Page 7 of Terror

“May I remind you that very soon, I will have access to my wealth and can pull the plug on the Betaren funding at any time.” Travis controls all my money, though not for long, and my guardians are just names on papers so I can get into better social events. If I didn’t have the trust fund, I’d have no choice but to hope one of the aliens would take me back to his planet. I didn’t want to find love because it was a necessity or be forced into displaying my weaker Omega dynamic in public. Betas are in great positions to resist and bargain with these aliens, whereas I can’t stop my body from leaking pussy fluid whenever I see one of them.

“Don’t threaten me, little girl.”

“Get me the pills, and I won’t have to.” I hang up.

Twice a week for a year on Betaren, and I’m feeling great. My heat lasts only two days, sometimes only a few hours. This past spring, I didn’t go into heat at all, and I could mingle with the Regha aliens without them sniffing me out. It was a blessing.

Until him.

Mr. Arrogant took one look at me and made me spray his clothes with pussy juice.Eww.I gross myself out. I check the time on the phone. Four o’clock.

A doorbell rings as the tech powers up the house. I start the washer. “Coming!” I holler from the basement, then pass the panic room and climb the steps, holding my middle as if I’m carrying a six-month-old baby. Omega heat is kind of like carrying a hot ball of fire inside the womb. My entire body burns, especially my pussy and everything connected to it. Liquid trickles out of me as my channel keeps thinking Alpha dick is gonna come to conquer. The lubricant wants to make sure that the passage is nice and smooth, prepped for seeding. In the absence of that special dick with a large knot at the base, heat accumulates in my lower belly and burns until I relieve myself. The more I relieve myself, the worse it gets.

During heat, I don’t masturbate.

I don’t visit my nest until I can barely walk anymore.

I go about my business as if it doesn’t exist. “Pain handler” is my middle name.

I don’t expect the mighty Hordesman to make good on his promise. He’s got better things to do than service one Omega in heat. So when I open my front door, I stand there completely shocked.

The Alpha Collector came. With flowers. Red roses. They’re not wrapped or even cleaned. He’s holding the whole bush with the roots intact. He must’ve ripped it straight out of the ground and come here.

“I hear you’re expecting me,” he says.

Is this real? Has the Hordesman come to service me?

“Omega,” he says. “Can I come in?”

I swing open the door, and he walks inside, towering over me and ninety percent of the furniture. He’s as big as the fridge. Cue liquid down my leg. It trickles slowly, and in a well-practiced maneuver, I rub my thighs together and close the door, only then noticing he dropped a duffel bag on the floor. Oh my God, Terror Hordesman, the one named after the War Horseman of the Apocalypse, has moved into my house.

“Where is your garden?”

And he wants to plant flowers.

I point at the back of the house.

The Alpha walks with determined strides and exits the house from the back. I will my hands not to shake. It happens when I don’t get a Betaren hit. I’m not sure how I’m gonna get one, but Travis better deliver today.

I follow the Hordesman outside and past the pool. He stands surveying my garden, where the weeds are the only thriving plants. The bushes along the fence need a trim.

“The Westons down the street stole my gardener,” I say. Plus, my latest housekeeping staff bailed. I woman the thirteen-room mansion alone. It’s been a month. The Hordesman doesn’t seem to care what my backyard looks like. Even though he’s never been on my property, he surveys the expansive grounds and leaves to fetch the tools. How he knows exactly where to go is beyond me.

Tools in hand, he digs a hole and shoves the rose bush in there, then uses his hands to fill the ground. Getting up, he gives it a brief nod as if approving of his work, then walks back into the house. I follow him inside the kitchen, where he washes his hands. Unsure what I’m doing here in my own house, I lean on the wall. He strides past me and gets the duffel from the entrance, walks back into the kitchen, and throws the bag on the island. He unzips it.

“Can I help you?” I ask.

“No.” Two bags of groceries in one hand, he moves to the fridge and opens it, wiggling his nose. “Betaren is stored refrigerated. Where do you keep it?” He loads in bottled water and fresh fruit and vegetables. I notice he brought nothing good, like chocolate or chips. With a body like his, I presume he’s never had either. I can’t look away from the outline of his biceps under the black shirt, the way his hips turn as he fills my fridge with things I don’t feel like eating while in heat.

“Omega, answer me.”

“I’m sorry, what did you ask?”

He closes the fridge and finally looks at me, a smirk on his handsome face. “Where do you keep the Betaren?”

“I don’t have any at the moment.”

“Call your dealer.”

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