Page 15 of The Omega Project

I look at him curiously, then turn the page, staring down at the headshot attached to the file. It’s a candid shot, taken at a beach somewhere with the ocean as a sparkling backdrop. Soren looks twenty at most, and he’s wearing a faded singlet and sandy boardshorts, his chin tilted up and his thick black lashes curling on tanned cheeks. His hair is almost blue-black in the sunlight, damp enough to be swept back from his forehead, but still curling around his ears. He has a strong nose and dark pink lips which are curved wide in a mischievous grin. But it’s his eyes that draw me in – the deepest, warmest chocolate colour I’ve ever seen, even though his lashes have obscured most of the iris. He looks so carefree and happy, I can’t help but trace the shape of his smile. “He’s beautiful.”

“He’s very important to us,” Langston says slowly, and I try to ignore the way my heart thumps against my ribs. “But first and foremost, he’s Creed’s mate.”

My head snaps up, and I’m quick enough to catch the searing pain in Creed’s eyes before he looks back at the road. They’re dark like Soren’s, but hard as granite, while his omega’s are warm and full of life. I’m certain there’s only one reason Creed could look so gutted at the thought of his mate. “What’s wrongwith him? Is he sick?” Creed’s shoulders curl forward, and I realise how insensitive that sounds. “I’m sorry, I should just read the file.”

“He’s in pain,” Creed bites out, his jaw clenched so tight the skin has lost all colour. “Nearly every hour of every day. Which is why we need to wrap this damn project up and get him the help he needs.”

I study him for a moment longer, committing the stark misery on his face to memory. Up until this second, this project was just a way to pay the bills and make sure Derek’s slate is clean with Finn Visser, but there’s obviously a lot more at stake. “I’m so sorry to hear that. And I’ll do everything I can to help.”

It’s not much of a promise, given I know next to nothing about the work they’re doing, but a look flashes between the two alphas, and then Creed gives me a tight nod. “Appreciate it. This is a team effort, so we’ll definitely take you up on it.”

He turns his attention back to the road, so I spend the rest of the drive reading Soren Hill’s file. His birthday is in January, which means he’s nearly twenty-four. He was studying environmental science on the east coast before he joined a research project through a company called Vast Horizons. There’s not much in the file about their study, just that Soren volunteered and underwent three treatments over two years. Counting back, he was only twenty at the time, and I wonder what drove him to join the study. Scientific curiosity, maybe, or financial hardship, like so many students before him?

“Was his university involved in the study with Vast Horizons?”

“No, it was military funded.”

I look up slowly. “He joined a two-year military study at the age of twenty?”

“He had a scholarship, but also a lot of medical debt from an illness in the family,” Langston tells me. “They were about to lose his childhood home, so he signed up for the full course.”

“Course,” I repeat, flicking pages and scanning them for more details. “There’s not a lot of information on the study. It just says, ‘designation enhancement through hormonal and behavioural stimulation.’” It seemed to focus on something called the Command Method. According to the notes, it targeted the hypothalamus for the production of survival hormones, and the basal ganglia for reward processing, habit formation, movement and learning. “What was the end goal?”

“Changing designations at will.” Up until this point, Langston has fed me the answers, but while I’ve been absorbing the file, Creed has pulled into an undercover parking garage, and he turns and stares at me now. “They injected him with some shit, then put him through a bunch of tests to get him to shift to an alpha.”

I sit forward suddenly, the file almost slipping off my lap. “What do you mean? He’s an omega, isn’t he?”

“He’s… messed up,” Creed says slowly, turning off the car, his shoulders slumping. “In short, the army wanted a magical equation that could increase or decrease the dominance of their soldiers. Their bumper sticker bullshit was ‘betas in the barracks, but ferals on the frontline’. They figured if they could turn designations on and off, they’d have the perfect army.”

“Jesus,” I sigh, thinking of all those classified conversations I heard through my father’s office door. “Was my father involved with this?”

“Only remotely. The PsyOps team were focused on the command and reward part, but except for in a few cases, the hard science kept letting them down. The subjects kept overdosing on the stimulant before they could start the behaviour modification. Turns out, alpha juice can be highlyaddictive when you jack it up with all sorts of chemicals and hormones.”

I can’t help staring at him in shock. Alpha juice? It might be a bit of a joke between betas, but I know that alphas take it seriously. It’s something they share almost exclusively with their mates, given its healing properties as well as the fact it takes intimate forms, like saliva, sweat, and semen. My mind whirls at how Soren came to be ‘stimulated’ by it, and what excessive exposure might have done to him. “I’m so sorry, Creed.”

It feels inadequate, but he gives another nod and climbs out, circling around to our door. I take a moment to look at Langston, who is watching me run my fingers lightly over Soren’s smiling picture. “Is this why you were gone for three months?”

He stiffens, but the regret in his scent dissolves some of the lingering hurt over his abrupt absence. “I should have stayed in touch more. Explained what I was doing, at least in general terms. There’s no excuse for what I did, but I can only say that this whole situation has been difficult to manage.”

“Well, I’m glad I’m here now. I really want to help in any way I can.”

Langston takes my hand and clasps it between his. “Just remember, help goes both ways. And at any time, you have every right to take a step back, okay?”

I nod, even though I’m not sure what he’s referring to. Maybe he’s still mulling over my home situation, now that he’s had the dubious pleasure of meeting Rick. Which reminds me, I need to text Claudia and warn her that he’ll be on the warpath after tangling with a pair of dominant alphas. Help, I’ve often found, can backfire spectacularly when fragile egos are in play.

But everything else will have to wait, because as I climb out of the car, I realise that Finn Visser is standing in the doorway of the garage, waiting for us.

And the look on his perfect face could only be described aseager.

Finn

She’s wearing a navy-blue pantsuit that smells like marmalade toast and is clutching Soren’s file in front of her like a shield. We’ve all dressed up for the occasion, Creed in a smarter version of his standard black, and Lang in a grey pinstripe that wouldn’t look out of place at a society wedding. I’ve discarded my hoodie for a leather jacket, white shirt, and dress pants, which is as close as I get to a professional look. I’ve spent too many hours in boardrooms and war rooms to subject myself to any kind of uniform ever again.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Visser,” she begins, tugging her cheap purse strap over her shoulder. As we’ve established, I don’t give a fuck what she wears to the office, but she looks exactly like a cash-strapped university student who is only here because she’s out of options. “I had a couple of things to take care of, but I won’t be late again.”

“Call me Finn,” I tell her flicking a glance at Lang. I can scent some residual aggression coming off him, but I know he’ll catch me up later. All that matters is that Emily is here now. “I expect it will take you a moment to find your feet, but we plan to jump right in, so I hope you’re ready.”

Lang’s cheek flexes, but I ignore him. He’s hovering over her like a guard dog, but we’ve already agreed how today will go. Emily has signed the contract, which means she’s mine now. And I don’t see any point in putting off the inevitable.

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