or energy to continue working to get myself out.

There was a brief silence on the other end of the line before Dr. Parsons spoke up. “Well, I’m glad you mentioned that. I actually wanted to ask you about your medication. Are you still able to manage your anxiety with the suppressants?”

I took a deep breath and forced myself to focus on the here and now. “They’ve been helping, for the most part. I still get a little jittery sometimes, but nothing too bad. I just wish they could do more for my overall stress levels.”

“I understand completely. How about we discuss other options at our next session? In the meantime, would established routines and mindfulness breathing exercises help you get through this particular situation?” Dr. Parsons queries.

I hesitated, the weight of my next words heavy on my tongue. “I’ve been practicing some breathing exercises you taught me, and they seem to help. It’s just hard to remember to do them while surrounded by him as he watches for every microexpression that flashes across my face.”

Dr. Parsons made a sympathetic sound. “It’s a difficult position to be in, Darcy. But remember, you’re not just an omega. You’re a person with your own dreams and aspirations. Don’t let him define you.”

“He made a remark about my lack of heat,” I said, the memory sour in my mind. “It was subtle, but I know him. He’s starting to wonder if something is wrong with me, if I’m defective.”

The implication was clear: an omega who didn’t cycle regularly was a liability, a blemish on the family name. The thought of him discovering I used suppressants sent a chill down my spine. The consequences would be unimaginable.

“I’m doing my best to appear normal,” I continued, my voice barely a whisper. “But it’s getting harder to keep up the facade. I’m constantly looking over my shoulder, wondering when he’ll find out.”

Dr. Parsons’ tone was firm yet compassionate. “You’re doing everything you can to protect yourself, Darcy. Remember, the Omega Underground is here to support you. We’ll help you navigate through this.”

Her reassurances were a comfort, but the fear lingered, a specter haunting the edges of my consciousness. I ended the call with a promise to stay safe and a heavy heart, knowing that the battle for my freedom was far from over.