Page 1 of Feral Alphas

Chapter one

O-4

Omega; a name the rest of the world says with awe, but for me it’s a synonym for failure. Because what good is an omega who can’t go into heat? That’s what bonds a pack together and in twenty-seven years of life, I’ve never had one.

No heat. No pack. Simple omega math.

“Where’s O-12?” I ask a little too loudly as I slide into my seat at the round clinical table. The orderlies at the desks ringing the room glance up from their laptops in the same way librarians supposedly do if you talk too loudly in the stacks—I’ve never been to a library, so I wouldn’t know for sure.

O-9, the omega directly opposite me, gives me a sultry look through her dark lashes and leans across the table. “They’re saying she got adopted by a pack.”

My heart sinks. Not for her, of course. The omega I asked about deserves every good thing coming her way. Now, even with a twisted leg and all the painful physical therapy she’s undergone, she still gets to live the omega dream—gaining a pack and leaving this facility.

Everyone comes and goes through this omega center, getting treatment for their ailments. Everyone except me. I stay and pray my body catches up one day, but it never does.

I reach over and grab the pack of Uno cards with a forced smile. “That’s great news! I’m glad her physiotherapy paid off.” For the few years O-12 lived here at the center, she always seemed in pain, so she deserves a lucky break.

No, the sadness clawing in the pit of my stomach is all for me, but self-pity isn’t going to help anyone, and it certainly won’t get me a pack. We broken omegas only get to gather twice a week between our various treatments, so I won’t waste this time wallowing.

I wave my hand toward the petite brunette teenager sitting on my left. “O-18, you go first.”

She sucks on her lower lip, the perfect image of a sweet and delicate omega. “What if she didn’t?” she whispers as she plays a card.

Red-headed O-11 flicks hair over her shoulder and drums fingernails on the table. “Didn’t what?”

The small omega glances over her cards like they’re a lady’s fan. “Didn’t get adopted. She could be dead, but we’d never know because we’re locked in our rooms all day.” Her tone twists with a sneer, clearly unhappy with her current situation. Can’t blame her.

I reach over and rest my hand on hers. “They’re trying to help us, O-18. To get better.” I’ve seen it before, the distrust from the newer omegas. It’s true we’re kept isolated and under constant monitoring, but this is all that’s left for us rejects. We don’t get the fancy rooms and the red carpet welcomes the whole omegas receive—the ones on the TV getting out of limousines for galas.

Plus, our illnesses make us more susceptible to infections and whatnot.

O-18 turns to look at me, revealing the familiar blistered, purple skin covering the side of her face that got her landed in this medicalbranch of the Omega Center network. The ruined flesh runs all the way down her neck and shoulder, obscuring what she claims is a broken bond bite. “How long have you been here, O-4?”

“All my life. Got no parents, so was raised in the children’s wing, and transferred here after, well, after I matured.”

O-11 snickers. “So, what, about forty-five years?” Redheads really are all snark.

I poke my tongue at her as the other omegas chuckle. “Twenty-seven, actually.” Although, it does feel like twice that, some days. Nothing to do but read, watch TV, use the gym, paint a bit, and play Uno with the other broken omegas.

Oh, and endless rounds of tests and medical examinations.

O-18’s brows pop, but the look on her cute oval face is challenging rather than surprised. “So, how’s that treatment going for you, O-4?”

I slap down a green draw-two card and smile at her. “At least I’m not on the streets.” I can’t let her get under my skin. God knows I’ve had my down days pining for a pack, and I don’t want to spiral.

She shakes her head as she picks up the two extra cards. “You wouldn’t be on the streets. I may not remember much, or feel my bond anymore, thanks to this—” Her cards flutter toward the brutal scars on her shoulder. “But something feels wrong. Don’t tell me you don’t sense it. Out there, we omegas are treated like goddesses. In here? More like rats.”

O-9 glances at me as she plays her card, her jet-black hair swinging across her sharp cheekbones as she studies me for a minute before she turns back to the teenager. “Go easy on her, kid. It’s not O-4’s choice to be stuck here so long.”

Iflash her a grateful look. She’s damn right. And she knows what it’s like because she’s been here a long time too.

“Not trying to be a bitch,” O-18 grumbles. “Just pointing out facts. I mean, we don’t even have real names. I can’t seem to remember anything from before.” Her words trail off as she runs her fingers over the warped skin on her shoulder.

O-9 sighs and taps a nail on the table. “Yeah, we’re all like that from trauma or whatever, but this place is legit. And our alphas will give us a name, everyone knows that.”

I nod in agreement, but it’s half-hearted. My chances of getting alphas shrink with every missed heat.

“Fine, fine.” The little omega chews on her lip, then leans in and whispers, “But the next one of us to get out of here should check with the authorities to see if this place is real.”

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