Collateral

 

I turn the corner onto our street, and that's when I see them.

Huge men in suits. Three of them. Standing outside my apartment door like they own the place. Their shoulders fill the narrow hallway, blocking the light from the bare bulb overhead. One of them is an Alpha—I can tell by the way the other two angle toward him, the deference in their silence, the way the air itself seems to bend around his presence.

My heart stops.

Not metaphorically. It actually stops. A full second of nothing, of silence in my chest, and then it starts again too fast, hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.

I approach slowly. My bag is clutched against my chest like a shield. My mouth is dry. My palms are sweating.

"Excuse me?" My voice comes out steadier than I feel. "Can I help you?"

The Alpha turns. His eyes are pale gray, cold as January ice. He looks at me the way a butcher looks at a cut of meat—assessing, calculating, pricing.

"You live here?" His voice is gravel. Low. Unfriendly.

"I live here." I don't flinch. I don't look away. "What's the problem?"

"No problem." He smiles, and it's the kind of smile that makes you want to back away slowly. "We're looking for Marek Vale. He around?"

Marek. My father. I haven't seen him in four days. He left for cigarettes and never came back, which is not unusual. He disappears. He reappears. He breaks promises like they're twigs under his feet. The last time I saw him, he was sitting at the small table by the window, staring at nothing, his hands trembling from whatever had finally worn off.

"I don't know where he is." I keep my voice flat. Empty. "We haven't seen him."

The Alpha glances at his companions. Something passes between them—a silent communication that makes my stomach clench.

"That's unfortunate." He reaches into his jacket. My whole body tenses, bracing for something I don't have words for—but what he pulls out is paper. A thick envelope, creased at the edges, official-looking. "Your father took out a loan with our employer six months ago. Substantial amount. He made payments for the first two months. Then he stopped." The Alpha's voice is calm, almost pleasant. It's the calm that frightens me. "We've been very patient. But patience has limits."

He holds out the envelope. I take it. My fingers feel numb.

"How much?"

"Forty thousand. Plus interest. Plus collection fees. You're looking at about sixty now."

The number doesn't make sense. It's too big. Too impossible. I make minimum wage at the café. I make pocket change running errands. Sixty thousand dollars might as well be sixty million.

"I don't have anything to do with his loans. I'm not responsible for his debts."

"No," the Alpha agrees. "But you're his daughter. His next of kin. And our employer doesn't like loose ends." He pauses, letting the words sink in. "The paperwork's all there. Amount owed. Interest accrued. Payment options. We expect the debt to be settled within forty-eight hours."

"Forty-eight hours?" The laugh that escapes me is jagged, broken. "I can't get that kind of money in forty-eight hours. I can't get that kind of money ever."

"Then we'll have to discuss alternative arrangements." His eyes flick toward the apartment door. "There's a kid, right? A little girl?"

The world narrows. The hallway tilts. I can't breathe.

"Don't." The word tears out of me, raw and desperate. "Don't talk about her."

The Alpha holds up his hands, a gesture of false surrender. "I'm just informing you of the situation. The debt has to be settled. If your father can't pay, and you can't pay, then the syndicate will collect what it's owed in other ways. Collateral. Assets." He lets the words hang in the air. "You understand what I'm saying?"

I understand. I understand perfectly. Omegas can be claimed as property if their legal guardian defaults. Emery is six years old. She hasn't presented yet. But the syndicate doesn't care about age. An Omega is an Omega. A body is a body. And my father has sold us both without ever lifting a finger.

"Get out," I say.

"Excuse me?"

"Get out of my building. Now."

The Alpha studies me for a moment. His expression is unreadable. Then he shrugs, a massive roll of his shoulders, and gestures to his companions.

"Forty-eight hours," he says. "We'll be back."

They walk away. Their footsteps echo down the hallway, heavy and final. I stand there, clutching the envelope, my heart pounding so hard I can feel it in my teeth.

Then I open the door and go inside.

The apartment is empty. Emery is still with Mrs. Delgado. I'm grateful. I don't want her to see me like this.

I sit at the small table by the window and open the envelope. The documents inside are typed, dense, full of legal language I have to read three times to understand. But I understand enough. The loan was for forty thousand dollars. With interest, penalties, and collection fees, the total is now over sixty. The repayment deadline was last month. The lender is listed as a subsidiary of Draven Biotech.

Draven Biotech. The name burns in my throat like bile. I know that name. Every Omega in the shelter district knows that name. They manufacture the safe, legal suppressants—the ones that cost a fortune, the ones prescribed by private physicians to wealthy Omegas with bonded Alphas who can afford to keep them chemically stable. And they also run, if rumors are true, the underground pipeline that supplies the cheap, dangerous blockers I buy from shadows.

They profit from both sides. They profit from our suffering and our safety.

And my father borrowed money from them. My father, who sold information about unregistered Omegas to wealthy families for cash. My father, who gambled and drank and snorted his way through every dollar he ever touched.

I read the final page. The settlement clause. If the debtor cannot pay, assets will be seized. Assets. The word is clinical. Sanitized. What it means is: Omegas can be claimed as property. What it means is: I am an asset. Emery is an asset. We are not people on this paper. We are line items.

The documents slip from my hands and scatter across the table. I press my palms against my eyes until I see stars. I don't cry. Crying is a luxury for people with options.