Page 137 of Fallen Omega

If he truly believed all the shitty things he said about her, she’d be locked away somewhere. Unholy Trinity prison style. Locked up, kept away, and then released into the arms of her ugly, old council-chosen alpha mate to be.

“I should beat you,” I snap.

He swings his foot to the ground, sliding out of his seat, and stands. He picks up the bottle, gripping it by the neck. “Like to see you fucking try.”

Before I can take a step, fucking Reaper enters the fray.

“If you two are finished measuring dicks and pissing on imaginary walls,” Reaper finally says, “I have something to say.”

“The job went well, I know.” Dante’s not done, as Reaper says, pissing. I’m not sure I am, either.

We’re not fighting, exactly, over her. Liz’s worth a fight, and she’s also, young as she is, able to choose for herself. If that’s what this was about.

But it isn’t.

We all chose each other. If she wants one, she apparently wants all. I’ve been reading up on the old, dark days, before the Council, religion, and the internet. Fuck, before TV. Packs used to have two or more head alphas. They shared the role of rule over their pack. Theywerethe fucking religion.

Inside that rule, a hierarchy was always in place. God’s fucking right hand, with Michael to the right, Gabriel to theleft and Uriel to the front. Raphael was a turtle, I think, but I’m losing the point. He might have been behind that God.

My point, and I have one, is that in the old pack rules, there was a group of strong alphas who ruled their people and had their places in the top tier.

They all shared one omega. A special one.

I read that, too.

Dante’s the God in this fucking situation. We all know that. He’s the most alpha-alpha I’ve ever met in my life. He takes the name he chose seriously.

And, when I think about it. The Unholy Trinity?

Yeah. I’m meant to be the one who thinks and keeps us on the narrow. It might be a dark, twisted and morally gray narrow, but a narrow it is. I lead that way. I’m the consciousness. One in a metaphorical armor.

And Reaper? He’s a no brainer. It’s in the name. And he fucking looks like a warrior angel. The type that puts demons to shame and makes most of them shake in their snazzy demon boots.

But a reaper isn’t just about killing and being a dedicated psycho who’ll stop at nothing to protect what’s his—though he will—it’s about the sorting of souls. Culling those who need it, and letting those who don’t go.

I don’t think I’ve seen him ever kill an innocent.

But I’m digressing. I have a sip of the cheap rum that’s not that bad. Maybe the whole rum thing’s growing on me, or possibly it just seems that way because it’s making me soft-edged.

“Yes, it went well.” Reaper’s tone is mild, but holds something.

I wouldn’t mind getting stinking drunk, but I’m not going to. I haven’t finished.

“Wait.” That something filters into my brain.

Dante’s frowning at Reaper and I look at him too. I point at him.

“You,” I say, slowly because I’m sure I’ll slur if I speak normally, “said something.”

“Fucking save me from baby alphas who think they can hold their liquor,” Dante mutters.

I swing my gaze at him. “Jealous she wants me?”

“She wants all of us, moron,” Dante says. “And know your place.”

“I do. Extremely well. And you need to?—”

I stop.

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