Page 10 of Feral Omega

"This is absurd. We'll break her in a day!"

I remain as silent as Wraith, mind racing. I have to admit, the possibilities send a dark thrill through me. It's been so long since I tasted an omega.

But Plague is right. She wouldn't last.

Not with us. Not with me.

Omegas are rare. Fragile. She will be nothing more than meat thrown to a pack of ravenous wolves, and she'll probably last even less time.

Whiskey, on the other hand, is practically vibrating with excitement. The only brain he's packing is hanging between his legs.

"The creepy bird has a point," I say, at odds with the darker impulses that make me want to spring at the idea. "This is not exactly an environment that's…. shall we say… conducive to an omega's well-being.”

"Doesn't matter," Thane grunts in a way that makes me think he's made the same argument recently to no avail. "The Council has decided we need a 'moderating force.'"

"Sounds good to me," Whiskey chimes in, his arms behind his head as he kicks his boots up on the sofa near where Plague is sitting. "I'll moderate that tight little hole all night long."

Plague shoves his feet off so hard, Whiskey nearly topples off the couch.

"Hey!" Whiskey cries indignantly.

"It is an… intriguing prospect," Plague remarks, but I can see right through the indifferent routine. He likes to act fancy, but when you take off the mask and get down below the surface, he's every bit as much of a twisted fuck as the rest of us. Perhaps more than most. "If an inadvisable one."

"It doesn't matter what's advisable," Thane cuts in. "The Council has decided we're too erratic on our own and we need an omega to calm us down."

It's clear from the bite in his tone just what he thinks of that idea.

"Wonder what gave them that impression," Whiskey says, casting a pointed glance in Wraith's direction.

When the massive alpha's ice blue eyes flick up, Whiskey shrinks back a little. It's hard to tell if Wraith is even listening in his thorny silence. I'm usually pretty good at reading people—being a serial killer and a formally diagnosed psychopath comes with certain benefits—but he's a stone wall.

And that's probably why I hate him so fucking much.

"I guess it wouldn't be the worst thing to have some eye candy around here," I say in an attempt to prevent another meltdown. When I'm playing peacemaker, it's a testament to just how fucked up the situation is.

"That's what I'm talkin' about!" Whiskey says with a triumphant fist pump that immediately makes me regret siding with him.

"Who is this omega?" Plague asks.

So much for his indifference.

The look on Thane's face says it all. "She's… a reject from the Refinement Center," he mutters.

"A reject?" Whiskey echoes, wrinkling his nose. "The fuck does that mean?"

"She probably has an extra eye or something," I say flatly.

"Fuck that, as long as she's got a tight pussy, I'm down," Whiskey says without missing a beat.

He's desperate enough I'm starting to worry the couch cushions aren't safe. Not that the rest of us are getting any more action up here in the middle of fucking nowhere. Fucking the servants is strictly off limits. They're all male, anyway.

Thane rolls his eyes. "From what I understand, she… bites."

"Bites?" Plague echoes, tilting his head.

Of course the germophobe would stick on that.

"Kinky," Whiskey muses, rubbing his hands together. "I can work with that."

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