Page 112 of Fallen Omega

“That wise?”

“Fuck if I know.” I wait until he takes a seat, his cigarettes in one hand. Black sweater, jeans. Tattoos adorning at his neck and that fucked up face garnering long glances from a woman a few seats down.

She’s seeing a man, one with a marred beauty that makes her think romantic thoughts. The haphazard buzz cut, the quality clothes in black. The tattoos, she’s guessing, travel all over him. The blank canvas expression she can paint all sorts of fantasies on.

He doesn’t seem to even notice her.

Right until she gets up to come over.

Reaper turns, and though I can’t see him, I’m guessing there’s death and destruction given in that expression because she recoils. “Not interested,” he says.

She scrambles back, and when he turns to me, I get the last vestiges of his look. It’s not violent. It’s just…empty, endless night and devoid of humanity.

I grew up with him. I know his history. Know what he’s been through.

And fucking little Lizette looks at him like he’s anything but a living representation of death. She looks at him like she understands him, too. And she looks at him like she looks at Knight. With want, tangled lust and emotion.

And me?

She hates me and wants me, too.

“You were rude to a paying customer, Reap.”

He frowns. “I was?”

“The woman?”

“Wasn’t interested.”

He wants to light up which means something’s on his mind. He keeps pulling a cigarette half out before pushing it back into the packet. Then, finally, he takes it and places it behind his ear.

“Did you look, Dante?” he presses.

“At the old folk tales?”

He sighs and nods at Mason, who sets down a glass of golden rum for Reap. “Yeah. There’s one?—”

“I didn’t take you for the big bad wolf and witches in the woods kinda guy.” I sip my drink.

“Knight’s research into a reversal came up with some tales.”

“Fuck me, Reaper. We don’t go around trading facts and evidence for stories.” I glance at the screen just in time to see Lizette sidestep an ass-reaching patron who I want to see parted with his fingers, cock and balls. I make a note to find out who he is and maybe arrange a talking to with a fist, or five.

“You’re a real ass when you’re unfulfilled and frustrated,” Reaper barely looks at me.

“I prefer you strong, silent, and a psychotic killer. Not Mr. Chatty.”

Knight would volley insults merrily. Not Reap.

He ignores my words.

“I’m not asking you to believe anything. But fairytales are warnings, or explanations for things people way back didn’t understand.” He takes a breath, downs his rum and hits the bar with the glass for another.

“There’s a story of the Never Ending. A girl born of two alphas, whose families only ever produce alphas and is the most beautiful in the land. On her eighteenth birthday, she’s discovered not to be an alpha, but an omega. And her scent’sso potent she causes wars, makes alphas fight to the death. Makes even betas want her. She’s locked away, but stolen by a renegade alpha. Her powers wreak havoc on his pack and he chooses two other alphas to share the burden?—”

“Burden?”

“But it doesn’t work. They fight. They end up consulting an oracle who says they must all mark her or kill her to end the line and restore order in the world. But if they mark her, then the three are bound to her for eternity. And no one can touch her. She’s safe and theirs.”

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