Page 105 of Ruled By The Alpha

Taken by the Tanker

The Knottiverse: Alphas of the Waterworld Book 1

by

V.T. Bonds

Chapter 1

Char

The sounds of scurrying from the hall tighten my gut. I rise from organizing the contents under the front counter as the boy from next door runs past the barred service window, no doubt on his way to alert Alpha Trik to whatever’s happening. I wish I could join the rest of the crowd. They are free to go where they wish, free to run from danger, free to go topside whenever they dare.

I want that small freedom, even if it means living with half-starved betas under putrid conditions. Hell, my position isn’t much better.

The light of the sun calls me, just as my skin yearns for the sensation of salty ocean air brushing across it. Just like how a small, suppressed part of me aches for the comfort of casual touch, something never given in this hellhole. I can’t have these things. I’m an omega. I’m a curse—the reason humans are doomed to fail.

Pushing myself into action as the noise from the hall increases, I open the jar of pickling rat meat on the counter, then bang on the three doors lining the short hall, alerting the beta shopkeepers to the trouble before darting into the back room. Yanking the curtain closed behind me, I scoop up the pile of rags I use as nesting materials and wind my way through the small, cramped storage room. The haphazard array of shelves and containers hold dirty supplies, while buckets sit along theright wall, catching water as it drips from the mass of tubes and funnels Geeta used to create the purifiers.

Geeta’s sharp mind and sharper tongue earned her the privilege of being a shopkeeper, as well as the position of an occasional rut-buddy to the local alpha, Alpha Trik. He wouldn’t let just any beta handle rare things like food, water, and an omega.

I toss my armful of rags through the small opening tucked in the back corner of the storage room and crawl in before easing the iron grate closed behind me. The thick mesh door latches tight against the sturdy metal bars, locking me in with shallow pots of dirt and wilting plants, their sad leaves and brittle stems foretelling of yet another season without fresh fruits or vegetables.

Bret, the second shopkeeper, welded the grate to this supposed sanctuary. His affinity for all things fire and metal earned him a place in Alpha Trik’s graces. His hard hands have featured in many of my nightmares, their normal abuse turning more sinister than in years past. He used to hit and push me, but lately he’s inflicted less obvious means of torture, seeking parts of my body I wish would go back to being flat.

I cram my nesting materials into the least rusty bucket and wedge the top tight against the underside of the lopsided table in the farthest corner, blocking most of my scent within before pushing my back against it and pulling my legs to my chest. A deep, rough voice carries through the storage room and into my cage, the menacing timbre making me curl my arms tighter around my knees.

It’s the same alpha who came by two months ago—The tanker.

Chills run up and down my spine.

He knows. He knows I’m close to my first heat, despite the stench of fermenting rat meat wafting from the jar I left open onthe counter. He knows despite Alpha Trik’s attempts to scare off every alpha on the nearby decks.

The tanker isn’t from around here. He lives deep in the bowels of the old oil rig welded between our ship and the mostly intact cruiser on the other side. Nausea builds in my stomach as I think about being locked away in the maze of dark, stench-filled rooms of the massive boat. At least here I have the small porthole to let in light and fresh air.

Fancy’s syrupy voice makes my jaw ache from the force of gritting my teeth. Her words echo in my head, vicious, spiteful, and all too honest. She makes sure I know my worth, or lack thereof, every chance she gets. As she tries to sweet-talk the alpha, I ignore the hurt pulsing within my chest from her latest jab.

She mocked me because my green thumb fails. The plants I’ve loved since before I can remember die because of me. As my body buds and ripens for an alpha’s knot—aspubertyencroaches—my skills die. Each day of emotional abuse, every minute of pain, each second ticking by, only leads to one outcome: my slow death underneath an alpha.

A laugh from Fancy makes me almost strain to hear the conversation, but when the alpha’s low rumble stirs a weird sensation in my belly, I jump to my feet and slide between the tables below the porthole, rising onto my tiptoes and sticking my finger through the opening. The voices pause as I pull the window open a bit more, causing the wind to blow louder in the room. My limbs freeze even as I suck down the briny breeze, the feeling of being cornered instinctual, but ridiculous; in all the years I’ve lived here, no one has gotten past the front door of the shop unless Alpha Trik wanted them to.

I can’t tell if silence stretches from the other room, or if the rushing air blocks out the noise. The hairs on my nape stand on end.

A loud snap thunders through the shop before Fancy’s scream batters my eardrums, her agony ricocheting off the metal walls. It ends as abruptly as it began, a gut-wrenching gurgle preluding her death. Explosions fill the air as a massive fist snaps the handle off the shop’s front door and yanks the reinforced metal off its hinges. Bret’s bellow of pain and Geeta’s shout of alarm spur me into action. I fling the porthole’s glass all the way open, wriggle out from between the tables, and drag the nearest plant onto the floor. Boots stomp down the hall, filling my stomach with ice. As they move through the storage room, I pull another pot from the table, unable to resist setting it upright despite the urgency pounding through my veins. To spill the precious dirt and ruin the delicate life within the pot would kill a part of my soul. I can’t do it.

A pair of gigantic shoulders emerge from the darkened storage room, casting a shadow of monstrous proportions behind the bars of my glorified jail cell. Their brawn spans beyond the width of the doorway, and I scramble onto the table, barely feeling my knees scrape open on its cracked surface, though I bang my thigh hard enough on the edge to make my bones hurt.

Metal creaks and gives way with a horrendous screech, the brute bending steel with his bare hands as I pull my shoulders through the porthole. Reaching for the nearest pit in the rust-eaten metal, I curse my curves and pull with all my strength while my toes seek purchase on the inner wall. My back screams in protest, breasts sending shards of agony into my chest from the tight fit, but I strengthen my grip on the hull and pull until I squeeze through. Twisting and finding a second handhold, I press my elbows against the pockmarked outer metal of the ship and fight to wrestle my hips through.

Thick, massive fingers wrap around my thighs, scorching my flesh through the thin material of my shorts and drowning me in terror.

The cool, salty wind and bright, warm sunlight do nothing to ease my fear. Nothing to suppress how my skin lights up from the male’s big hands. Nothing to stop me from being at the mercy of a brutal alpha.

I scream and fight harder, wishing I could climb free, wishing for the harsh bite of freezing water and angry waves, because at least then my end would be my own choice. At least then my death would be quick—much quicker than what this alpha has planned for me.

He tugs my thighs backward, sliding me the wrong way through the porthole. I kick and flail, scraping my elbows so hard on the decaying hull that blood flows down toward the waves. Sliding over my hips and their horrible flare, his massive hands encircle my waist, reaching all the way around and then some. Despite how easily he could crush me, or how he could yank me through the tiny window with ease, he doesn’t jerk me back into hell. Instead he keeps a steady pressure until the underside of my breasts catch on the lip, the squeeze of unforgiving metal painful enough to steal my breath, but not enough to cause lasting damage.

I hear his low, rumbled command despite the wind abrading my tear-stained face.

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