Page 2 of Feral Omega

Our existence ignited a brutal war between the rogue alpha factions that sprang up, tearing apart the fragile civilization that had only just begun to rebuild in the wake of war and the frigid ashes of nuclear winter.

At least until the Council came along. The Council saw alphas as a threat to organized society, but omegas as the catalyst.

"Control the omegas, control the alphas," as the popular saying goes.

Now, omegas born into "proper" families are registered as soon as their omega mark appears and educated in the government school system. Groomed to be doled out to alphas to maintain the Council's shaky hold on society.

The rest of us?

We end up here. In this hellhole they call the Refinement Center.

"Mmm, not bad for slop, eh?" the beta asks, smacking his lips and tongue. "You really should eat, Six One Seven. I saw you when they dragged you in here. All those curves, and in all the right places—just like an omega should have. Now? You're starting to look like a pretty little stick."

I curl my lip in revulsion, glaring daggers at him as he saunters closer, the sandwich dangling tauntingly in front of my face. The scent of over-processed meat and stale bread assaults my senses, my desperate empty stomach rumbling again despite my best efforts to ignore it.

I won't give this sadistic prick the satisfaction.

I'd rather starve to death.

"Just one bite," he coaxes, waggling the food. "That's all I'm askin'. Then I'll leave you be, let you enjoy your little hole in peace. What d'ya say?"

It's no surprise he's so desperate. He's probably being pressured by his bosses to get me to eat out of his hand—the main thing they've been trying to do since they brought me here.

Every other guard they sent in gave up when the intimidation and starvation failed to work. They always cave before I do, giving me just enough food to survive before they try again.

But it's not enough that I eat stale scraps off the floor.

Eating from an alpha's hand is the only way to meet the Council's guidelines and move me out of solitary. Move me back into the Reparation Program.

Even the Headmaster wants that. The so-called "benefactor" of this hellhole. His funding from the Council is dependent on his ability to take wayward omegas unfortunate enough to end up in the Refinement Center and turn them into perfect offerings to a pack.

Solitary is supposed to be where anyone who falls out of line gets sent for a few days, a week tops, to make her grateful for the relatively luxurious life up top.

I may not know exactly how long I've been here, and I stopped really trying to keep track after five months, but I keep time in the number of guards who've given up their post.

Guess even betas have their limits.

This one has lasted longer than most. But I think he likes seeing me suffer. I think after the last time I tried to bite his cock off when he threatened to shove it in my mouth, it's personal.

My gaze drops to the grimy tile between us as a bitter laugh bubbles up. I was naive enough to think betas weren't so bad, once upon a time back in the camp, before I came to this place. They'd go about their business, leaving the omegas alone as we tended to the gardens and cooked meals over open fires.

But the ones here... they're no better than alphas.

Worse, maybe, without the excuse of pheromones driving their sick depravity. Alphas are nothing more than animals, and you don't blame a dog when it bites. You blame its master.

The guard's boots enter my line of sight, stopping a mere foot away. The stench of his sweat fills my nostrils as he crouches, the sandwich now level with my face. I can see every crumb clinging to the bread, the grease stains seeping through from whatever slop of "meat" they mixed together.

"Open up," he commands, his tone a sickening parody of a caring parent. "You're skin and bones, little girl. You need to keep your strength up for when they finally find some poor sons of bitches dumb enough to take you as a mate."

My head whips up at that, eyes blazing.

As if I'll ever let another alpha touch me, let alone?—

He seizes the opportunity to shove the sandwich against my lips, mashing it against my clenched teeth. I reel back with a growl, smacking his hand away. The remains of the food hit the floor with a wet splat.

"You bitch!" he snarls, abandoning all pretense as his fist lashes out.

The blow catches me in the stomach, doubling me over as the air rushes from my lungs in a wheeze. Black spots dance across my vision, but I blink them away with grim satisfaction as I force myself to meet his gaze.

---