Page 13 of Feral Omega

"Emilia Thorton, Headmistress," she says, shaking my hand. Her fingers are cold, bony. "You must be Thane Hargrove. Here for your... assignment." Her tone drips with disdain. "Is the mask necessary?"

"Not really," I answer. When I don't offer anything else, she turns a shade of red I've only ever seen growing on vines. "Just tell me where to collect her and I'll be on my way."

"Hmph. Very well. Follow me." She turns on her heel, leading me down a long hallway.

Omegas flatten themselves against the walls as we pass, ducking their heads. I keep my eyes forward, trying to block out their scents, the rustle of their skirts. I have a job to do.

And the sooner it's done, the better.

I'm expecting her to lead me to a different wing, but the private elevator seems to descend into the bowels of hell itself and the stark difference between the sterile concrete corridor the doors open into and the relative luxury above is jarring.

The elevator lurches to a stop, the doors grinding open to reveal a long concrete hallway lit only by flickering fluorescent lights. The air is thick with the stench of mold and decay, and something else.

Fear.

It permeates the very walls, seeping into my skin.

I glance at Emilia, my brows furrowed behind my mask. "You keep omegas down here? In these conditions?"

She bristles, her face pinching. "Only the troublesome ones. The Irreparables. Six One Seven is a... unique case. She can't be trusted around her own kind." Her eyes flick to mine, a warning in their depths. "You'll see soon enough."

I grit my teeth, biting back a few choice words for the old beta. "Does she have a name, this… omega?"

Emilia blinks, seemingly taken aback by the question. "Ivy. Her name is Ivy."

I don't respond, I just gesture for her to lead on. We walk down the dank hallway, the only sound the irritating click-clack of her overly pointed heels and the thud of my boots. She stops abruptly in front of a heavy metal door, a small window set at eye level. She turns to me, her hand on the knob.

"Before we go in, you should know... she doesn't look her usual self," she says with a sniff. "There are bruises. But they'll fade. She's quite pretty beneath it all. It's the one virtue she seems to possess."

Rage surges through me, hot and blinding. I step forward, towering over her. "Bruises? How did she get bruised here?"

Emilia takes a step back, her hand fluttering to her throat. "She... she attacked a guard. For no reason. We had to restrain her."

I lean in close, my voice a low growl. "No reason? I somehow doubt that."

She swallows hard, her eyes darting away. "You don't know her like we do. She's feral. Dangerous. She almost killed one of my Nightingales not too long ago."

I straighten, my jaw clenched so tight it aches. "Open the door. Now."

Emilia's hand shakes as she turns the knob, the door swinging open with a dull creak. I step inside, my eyes taking a moment to adjust to the gloom.

The cell is small, bare. There's no furniture, not even a mattress. Not a single blanket or pillow to make even the most unsatisfactory nest with. I may not know much about omegas, but even I know how sensitive they are to their environment. This would be torture for anyone.

Let alone a creature as delicate as they are.

And then, through the dank stench of the rest of the ward, another scent blossoms, captivating me completely. An omega's scent that nearly brings me to my knees.

Honeysuckle and vanilla—threaded through with the coppery tang of blood. It's nothing like the scent of the omegas upstairs. It's so clean and good, it makes theirs seem borderline offensive in comparison. I've never experienced anything like it in my life, and as soon as that scent hits my nostrils, it's like the entire world freezes on its axis.

And there, huddled in the corner, is the source.

Ivy.

She looks up as we enter, her startling blue-green eyes—aquamarine, the very color of sea glass—widening. Her face is thin, one eye swollen nearly shut, her full lips split open. Bruises mottle her pale skin, disappearing beneath the plain gray shift hanging off her thin frame. But still, there's a defiance in the lift of her chin, the set of her shoulders, the fire in her one good eye as it meets mine.

She's a fighter.

The bruises and cuts—some of which required stitches, like the one marring her full bottom lip—are worse than Emilia implied, but she's right about one thing.

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