Page 2 of Feral Alphas

“That’ll be me,” O-11 coos, tapping her bottom lip. “I’m a brilliant actress—bet you didn’t know that.” She arches her brows at the younger girl. “The Ommeywood directors need me for their next big movie, so they’re coming to get me.”

The teenager giggles. “Sure they are.” She hasn’t been here long enough to figure out our lovely O-11 is being serious. Someone’s forever coming to get her and it’s always for some different reason, but they never do. Schizophrenia, I think they call it. Or maybe it’s a coping mechanism after being a failure for too many years, but at least she goes into heat periodically.

Most of us don’t like talking about why we’re here in the medical center, anyway. That would mean admitting we’re flawed.

I glance over at the beta staff who are the true actors here, looking studious on their laptops like they’re getting a ton of work done,but are probably playing Solitaire. Even with their eyes glued to the screens, I can feel their attention locked on us.

After twenty-seven years here, I know them all by name. They’ve kinda raised me. They wear pale blue lab coats, the official Omega Center color, and take my blood at least once a week, along with issuing meals, bunches of pills, and whatever experimental drug is the flavor of the week. No matter how kind they are, it’s only a job for them.

But this is my life.

“Uno,” O-18 declares, playing a wild card and changing the color to blue.

O-11’s head snaps around to glare at the youngest omega at our table, her reaction delayed. “They are coming for me!” Her temper flares bright as her hair.

I rest my hand on her forearm. “Yes, Eleven. They are.”

“No one’s coming.” The scarred omega snorts, dropping her gaze. “We’re forgotten and unwanted.”

“Don’t say that!” O-11 shivers, and my throat fills up as I watch her.

“Please, don’t upset her,” I murmur, catching O-18’s eye and begging silently.

The tiny omega shrugs one shoulder. “Why not? It’s delusional to think—”

I wince, and shake my head, but it’s too late. O-11 jumps to her feet and picks up her chair. “They’re coming! They’re right outside!” She hurls the chair toward the door. “I’ll show you!”

The orderlies spring into motion as the red-haired omega goes on a rampage, throwing chairs and shoving a table across the floor with a terrible grating sound that hurts my ears.

Her omega scent flares wildly, out of control, and I drag O-18 under our table, Uno cards fluttering around us as the troubled omega jumps up onto where we were just playing. The sickly-sweet scent she’s putting out makes me gag, the frantic woman’s panic lacing the fruity odor with a sour edge.

At least my sniffer isn’t broken. Afterall, scent is like the primary, animalistic language of people, so we can instantly distinguish the alphas, omegas, and the betas.

Blue-clad legs swarm and a loud thump sounds overhead as they get my friend under control. I click my tongue and frown at O-18 as we crouch. “You just couldn’t let it go, could you?”

The teenager presses her fingers to her lips, blue eyes wide. “I didn’t mean for her to go crazy!”

“Well, there goes our meet-up.” I sigh and rest my forehead on the table leg, eyeing the younger girl through my escaping wisps of dirty-blonde hair. She must have been stunning before the fire ruined half her face. Nature makes omegas both beautiful and rare so that alphas will nurture and protect us. But sometimes nature gets it wrong.

“Come out, ladies,” Jackie, my long-term nurse calls. “She’s calmer now, but I think it’s best if you all return to your rooms.”

I slip out from under the table. O-11 quivers against the textured white tabletop, eyes wide and vacant under her mop of red hair, and a tiny bulb of blood grows on her bare upper arm where they injected a sedative.

I dab the spot away with the hem of my loose hospital gown and rub my hand up and down her back. O-11 doesn’t respond.

“Come on,” Jackie says firmly, and I turn away with a sigh to follow her out the door to my room.

“Will she be okay?” It’s been a while since the psychotic omega had a fit, which is precisely why O-18 didn’t know she could escalate.

Jackie nods. “I’m sure she will.”

I scuff my white tennis shoes along the polished concrete floor in the artificially-lit corridor. “My treatments don’t seem to be working.”

Jackie flicks me a thin smile. “Don’t say that. Your last bloodwork showed some improvement in the omega markers.”

“Enough to go into heat?”

She hesitates and runs a hand around her stiff bun of tawny hair. “Could be.”

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