If there was an award for Most Sleep-Deprived Omega, I'd have it in my trembling little hands right now.
Last night's "psycho Alpha in my bedroom at 3 a.m." special was still clawing at my nerves, and I'd decided that the only way to survive today was simple: avoid him at all costs. That meant no delivering breakfast, no brushing his coat, no standing within range of his terrifying voice outer or inner.
And so, I began The Great Avoidance Plan, step one: fake sickness. I sat up in my bed, rubbed my eyes for maximum red puffiness, and rehearsed my pitiful cough in the mirror.
"Haaack… huuuuhhhk… I think I'm dying…"
Yes. Perfect. Oscar-worthy.
The other omegas bought it instantly. By the time I dragged myself (slowly, dramatically) into the kitchen, clutching my stomach like I'd swallowed a brick, the gossip was already spreading.
"She's sick!"
"She's pale!"
"She's paler than usual!"
